#// but in whatever capacity she had left for love as the goddess of the greater will... belonged to him imo

[fishermcn]

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[valasania-the-pale]

A Healer’s Dilemma Ch. 2

Author: Valasania the Pale

Rating: K

Words: 2560~

Pairing: Mipha/Zelda/Link

Notes: Takes place after the last memory, shortly after Memory #9. Enjoy!

She had known this feeling before.

A curling dread, like a clammy stone within her gut, or a chill fog drawing a curtain over her field of view. A winter’s day without the sun. A bitten evening without a moon. A specter hung over her – over them all – robbing them of the warmth of companionship.

Apprehension was cold, Mipha mused to herself.  

She’d tasted it at funerals – her mother’s foremost in her memory, long ago though it had been. Muzu’s kindly wife Laruta, whose passing brought an end to the old teacher’s joy. The Hylian Queen’s – whose death seemed to draw a veil over all of Hyrule and snuffed the light from the King’s eyes.

She’d felt it too the day Link left the Domain for the final time – she’d known, even then, that their goodbye then was not to be for forever, but did mark the end of something precious. Something she’d miss.

She’d felt it again when she learned that Link had been the one to draw forth the Master Sword.

Another page turned in the story of their lives; another chapter in the life of the boy she once knew, left behind to make room for the man he’d become.

She’d felt these things. Known them. Thought she’d become, if not comfortable, then capable enough in her experience to handle them.  

Evidently not.

Could these things be measured in sighs and tears? Her three decades were considerable and brimming with memory – with weight – yet they were a whisper of life to people like her father, who’d seen centuries pass by before his wizened eyes.

She’d heard his sighs – memories of forgotten days leaving his breast on a gentle exhalation. She’d wiped away his tears, wrapped in his embrace, the liquid pearls warm against her scales.

Those things weren’t wholly bad, at least. In them, she’d come to understand a different kind of healing. Her father was brighter when she asked for stories of times he seldom reminisced of, even when they led down darkened roads. The same worked for Muzu, though his pain was a wound closer to the soul than merely the heart. He was an oyster, clutching tightly to his love, but once opened had a luster she knew few knew, and few would ever know again.

Mipha was, at heart, a healer. Knowledge of this sort was vital to her as water and air and food. Applying this to herself, though, rather than others, was new.

The cold in her chest could not be measured by the sigh of the gentle breeze that caressed her scales, nor did the flickering flame bring her any comprehension of the darkness festering in the hearts of her companions. A wound festered in their camp that night, torn open anew by the goddess’ silence.

It was a wound she could not heal by conventional means, nor with her magic. It was not grief, either. Not pain. Not memory. Mipha was a miracle worker, but even she had not the power to make the goddess Hylia speak when she would not deign to of her own accord.

But that was but one side of the injury done to her companions – an intuition born of a lifetime of empathy told her that the silence of the goddess was not the only thing plaguing their camp, though it was the heaviest stormcloud hanging above their heads.

The nature of this unknown factor, however, she could not divine.

That, in itself, was a blow. She was a healer, yet she could not find the wound. There was no pain. No sigh. No tears. Just darkness, and cold.

The energy from before was tightening again into its coil. The energy made her restless. Her arms worked. The lean muscle from decades mastering the spear she’d built refused to burn like she wanted – preparing the fish that would compliment their meal was simply insufficient to challenge their endurance.

The flaking scales of their meal were sticky in her hands.

For all the life their little camp showed, with Link preparing the evening meal and Zelda adding dry kindling to the fire and Mipha scaling the fish, the knight and his princess could have been mute statues for all the emotion they displayed, and Mipha had no answers.

She watched them anyways.

Link, she knew, and her eyes ran over him, for once without the flush of something that usually thrummed through her blood. This was not her admiring him, this was examination. Analysis.

Of all the people of Hyrule, including his closest friends, confidants, and kin, Mipha suspected only she would have noticed the inconsistencies in his behavior she immediately picked up. There was pride in that – pleasure, even – but it was a distant thing in her mind, secondary to her search.

Link moved with grace while he cooked. Every ingredient was picked from their container with only a cursory check. Where he paused, it was always to pick between two excellent options – a choice of spice, or garnish, for example. His eyes were raptor-like; his hands, though calloused and hard, were careful and delicate where necessary. A master of the blade already, Link was possibly an equal in the culinary arts.

At least as far as flavor could go. Mipha suspected the delicate masterpieces turned out by the Castle’s kitchens were beyond him, but they had the benefit of an array of ingredients, facilities, and hands to work with. Where they had those advantages to bolster their undeniable skill, Link could make a feast out of what he foraged during the day that would fill the belly and delight the tongue.

This she knew. That was her friend, the selfsame man who’d been her companion through their childhoods.

For all his efficiency though, that night, Link’s culinary skill could not mask the edge he exuded.

It was a ragged, angry presence too faint to be real, but existed in the small things he did that no-one else would notice, had they not her experience.

His face was a hard façade. His features, for all their expression, could have been carven. But Link was not a statue.

He enjoyed cooking – it was the one, uncontroversial, indisputable part of him that he had never hidden. More than he loved the act of cooking, Link loved to eat. Big meals, small meals. Meals in the castle, meals on the road, meals while swimming (and she’d had to scold him many times for doing that) and meals while riding on horseback. If he wasn’t carrying a shield, he might even have snacked during a battle – had he faced an opponent skilled enough to last so long.

This night, the greens were chopped with the same intensity of expression he reserved for moblins. The rice was drowned in water and the bowl set on the flames without the slightest hint of hesitation. His feet were so silent – so controlled – that they’d have seen him through a Yiga fortress unscathed.

The silence itself, so integral to Link, was unnerving.

He hummed while he cooked. Unconsciously. Whatever earworm was in his brain at the time. As children, Mipha thought it was adorable, and with the other Zora filled his ears with as many songs and whimsical rhymes as they could concoct, as often as they could manage, and try to catch him in the act. The embarrassment would drive him to distraction.

But now, he did not. He did not hum. His mind did not wander; his was a laser-focus, a fixation. Mipha did not think it was wrapped up in the finer points of preparing their meal.

Silence, stillness, control. They were a keen edge. Or a ragged edge. Or a bludgeon. Any blade – any weapon suited Link when he was fighting. It was what made him dangerous.

It was not what made him a good cook. They were both a part of him, certainly, and both parts that Mipha admired, but their crossing was a symptom as clear as a red blossom beneath a bandage.

But it was just a symptom, however concerning, and did nothing to enlighten her further to the real problem. She knew how to fix it – engage him, pull his mind far away from whatever dark road it stalked; that was well within her power, and would probably restore to him some of the carefully hidden levity she knew he had in him.

She did not – her curiosity and her concern burned too hotly. She had to know more. She had to, if she wanted to help him. Them.

To her silent frustration though, he was closed to her beyond that. Observation would only get her so far.

She looked to the other princess of their party.

Zelda was harder to understand. Mipha had known her for nearly as long as she had Link, but it had always been in an official capacity. Princess to princess, or when they had time away from court, healer to scholar.

Reading her like she could Link was beyond her. Her first glimpse of the person, the girl Zelda, had been in the Spring. Zelda’s only knowledge of her was her touch, and whatever she’d seen in Mipha’s eyes before shame turned her face earthward.

Who are you, Zelda? Let me in. Let me see. Let me help you.

So Mipha watched her for some hint, some sign, some symptom she could examine – assess – and perhaps remedy.

On her face, Zelda bore the expression of a monarch. A brooding monarch, perhaps, but it was an unreadable expression nonetheless, and that was the wall that halted Mipha’s probe. In one hand she held the fire-stick, which she used to prod the small campfire on the occasion that some kindling fell away or the flames began to gutter. Unlike Link’s unnatural precision, she handled it as she had every other night. Haphazardly, distracted. It was something to do. Something to occupy the body while the mind wandered.

Where, Mipha wondered.

Zelda’s eyes were shrouded. Mipha knew an incontrovertibly sharp mind dwelled behind them. That even now it must be flying, furious, inexhaustible, harried.

But that was not a clue, not a hint; that was obvious to any who knew her. None could becalm the waters of the mind within a storm of its own making – not without a force greater, a balm more potent than the hurt driving it. And Mipha doubted a force sufficient to still the mind of the princess of Hyrule existed upon the face of the land.

Her shoulders were tight, Mipha noted, just so. A touch might cause them to stiffen, then relax.

Her brow was furrowed, just so. A touch might cause her to reel, then soften.

Her back was hunched, just so, as though the weight of the world lay upon her. A touch might cause her to straighten, then melt.

Just so.

But those things were physical, and while they told a story that Mipha might work to bring a happier ending, it would be mistaking symptoms for the source to take them as the whole story.

A darkness hung about her, where light should have been. An edge. A ragged edge. One less violent, less cutting, less bestial than the kind that hung about Link, but an edge nonetheless. The frustration that hung around her emanated in waves – lapping at the edge of the subconscious at first, too slight to note, but growing in ferocity.

They drew back. Returned. Fiercer. Her fingers flexed. Again. More powerful. Angry. The coil in her jawline tightened. A tsunami.

And as Link crossed their little campsite to take the fish from Mipha – her preparations finished without her conscious attention on her hands – Zelda’s eyes flickered toward them, and the tension left her in a whoosh.

Her eyes shut, and the edge fell away.

A second, suspended in eternity, where without the mask Mipha saw.

Zelda sighed, and in that sigh was contained the weight of a father’s failed expectations and the loneliness of one abandoned by the gods.

In that sigh was contained a thousand raging accusations. Countless haunted nights without peaceful slumber. A young woman’s fledgling experience. A girl’s self-doubt. Tears unnumbered.

In that sigh was a storm. A war of failure and pride and shame and defiance. A lens, through which her soul was visible.

In that sigh was a temporary release, and for a moment the moonlight that fell upon her, and the flames the illuminated her, and the peace the suffused her, made her gleam like a goddess.

Link watched them both, paused by the fireside, eyes glittering like fireflies.

Zelda’s eyes opened, and Mipha was transfixed.

“I will try again tomorrow,” Zelda said. Her eyes were coals, reflecting flames in the green of her irises, and in them Mipha saw an inner fire that would not be doused. An ember, or perhaps a cinder of the woman – the queen – she would be one day.

In them Mipha saw the shadow of the girl behind the sovereign’s mask she put on each morn; one who had shed tears unnumbered. One who had shouldered her own self doubt and inexperience and the impossible expectations of countless others ignorant to her struggle.

One who’d faced her silent goddess time and again, and who kneeled to beseech her anew each day without fail.

Her eyes were coals.

In them were intermixed shadow and light – the darkness Mipha felt was entwined with light. Perhaps the light was not hope, as it might have been in another time, another place. Perhaps the light was fiercer, defiant; the light of one who would burn and burn until nothing remained – of one who would not fade quietly into the dark.

Perhaps the light was not pure, as would be expected of the incarnation of the goddess. It was not the light of dawn, nor of the radiant sun, the twinkling stars, or the serene moon.

But the light was the same light she saw in Link. The darkness within, the same.

In that moment, Mipha thought she understood Zelda the girl just a little.

And with that understanding, she saw the wound for what it was, and inclined her head in acceptance.

The urge to reach out and hold her – just a touch, even, to let her know she was not alone in her battle – was nigh-impossible to repress. It was the same need she felt for Link – to reach out was to grasp fire, for his was a destiny for conflict.

Of the wounds he would sustain, some she would heal, others would be beyond her. To reach out held the potential to cure the remainder, and the potential to inflict one still greater than the rest.

To reach out to Zelda would be the same. Perhaps her conflict was not one of battle – not yet – but still, some wounds would heal, others would linger. Would fester.

To reach. Or.

Mipha looked down at her hands – red flecked with sticky grey fish scales and grime. Lean muscle. Callouses. The hands of a healer, and a warrior.

Looked within. What might they see, then, in her, if they looked as she had?

Or.

She drew in a breath. Flexed her hands. Remembered the lightning touch, and the warmth, pulling Zelda close, and Link bracketing her in.

Her eyes closed, and she sighed, letting it all flow out.

Or.

[shanastoryteller]

I read that one post in your gods and monsters series and I love it. But there's an area in one of the stories that says "Demeter goes to the sea and makes an inadvisable bargain. She goes to Olympus and makes an even worse one." My curiosity is getting the better of me so WHAT WERE THE BARGAINS I NEED TO KNOW

From my Gods and Monsters Series, Part XIV: The Gods Are Dead

“Demeter rages.

She makes imprudent deals to control an earth that no longerfalls under her domain, and she enacts her revenge against the mortals inwhatever way she can. They have forgotten her, forgotten the earth, and intheir ignorance they seek to destroy it.

She shakes the bedrock and splits it open, but still they donot learn, and as the temperature of the earth rises so does her temper.

The sea is not hers to command, her power is of earth and ofearth alone, and even now she gave more than could afford to lose to keep hergrasp on it. But these mortals do not learn.

Demeter goes to the sea and makes an inadvisable bargain. Shegoes to the crumbling remains of Olympus and makes an even worse one.

Typhoons and hurricanes whip across the land. If they seekto destroy her, she will simply destroy them first.”

Demeter’s skin used to be dark.

It was the rich brown of potting soil, it was the fertileblack earth that washed up from the Nile River. Her skin was deep, life-givingbrown.

It’s not like that now.

It’s pale desert sand, cracks all along it like baked earthand tree roots searching for water that they can’t find. Her hair hangs thinand grey against her temple, and her dark eyes have turned milky.

She clings to her power over the earth by her fingertips, andshe knows that she’s just delaying the inevitable. There’s no coming back fromthis, no really, the strings of her fate have long been woven. But she will notgo quietly. The mortals may take the earth from her grasp, but she’s never beenone to cross lightly. She still isn’t.

Demeter goes to the sea. She hasn’t dared step foot in theresince her birth, but now she has so little left to lose. The water’s barely toher knees before a wave rises up from the smooth ocean and drags her below.

“Well, well,” Amphitrite says, circling her with curiousgreen eyes, “Time has not been kind to you, I see.”

“It has to you,” she says tightly. Amphitrite looks the sameas she saw her last, has aged even better the goddesses who shed their mantelsof power the moment they became too heavy. Then again, Demeter expected nothingless. “I want to make a deal.”

“You have nothing I desire, Sister,” she says, smiling eventhough it feels like she’s mocking her.

Demeter almost laughs – oh, if they could see them know, ifHera or Hestia could see them now, see her now. “I have this.” She cuts openher chest and pulls out her heart – rich red, a heart that has not failed her,a heart that can feel love and pain and desire and fear and happiness.

“Sister,” she whispers, eyes wide, “what are you–”

“I already know I don’t get to see how this ends,” she says,“Give me your heart, give me power over the sea, and I will grant you a heartwith the capacity to feel all the emotions you are so fond of.”

The queen of the sea shakes her head, “Don’t do this, youdon’t need to do this.”

“I am Gaia,” she says, hard, speaking a name she hasn’t usedin a long, long time. “I am Mother Goddess to all, the first to walk thisplain, and your elder sister. I will do as I please.” They call her Demeter.She was born Demeter. But she was something else, something far greater, beforeshe risked it all to be born a lowly goddess. “I gambled, and I lost this game.But I will not go out without a fight.”

“You were second to walk this plain, technically,”Amphitrite says softly, “Thinking this was a game was your first mistake. Henever thought of it that way.”

She’s about to snap at her, then Amphitrite cuts open herchest and takes out her cold, dark heart. She slips her heart into her sister’schest, and Demeter does the same. Demeter feels what little grasp on humanityshe’d managed to maintain drain away even as a pink flush comes to Amphitrite’scheeks and a smile tugs on her lips.

She can feel the power of the current beneath her, the watereager and ready to do her bidding. “Use it well,” Demeter tells Amphitrite,Gaia tells her little sister, before using the water to carry her far fromthere.

She climbs the steps to what remains of Olympus.

Only Zeus remains, skin and bones and sunken eyes. He maintainsauthority over the skies even though it’s killing him. He’ll maintain authorityover it until it kills him.

She needs that power.

She doesn’t care if it kills her.

“My king,” she murmurs, kneeling before his crumblingthrone. Their once great pantheon lies around them as rubble.

He almost meets her eyes, copper skin now sallow and blackhair now almost white. “She left,” he tells her, high pitched and somethingterrifying in the edges of his eyes, “She left me – she was never supposed toleave me.” He reaches out and grabs her shoulder, bony hand surprisingly strong,“I miss her.”

Demeter only has one thing left to trade for Zeus’s power.

“Give me what our mother Rhea gave you,” she says softly, “Giveit to me, and I will stay on Olympus and you can go to her.”

“There must always be one on Olympus,” he tells her. Shedoesn’t think he recognizes her. “As long as I am on Olympus, we’ll be fine. Hecan’t do anything if I’m here, as long as one of us is here. I am here.” Hisface crumples. “She’s not here. She was supposed to be here. I did not want tobe alone.”

“Give it to me,” she repeats, firmer. “What did mother giveyou, Zeus? What do I need to take?”

“You can’t take it!” he screeches, scrambling back and awayfrom her. “You can’t have it! I need it! Mother gave it to me, said I had tokeep it safe, said I had to stay on Olympus. You can’t have it!”

Demeter growls and grabs the front of his too-big robes,pulling him upright, getting ready to yell at him.

Then she sees it.

Less than an hour later, Zeus takes hobbling, slow stepsdown Mount Olympus.

Demeter sits on the abandoned, crumbling throne and curlsher lips into a cruel grin.

She has dominion over earth, over water, and over air.

She will make these mortals beg for mercy before they killher – Gaia, Mother to All, Earth Goddess.

[themyskira]

Some disordered (spoilery) thoughts on the movie

Some things that I liked

Kid Diana racing through the streets, lighting up with excitement as she watches the warriors train. The not-at-all-innocent “hello, Mother” when Hippolyta catches her out (literally).

An active, bustling Amazon society. Amazons going about their days. Amazons sparring together, Amazons taking pleasure in one another’s company.

Diana’s compassion. Her instant willingness to risk her own life in the face of others’ suffering. 

“I am willing to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. Like you once did.” “You know that if you choose to leave us, you can never return.” “Who will I be if I stay?”

Hippolyta’s love and grief and pride. The parting gift of Antiope’s headband -- the iconic tiara.

Diana’s palpable delight in the little things -- The sight of a baby. Snow. Dancing. Celebrating townsfolk. The taste of ice cream.

(The ice cream moment, by the way -- so, so, so much better than the comic book scene it’s derived from, which was actually awful.)

Her refusal to walk past injustices or to sacrifice individuals for the greater good. Steve, the military intelligence man, forces himself to ignore the suffering civilians and focus on the mission, which will ultimately prevent greater suffering. Diana can’t accept that, won’t accept that. No other relief is coming for these people. She steps out into No Man’s Land.

Facing Ares at the last with that simple, powerful conviction: for all the darkness in human hearts, there is also the capacity for great love, and she’ll fight for that every day if she has to.

The use of the BvS quote in the trailer is thoroughly misleading: this isn’t the story of why Diana walked away from mankind. It’s the story of why she continues to fight for humanity, believing in people’s ability to rise above their darker impulses.

Some things that I did not like

DIANA IS A RASH, NAIVE IDIOT.

And yes, this is a young Diana, an untested Diana on her first journey into Man’s World. I realise that. I expect her to screw up, to misjudge things and have her preconceptions challenge. I expect there to be a learning curve.

Even allowing for that, the Diana in this movie is a complete dickhead.

She’s an adult who still believes in fairy tales. She thinks that humans are completely good and pure, and only the corruption of outside forces causes them to do bad things.

Over the course of the movie, she is continually confronted with situations that challenge this view. She meets good people who have done bad things -- people who don’t always have the luxury of standing up for principles, and people who’ve made terrible choices for right reasons. She witnesses and learns of corruption, discrimination and dispossession. Again and again and again.

And she learns nothing from any of this.

Because when she thinks she’s killed Ares (and oh, I’ll get to that bit of stupid), she is shocked -- shocked -- that people don’t immediately lay down their weapons.

And when Steve floats the possibility that maybe, maybe war is just a little more complicated that “the devil made them do it”, she can't fucking deal with it and decides “FUCK Y’ALL, YOU DON’T DESERVE MY HELP. NEVER MIND THE INNOCENT BYSTANDERS I WAS SO WORRIED ABOUT BEFORE, THEY CAN ALL FUCKING BURN. IF HUMANS AREN’T PERFECT CREATURES OF VIRTUE THEN THEY DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE.”

but no I don’t think I’ve adequately explained what an absolute boneheaded twit this woman is.

Her naivety goes beyond the usual fish-out-of-water hijinks. She has no awareness of the people around her. She cannot make intuitive leaps. She doesn’t take on board what she’s told. She has no interest in planning or considering the consequences of her actions, which means that Steve’s constantly trailing one step behind her lecturing her about how she can’t do whatever it is she's about to do.

“OH NO I DON’T NEED A PLAN I’LL JUST RUN INTO THE PARTY AND MURDER A DUDE AND THEN THE WAR WILL MAGICALLY END I SEE NO REASON TO TALK ABOUT THIS FURTHER THERE IS NOTHING THAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG IN THIS EQUATION”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE NEED TO THINK THIS THROUGH. WHY WOULD WE SECURE THE POISON MURDERGAS AND PREVENT IT FROM BEING DEPLOYED AGAINST ANYBODY WHEN WE COULD KILL A GUY ON A HUNCH I HAD INSTEAD. GOD STEVEN IT’S LIKE YOU’RE TRYING TO STOP ME FROM ENDING THE WAR”

She comes to the conclusion that General Ludendusseldorfendorf is Ares in disguise based solely on the fact that he is he one spearheading the German murdergas project, and obviously humans are not capable of doing evil things on their own, and it’s not like there are hundreds of other people involved in the production of these weapons or at least there are but she doesn’t know any of their names so she can probably pre-emptively rule them out and just go murder Ludenhoodendooden.

Sure, it helps that Ludenhorfledorf is an absurd cartoon villain of the sort who is prone to cackling maniacally and shooting his own men at random. Who, when Diana finally comes face-to-face with him, spends most of the conversation talking about the massive hard-on he has for war and slaughter and Ares specifically. But you kinda want to be sure before you jump to the dramatic speechifying and righteous murdering.

Gary Oldman Ares is awful. Everything about the gods is awful. Ares murdering all the gods. Zeus as a loving, self-sacrificing, pseudo-Christian god. Zeus replacing the role of the goddesses in the Amazons’ story. Ares describing himself as the god of truth URGH. The utter bullshit of Ares’ “boooooo humans are assholes, I want them all to die so much so that the world can be decent again” urgh fuck off mate you are such a disappointing villain.

And could anybody else figure out the logic in his ranting? because fuck knows it’s still eluding me. “oooooohhh I have so much faith in humans’ ability to fuck themselves and everybody else over that I’m actually helping to negotiate Armistice! I’m literally doing everything I can to stop the war because I know that in the end it will have no effect and humans will bomb each other into oblivion! and I won’t have had anything to do with their destruction! Sure, I very deliberately put the tools for mass slaughter in the hands of the select few people in this war who had both the desire and the power to use them, thus giving them the ability to overpower the majority who had turned their efforts to peace, and to escalate the conflict against the wishes of their leaders! But really it’s humanity as a whole that is the asshole here!”

Dr Poison is more plot device than character. She has no backstory, no arc and no personality. She’s a generic evil minion whose only pleasure in life comes from devising new ways to murder people with chemicals. She is wasted.

If Etta Candy were a rose by any other name, I might have liked her. I like Lucy Davis as an actress, and though I found the character a bit... overly quirky-loveable-British-comic-relief-girl... it was nice for Diana to have a potential female friend in what was (outside of Themyscira) a very male-dominated cast, and it would have been nice for them to interact more.

My sticking point with the character is that she was supposed to be Etta Candy. Who will always be, in my head, a fierce, fabulous, fearless, ass-kicking Texan lady. Quirky British “we use our principles, although I am not averse to engaging in fisticuffs should the occasion arise” haha jolly good... ain’t gonna cut it for me. Though I acknowledge that this is getting into nitpicking.

Steve annoyed the shit out of me. He is both the brains and the heart of the movie. He is the one who ultimately teaches Diana to love humanity, to fight for them, to be a hero. Diana wants to help end the war, but Steve’s words are what spur her to defy her mother’s forbiddance. She throws herself into the fight against Ares, but Steve’s sacrifice and the love and dedication behind it are what empower her to defeat him. She wants to help from the start, but it’s Steve who teaches her not to fight for people because they “deserve” it, but because it’s the right thing to do. It’s Steve who teaches Diana true compassion.

Throughout the film, Steve is the one trailing after Diana trying in vain to make her see reason. He’s the one making the plans to actually stop Ludendude from committing chemical genocide while Diana is crashing from scene to scene all “OKAY I WILL GO END THE WAR NOW. WHICH WAY IS THE WAR AGAIN?”

Steve is smarter, more understanding, more competent and more compassionate than Diana.

Also, after Diana sees Steve naked he spends the next two or three scenes anxiously assuring her that his dick is, in fact, larger than average.

(Diana knows about sex because she’s read all the books, urgh)

The sword is a misdirect: the weapon Zeus left the Amazons to counter Ares is Diana herself. Kind of cool as a general concept, except that this effectively replaces Diana’s “brought into being by a mother’s love” origin with one in which she is a weapon bequeathed by the Supreme Patriarch. Also, the foreshadowing of this was the exact opposite of subtle, taking some of the power out of the eventual revelation.

This origin also means that Diana is the only child on Themyscira, which adds to this whole... woman-child thing about her that I really don’t like. Because the movie requires her to go from “why are those people holding hands? because they’re together? well, you and I are together, why shouldn’t we hold hands? what do you mean it’s not the same? of course I know about sex I have read lots of books about human biology” to fucking (and, the implication is, losing her virginity to) Steve and... euuugh.

also 140 minutes is a fucking slog, man.

idk there is probably more to say but I feel like I’ve stopped being coherent.

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, LEXX!

You have been accepted for the role of DMITRI ALEKSEEV. Admin Rosey: First of all, Lexx, I’m so sorry for the wait! I was so enthralled by your application that I lost track of time reading it, and truthfully, it took me longer than it should have to put what I loved about it into words, because there was so much! Your plot points were amazing and so well thought-out; as if they alone weren’t enough to show how well you know him, your samples blew me away. You captured his voice perfectly, and with your words, you painted a picture of Dmitri I’d never seen before. Well done! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER        

ALIAS: Lexx        

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: she/her        

AGE: 21+        

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: 6 -7: Typically I am around for plotting/chatting daily, as for IC interactions, it might depend on how RL affects my muse, but even so, once 1-2 days I should be able to write at least one reply.  This is sort of a worst case scenario, because on top of having a full-time job, I typically leave town most weekends during the summer months, and I have a holiday coming up between the 14th and 24th of July, but things should slow down after that, and my activity should stabilize to at least 7/10. My timezone is GMT+2, which could also affect my real time responses as I’m 7+ hours ahead of American RPers.       

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: n/a - they’re inactive          

IN CHARACTER        

DESIRED CHARACTER: Dmitri Timofey Alekseev    

DMITRI– like the earth goddess he was named after, his mood swings have the capacity to influence all around him. He gives, and he takes away.  He dabbles in people, rather than nature, but like entire harvests are crushed by hail, so too can he bring immense devastation with the flick of his fingers. If he’s unhappy, everyone suffers. When he is content, others may be, as well.    

TIMOFEY – “honoring god” and there’s no greater one worthy of worship than him. He is the first in his family in generations to be Grisha, what further proof would he need of his significance, of the importance of his role in shaping what is to come? He is designed for critical and magnificent things, he is a creature capable of affecting the very molecules that keep humans together, and that can be nothing other than further evidence of his preeminence.    

ALEKSEEV – a family name, a human name, but it suits him, as at the Ravkan court one’s ancestry is vital, and his is exemplary. A noble, strong household. Diplomats and politicians and advisors, people versed in manipulating others for their own ends, of twisting the situation to their advantage, people whose subtlety of thinking brought them as close to power as anyone without royal blood could get. But they are not him, of course, for he is altogether more. Where they did not excel in a country at war, where their silver tongues did not turn to bullets, and they had to flee in order to maintain their relevance, Dmitri would show the rest of the world that he can be a warrior, he can be a killer, he can be the worst monster of them all – as calculating as he is cruel.    

DESCRIBE THE SAME CHARACGTER TWICE      

TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THEM      

There is no indulgence he refuses himself, he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it. He turns hedonism into an art form. He’s suave, confident and sultry, unafraid and uninhibited. He’s his own blessing, he is the only god he worships, and such supreme aplomb turns everything he does into a game only he knows how to win. He’s deliciously amoral, unencumbered by sentiment, or personal attachments. He’s the center of his own universe, and he makes all around him dance to his tune.      

TO BE REPULSED BY THEM      

With confidence, comes vanity, but that is, perhaps, the least among the plethora of mortal sins he dabbles in. His gluttony is devastating enough to eat the whole world raw, the force of his lust would bring angels to their knees. He thirsts for blood, for the rush he feels when he has another’s life at the tips of his fingers. He’s both sides of the coin, capable of bringing maddening pleasure, and cause immeasurable pain, and indeed, more often than not, a coin toss is all he needs to decide.      

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?    

A deity born of unworthy clay, and oh, how they knew it. If blame could be placed on anyone but himself, then his parents are responsible for much of his pitilessness. Adored and spoiled rotten from the first moment he drew breath, Dmitri grew up with all the advantages of a privileged birth, with all the gifts nature could bestow on a creature. Beautiful and charming, and so incredibly cruel. He isn’t weighed by principles. His disregard for other people is fascinating. He is a rotten thing with an angel’s face, and he thinks the world is his. That it was made for him. He’s never suffered hardships, what he wanted he got, always, and he’s smug and self-serving and greedy.      

He takes everything for granted and he takes everything as his due. Even his power, which is why he uses it so freely, so carelessly, taking when others aren’t willing to give. People are his playthings, the world is his stage, and he’s never known the taste of refusal.    

As someone who has no ideal in the world but himself, he lacks consistency and has no worthy goals. Whether the world ends in fire, or in ice, he does not care as long as he sits atop the pile of bodies. The future is a distant, unimportant detail to him, the legacy he seeks to leave has a more immediate effect. He wants his name to be on people’s lips now, and he doesn’t quite care how it gets there. There is no negative publicity in his mind, which is why he does not care that people whisper “the Darkling’s bitch” as he walks by. At least they’re talking about him, and he sees whatever attention they grant as his due, even if it will never be enough to satisfy.    

I think a significant part of his character is his absence of feeling, and this is something I would like to delve into further. He can be brought low by circumstances, and he’s capable of negative emotions, but there is no denying he is almost enamored with himself, and he has the ability to find precedence in things, he is aware enough of his surroundings and how to put them to use to achieve maximum satisfaction, but this is done in a distant, conniving way, and he is maladroit at considering anyone else a ‘person’. He sees people as a means to an end, sometimes for a minor purpose – for pleasure, or his own amusement – and others as steps to climb on in order to reach greatness.    

He’s empty, he is a beautiful lie, his eyes are ice, he’s covered in blood, his skin is silk kissed by worms and if they were given a choice, if they could see him for what he truly is, no one would touch him. But he is the flame, and people are just moths. Even the devil was an angel once – the most beautiful angel of them all. He is Conquest, their bodies are his battlefield. He is Famine, always hungry, leaving them starved and begging for more. He is Pestilence, he would find his way into their blood, and he would waste them away from the inside out. He is Death, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS.      

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?          

[Disclaimer: these are only suggestions as it is far from my intention to GM anyone else’s characters and I would be happy to discuss these plot bunnies further and adjust them where needed]  

ZERO SUM GAME – Dmitri’s been using his power longer than he could talk, longer than he understood that he was different, or had a notion of right or wrong. It comes as naturally to him as breathing, it’s a sense he’s never been without, and he doesn’t know – nor does he want to – how to turn it off. He sees the world through the sound of hearts beating, through feeling someone before touching them. And while at first it’s been crude and inelegant, the reactions he caused too strong, leaving signs of his presence in their bloodstream, he’s had years to hone his skill, to perfect his craft to the point where he’s almost unnoticeable. There is no denying he has a superiority complex ��� especially when it comes to the otkazat’sya. When it comes to fellow Grisha, he’s more reluctant to unleash his power against them, based on his belief that they are not to be quite so easily discarded. The Sun Summoner, though, is untrained, untested and raising too quickly above her station that it grates at him. He wants to drive a wedge between her and the Darkling, and for the time being, while she’s fresh and gullible, there are a number of options. Should he incite her to betrayal by pushing her into Anton’s arms? Once that happens, he could tell the Darkling that Viktor plans to supplant his brother, the information would surely hold more weight then, than it does now.

Or rather, should he befriend her, seduce her, make her believe he’s indispensable to her, and use her as the way back in the Darkling’s inner circle? His resentment of her is quite great at this point, but ultimately Dmitri  won’t be easily swayed by personal feelings if he has more to gain by ignoring them. If he finds himself back in a position of favor, will he grovel and apologize and worship the Soverenyi, or will he still nurse his wounded pride, and plot against him? If, or rather when, he finds out the Darkling is looking for the amplifiers, will he want to get to them first, and if he succeeds in that, will he hand them over or keep them for himself – will he, once he figures out what Aleksander wants, involve Viktor in his quest to improve his odds? He needs time to break Lantsov’s will, to wear down his resistance, if he wants his work to last, he has to be subtle and rushing a job, especially this job comes with great risk. For the moment, he prefers weighing his options, testing the waters, tugging at strings in one direction or another just to see which would be the easiest path to getting his due.

THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS – to look upon the Darkling was to look into a mirror. At least on Dmitri’s part, seeing all the things he thought he was, laid bare. To see people gaze at the Darkling, was to finally, finally find a definition for the black hole inside him. The mix of fear and respect, awe and wariness – it was all he fancied himself he was and more – because it was real, it was acknowledged and reinforced by others. He became one of the many shadows dancing around him, at least for a little while. He took those first steps willingly, accepting him as his lord and master. He had his taste of real power as the devil on his shoulder, whispering everyone’s darkest secrets in his ear. Everyone’s but his. Even as he exposed others to the judgement of the Darkling, he suppressed, hid, kept himself to himself. He thought he belonged with Aleksander, but he could not quite convince himself he belonged to him. He imagined the Darkling would understand a creature such as him, a fellow god, could only ever be on the same footing, never on his knees. He was wrong, and the taste of failure is bitter in his mouth. He lacked his experience, his skill, something akin to wisdom and Dmitri had never been wise. His restlessness, his constant hunger for more, everything, always scrapping for a bigger piece of the pie drove him towards the wider world, seeking what the Darkling wouldn’t provide. Entertainment, meaningless and crude, a game with no stakes other than his own amusement. The weight of his own discontent, the Darkling’s disapproval could only be displaced by surrounding himself with lesser beings where his superiority was plain for all to see. He craves the idolatry of the masses, and the Darkling is so distinctly apart from all the humbug that his distant approval never could have  been enough to fill the emptiness inside him. He is still the best chance he has of seeing his ambitions realized, of seeing his name carved in flesh and blood on the surface of the earth, of having his name turned into a curse, of being seen for the famished, cruel god he is. But he’s drifting, untethered, away from his sphere of influence, each moment pushing him further away from meeting his goals. He’s rootless and simmering in the depths of his own resentment – at himself, at the Darkling, at all he holds in higher regard than him. He still collects secrets, hoards them like the selfish dragon he is, overflowing with the seductive, poisonous power of those things he holds close to his chest: Viktor plots against his brother; have you noticed how that Fjerdan prowls like a wolf? The king’s advisor is guilty of regicide, she stalks the Lantsov bastard like a bitch in heat; the princess is hiding something and I’m not the only one on their trail – he’s drowning in secrets that aren’t his, drowning as he watches his opportunities ever dwindling, pulling him, kicking and screaming, into obscurity. Can he do anything about any of those things without the Darkling’s help? Can he assert his own power without assistance? Or is he already doing it, and all he’s good for is fucking confidences out of people? The thought rankles, it sounds unjust, and if he could only untangle one of these knots without help, perhaps he can prove he’s been misjudged. But his pride, his bitterness, keep him languishing on the edges while others take precedence in the Darkling’s plans. He fails to see the appeal of Altan – nothing but a butcher, with as much finesse in his whole being as Dmitri could scrap from his perfectly polished shoes. He dismisses the oprichniki out of hand – they’re only human, and so easily replaceable for all they might think otherwise. And the Sun Summoner is getting a little too friendly with the crown prince. But then again, what else could one expect from a mere peasant when she finds herself in the presence of royalty, tarnished or not? She must be a bastard herself. Truth is that Dmitri believes that he alone can help the Darkling with the finer points of his plans, and it bothers him that the other man doesn’t think likewise. Exposing everyone else's deficiencies to Aleksander is beginning to sound more and more tempting. He would start with the Pavlova girl, and bide his time until she missteps. And keep his eye on the petty power grabs of humans and their silly, meaningless crown, as well.  A fact made easy by having placed himself in a Lantsov’s bed. His manipulation is subtle, thorough, taking small steps to extract information from him, planting ideas in Viktor’s head, though he really doesn’t think the bloodhound would require much of his assistance to turn to fratricide.

FOR KING & COUNTRY – and of course, the questions are which king and why should he restrict himself to just one country, when he can have the whole world? But he is quite impatient, and impulsive. He’s never learned to be persevering, not really, so far no objectives he’d set himself have been really that difficult to surmount.  Learning to deny himself immediate satisfaction is a struggle. And while there is no refuting the fact that the Darkling has the advantage of being Grisha – a state of being Dmitri himself considers far superior – his snubbing of the favored son was a bitter pill to swallow, whether it had been warranted of not. Dmitri wants back in his graces, but how long would he have to suffer, and be ignored until his resentment becomes greater than his infatuation? He was not made to waste away in the shadows, he was supposed to thrive in the darkness. Ultimately, it’s a matter of his own welfare, and there is no doubt that he values that above all else. He finds a match to his savagery in Viktor’s bloodthirstiness, and in truth, Dmitri’s brand of manipulation works far better on the Lantsov hound than on the Darkling. His strings are easier to pull, and his role as the puppeteer is well known and comfortable. But the man is presumptuous enough to imagine he’s superior simply because he’s a prince, and Dmitri might find that amusing now, while he dances to his tune, but there is no denying his pride will not allow him to remain content in this position while Viktor is so openly derisive. At least the Darkling once offered him the recognition he so craves, and for all the Grisha are classified as secondary Dmitri believes that the one capable of turning the tables on the measly humans, for all their greater numbers, is Aleksander. Still, he could switch camps, if the opportunity presents itself, to be the only one of his kind, to be singled out and adored, but the devastation would have to be complete. He finds plenty of allure in being the sole Grisha, there is immeasurable power in the concept, more so even than what the Darkling has to offer. To be known as the one who reduced the Second Army to a mountain of corpses is a treasured prospect. His footnote in history would be final, his transformation into a destroyer of worlds, complete and irreversible. The mere idea is enough to get him drunk on power. But first, Viktor has to prove himself worthy of such attention, of the privilege of being the object through which Dmitri’s machinations will be realized. And he is a mere pup, letting his bastard half-brother steal his crown while he sits idly by, sulking like a child, unappreciative of a greater power and impertinent where he should be reverential. The Grisha is even less patient with others than he is with himself, and while he will try to steer the man in the right direction, should he prove belligerent, he would have no qualms to eradicate him as a nuisance and throw his lot in with the Darkling.    

CROWN THE BASTARD – Dmitri sincerely doubts Anton would be first bastard on the throne, as well versed as he is in the intricacies of lust, but it just goes to show that to name something is to define it. The line of Lantsovs on the throne has been unbroken – or so they claim, but what he knows of the base nature of people belies such boasts. He’s stuck between wanting to laugh in their faces, and kill them all for their stupidity. Nothing should matter in this world, but power, and ever since the crown fell on his head, Anton seems to believe he has it. That he is prepared for the task at hand, that he will succeed. It’s easy for a heartrender to see through the lies at court, easier still for one such as him, attuned from infancy to the beat of others’ hearts, but the crown prince’s confidence seems quite a steady melody. He will claim other reasons, of course, but in reality, Dmitri has chosen to fuck with him, first and foremost, out of spite.  It is so easy to stay out of his line of sight in a crowded room, so easy to exert his influence from a distance, making him believe he longs from something at one point, or imagining he’s nervous by a sudden rush of blood, confusing his instincts so that people who might genuinely want to help him appear as rivals instead. He can follow the threads of want and wanting all the way to the object of their desires. There are no secrets that are truly safe from him. They might all wear their glittering courtiers’ masks, but they cannot hide the spike in their pulse, the small catch of breath, the unsteady stutter from a heart who fears and wants and betrays them to him. He pays special attention to the crown prince, seeing the advantage of making him unsteady, falter and fail. He coaxes his body to small treacheries, a twitch here and there, an ill-timed blush, or a brief bout of bleariness when he ought to be paying attention. He’s careful, for he cannot be close enough to hear what he says, and he must always choose his moments wisely. But he wants to acclimate Anton to his effect, step by tiny step so that when the time comes and he needs to strike irresolutely and without mercy, the man would be too tangled in all the ways he cannot control himself that he’ll think the blame lays with him. He does not want him on the throne, not as he is, so focused on the Sun Summoner, seeing her as the hope of his nation, and belittling everyone else. Corporalki are the chosen of the Grisha, they alone have the option to create or destroy, to shape their power to their will, and seeing an Etherealki – an inexperienced one at that – raised above him rankles. At least the Darkling appreciates the subtlety of Dmitri’s science, at least the Darkling has lived long enough to master his skills beyond all others. That chit of a girl with her pretty, empty lights cannot hope to threaten the divine order, and a human involving himself with Grisha power structure is a challenge that cannot go unanswered. One day, he will choose to betray the secrets he gleans from the bastard – oh yes, he knows, he can feel the queen’s distress whenever she looks at him, can almost smell the doubt on Anton –  to the highest bidder, and he will rejoice in his downfall.    

THE HEART OF RAVKA – it’s right there in the name, they fall right into his sphere of influence. Dmitri knows how hearts work, at least from a physical standpoint. Their language is easy for him to understand, and he knows how to make them sing. And the heart of a princess isn’t something he could claim ownership over, just yet. But he can see the appeal of such a prize, the lure of lifting himself above his humbler beginnings. Marrying a princess makes him a prince, does it not? A title that Viktor, for all his appeal, cannot and would not grant him. A title the Darkling cannot grant him. There is power in words, just as there is in sinew, and power is something he could never resist. Their innocence is not an insurmountable obstacle,merely a nuisance. He would have them if he wants them. And, in turn, they will teach him endurance, how to bide his time, and how to bend to their desires first, rather than have them bend to his. His coldness will have to be tempered; he cannot take without giving something in return, in this case. He must be cautious, and serene. He must prove he has a heart, even if it’s just pretend. As he feigns vulnerability, he will reveal his shortages, even if only to himself. For all his mastery of the carnal, he never did comprehend the emotional, or saw much of its use – at least not to him, but others place great significance in it, so he would try. He has the ability to cure their bleeding heart, or at least convince them he did. He can affect grief, and humility, thoughtfulness and comprehension. He could be a cheerful companion, or a shoulder to cry on. It’s a long game, and he must be infinitely watchful, for if he puts on too much of a façade, he will lose them to the rumors at court that paint him as anything but a caring man. He must be discreet, but at least with that he’s had plenty of practice. It’s an interesting notion, to boost himself not through carnage, but through gentleness. He isn’t convinced he won’t grow bored, eventually. But still, having their ear would be an advantage, and should he tire of them – well, he’s always looking for new ways to hurt. Breaking a heart without leaving physical damage is a mere honing of his skills. And theirs is already so cracked, it wouldn’t take much to crumble at all.    

THE POWER & CHANCE OF DOING PROFOUND HURT – all things living must die, disintegrate and rot and sex might be the height of life, blood pumping, heart thudding, skin singing at the barest touches, but death has just as much allure to Dmitri. Bodies talk to him in a language better than words. He can track the veins all the way to their hearts, he can see the organs beneath the veneer of skin, he feels lungs that aren’t his expanding with breathing. It is so easy, so ridiculously easy, for him to play with that, to tug at people’s strings, one moment making them feel alive, another luring their deaths closer, delighting in the rush of panic, the last, desperate attempt to draw in another breath, to force a heart to beat one more time. He’s hungry for death, for the taste of fear in another’s bloodstream. He is Grisha, he is a soldier, he was born to kill and there are simply not enough opportunities around court to do what he was meant to do. He wants chaos, he wants bloodshed, and he is willing to pick fights with little lambs in the hopes that they might sprout claws. It might not be enough to slake his thirst, but he finds her infinitely frustrating – they are like gods and she chooses to serve, instead, making a mockery of her fire. He does not mind being the instrument of punishment – the eagle rending her liver piece by delicious piece – for daring to deny her nature. She can reshape him in her fire, though Dmitri doubts she knows how, and he can tinker with her flesh, they cut themselves on one another, dogs with a bone, and so far there’s been no winning in their war of tug. Not many people can resist his siren call, and it’s discomfiting that she’d managed to for this long. Perhaps he’s losing his touch, perhaps he never had it – merchants, humans all, might not have been the challenge he’d originally predicted. But he can, at least, hone his skill on her, until she’s his, or until she’s destroyed by it, and he can divine something from her ruin.      

APEX PREDATOR – Dmitri does not like to see his prey hunted by others, he’s never been one for sharing his toys. And there’s something about Sergei that doesn’t sit right with him – he’d grown up with his ambassador father, after all, a man bred for the task, and the Fjerdan fits the role like a round peg in a square hole. There’s a restraint to his movements that speaks of barely contained violence. He is not who he claims to be, and given his nationality, Dmitri is willing to wager he’s not Anton’s biggest problem, but theirs, instead. The Practitioners of the Small Sciences. He plans to ingratiate himself to the man, to use his unique brand of seduction to confuse and confound him, to negotiate a position better suited for uncovering his secrets, for striking first, should he be given reason to. And he does not like how Iskra – the one Grisha away from the safety of the Little Palace – has drawn his attention. He cares not for the girl, but he cares even less for a druskelle, and if there is anyone who ought to discipline an errant Grisha, then the task should fall to one of her own.  

I HAVE BECOME DEATH – Dmitri revels in the subtlety of his craft, the careful waning and webbing of blood, the way nerves respond so eagerly to his coaxing. He sees his power in all the ways he can hide his influence, not in the obvious tearing of the throat, not in how easily the clench of his fist obliterates a heart. He’s insidious, refined, like the shrewdest poison. To be poison is what he craves; to not only see people die by his will, but to know he’s hidden his tracks well, too. To be capable, if the need arises, to shift the blame on someone else. He would be eager to find an Alkemi, to learn how to replicate the symptoms of clever venoms through his skill. He would seek out someone as interested in all the ways bodies can break and work together, to uncover a new facet of his ability that would serve in the environment of the court – if only to strike panic in the hearts of its residents. He’d learned long ago that fearful creatures are much easier to manipulate and subdue than those whose will has never been tested.  

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: To be honest, I can easily see how his story would end in tragedy. He is the villain in his story, and he’s too greedy, too power-grabbing and impatient to ever feel satisfied. The subtlety of his powers, and his ambitions might keep him in check for a little while, might make him a difficult enemy to remove, but in the long run, his unpredictability and obsession with chaos could prove to be his downfall. I would definitely be interested in exploring his character while he balances precariously on the edge of his mortality, and losing control of all the strings he's been trying to pull. Will it happen gradually, or all at once? Will he cease to merely consider betrayal and set himself on a course of action that would bring about his demise? It could even be something as simple as fumbling his grip on one of his toys at the wrong moment, or breaking someone beyond even his ability to contain.  

IN DEPTH        

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):        

[tw: underage scenes of a sexual nature; graphic language; age difference]    

i. THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED FAINTLY IN THE CORNER, a soft rhythm so as not to distract people from mingling, and the candelabras glittered magnificently in the dance of the candles. He lounged lazily, bored with the sumptuousness surrounding him, bored with all these small little people and their petty requests, and their dull black clothes. He left the priceless crystal glass fall to his feet, unconcerned with the damage it did to the hardwood floors, or the servants who’d have to labor on their knees to rub the smell of alcohol out of the rugs.      

Like a serpent, he weaved between people, not touching them, not having to touch them to leave a little mischief in his path. A lady breathing champagne through her nose there, a stuffy gentleman sneezing abruptly in his companion’s face, fingers losing their grip on drinks, or food, expensive silks stained and ruined. He caused a man’s muscles to cramp as he lecherously leaned closer to admire an exquisitely fragile necklace, breaking the delicate chain. He had no doubt the woman would have thanked him, should she have known it was him who gave her the opportunity to storm away from the grubby philander in a huff. Dmitri was familiar with him, he was all show, and even on that he had a lot left to work on.      

He caught his father’s eye as he turned, and the man nodded suggestively at him, causing Dmitri to huff as he glanced in the direction of his mark, eyes washing over the somber clothing. His suit looked like it could have benefited from a little less starch, in his opinion. But he wasn’t exactly ugly, if a bit coarse looking. Strong jaw, big hands – big everything probably, considering how his clothes strained to contain him. A bit like a farmer, were he entirely honest. With an open face and sincere, solemn eyes, and a mouth whose lips pressed a little too tightly together, as if ashamed of their lushness. Yes, perhaps Dmitri could see the appeal. These type of things always worked better when they coincided with his desires.      

And the man was truly a bore, a staunch, pious pillar of society, who wouldn’t be caught dead seducing a mere boy. Luckily, he didn’t have to do any seducing, and Dmitri stopped, still far away from him as to not draw his attention prematurely. He’d need far more alcohol in his system if this was to work, so he found his pulse and raised it, coaxed heat to rush through him as he teased the cells in a frenzy, so that his skin would break into sweat. He waited until the man grabbed a glass of wine to dry his throat, made his tongue swollen and awkward, and when he brought the drink to his lips, he gulped it greedily, draining it in seconds. It didn’t help, Dmitri made sure it wouldn’t, and he smirked triumphantly as he reached for a refill. There was only alcohol to be had at this function, and he gave him no choice but to consume it.      

Now it was time to make him tremble, to make his heart seize in his chest as his common hazel eyes gazed uncomfortably around, alighting on him. Dmitri’s smile suddenly became unaffected, his eyes rounding with feigned interest, and he made himself blush as he glanced away for a second, before looking back, as if it pained him not to admire the man before him. He backed away, too shy to approach such an esteemed specimen, even as he kept him in thrall to his caprices.  His blood would only get hotter, and yes, of course, he reached for another glass, tugging viciously at the restricting cravat.      

He could see the sweat glitter on his forehead, his hair dampen and the man moved away from the candles, as though that was what made him so warm. He walked to a window, inspected it with eyes that were already beginning to show their whites in panic, and opened it, but the cool breeze that came from outside, carrying the pungent smell of the port wouldn’t help at all with a heartrender still stalking his prey. The merchant glanced towards him again, and Dmitri was ready for that, his appreciation reduced by a layer of anxiety. He had the man’s heart in his palm, and with a twitch on his fingers, caused it to clutch in his chest when their eyes met. Cautious, concerned, he made his way closer to him, heightening his turmoil with each step he took towards him. “My lord,” he stopped a respectable distance away, but still close enough to touch him, and he gave him a smart bow. Just an amiable host, making sure his guests were comfortable. His eyes flicked to the open window. “Is something bothering you?”      

The man gasped, fighting for words as well as breath, and Dmitri’s fretful frown increased. “Perhaps you are too warm? I’m afraid the room is quite airless,” he offered, reaching out, not quite touching him, but enough for the breeze caused by the movement to be felt. He withdrew his hand when it was a mere breadth away from the man’s elbow, but made certain the rush of blood hurried to his loins as he did so, delighting in seeing him tensing suddenly at the sensation. A most ridiculous blush covered his whole face, making him look like a tomato. Dmitri had to press his lips together not to laugh in his face. “Would you like to step aside for a moment?” he let his eyes fall, his long, thick lashes fluttering down bashfully.  “I could show you to the veranda, if it pleases you,” his tone was earnest, no innuendo coloring it, his skin unblemished by self-aware blushes. He did not seem the type who’d fall for the coquette, and Dmitri struggled to appear guileless.      

His fingers twitched again, the heart in the merchant’s chest thudding painfully. He could hear it. Better yet, he could feel it, warming his own blood, the power coursing through his veins, so close to the surface it made his skin glow, like he was a holy thing. He could see the effect he had on him and it made his whole being sing with intoxication. “Y-yes,” the man gulped again, parched, and Dmitri, ever solicitous, grabbed a glass of champagne and handed it to him.      

“Follow me, please,” he turned, looking over his shoulder, willing his muscles to move, to trail him like a dog brought to heel. His superior smirk blossomed as he cut a clear path through the room, giving his father a brief nod as the man tracked his progress. Ten more minutes, he meant. Ten more minutes and the merchant’s pockets would open to them. Dmitri pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the fetid air. He much preferred being inside, where he could hear people’s hearts, feel their blood moving through their bodies, their heat dissipate into the air. He felt almost blind without them, as if he suddenly were alone in the world.    

He turned to the merchant, raising an eyebrow. “I’m afraid the smells are better inside,” he allowed the man a brief respite, but only because he was looking at him, something almost like awe in his eyes, to see Dmitri washed into the pale light coming from the moon. He stood up straighter in the darkness, prouder and more assured. The merchant would be cold now, not too much, but enough to prompt him to come forward, drawn to the only other source of heat on the balcony. Dmitri made sure they were hidden from curious eyes by stepping to the side. He smiled, reserved and self-conscious. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked, as if anxious to get his approval.      

He wouldn’t, of course, his heart was still beating too fast, his skin ran too hot, or too cold in turns, and he saw him teetering, uncertain. All of them were so surprised to realize they weren’t in control of their bodies as much as they thought they were. Dmitri pushed a little more blood away from his head and towards lower regions as the merchant nodded, already so eager to please him, and he allowed his lips to curl into a beaming smile. “I’m glad,” his voice was so sincere, he could have laughed at himself. Merely playing at seeking approval brought hilarity. As though he’d ever grovel in front of mere men. But the merchant was eating his act up, tentative and hopeful both.      

Dmitri stepped closer, his smile fading a little, as though he wasn’t sure he’d be welcomed. “You’re Master Aling.” he made sure it wouldn’t be mistaken for a question. “Gerd Aling,” his eyes glimmered when the man nodded, and he cast another wave of pleasure towards him. He couldn’t control his thoughts, but he could, at least, make him wonder whether the recognition pleased him or not. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” the words came out in a rush, as though he couldn’t stop himself from showing his excitement. “You are on the Council – I’ve always admired the work you are doing,” he stammered, only a little, suddenly embarrassed by his evident enjoyment, and stared at his shoes. The man hesitated, and Dmitri realized he couldn’t summon the courage to touch him. Or perhaps his will was slightly stronger than he had expected. He glanced back at him, struggling to remain composed, and reinforced his assault. To look upon his face was to feel parched, starving, unfulfilled. He made his knees weak, worried that the man might turn and run cowardly rather than act on his urges. It was better if he stayed right there, if he kept his eyes glued to his perfect skin, his bright, warm eyes, and his Cupid’s bow lips. Dmitri’s breathing grew shallower, and he made sure the merchant’s did as well.    

Surely he wasn’t as simple minded as to assume his hunger could ever be satiated by food. It wasn’t a drink he thirsted for, it was the taste of Dmitri’s lips. He almost narrowed his eyes, but chose to widen them instead, chose to take another step closer, the gap between them dwindling to nothing. The merchant’s knees were still trembling, if he’d been skinnier, he could have heard them knock together. He had him right where he wanted him, in his web, and he reached up on his toes – Dmitri wasn’t short, but the merchant was built like a fucking tank, and pressed his lips on his, making sure that brief touch granted him immeasurable relief.      

For a few glorious moments, it worked, the man suddenly grabbed him, pulling him into his chest, his mouth feral and ravenous, and Dmitri let himself be manhandled, turning to putty in his arms. The kiss ended, just as violently as it had started and he was jerked away abruptly. “No,” he sounded as though it hurt him to talk – and it did, for he was being punished for refusing an offering that was too good for him in the first place. Dmitri heard his heart stutter, felt the wave of dizziness wash over him, and the fingers that were keeping him in place tightened in discomfort. “I’ve had too much to drink, you are just a boy…” he almost rolled his eyes at the tired speech, and reached out his arms to hold him up as the muscles in his legs failed to keep Gerd upright. He didn’t want to be crushed by this brick shithouse though, and he did not push his luck, keeping him on a knife’s edge of self-control, even as he forced the blood to rush through him in a too-hot torrent.      

“I am not a boy,” he wanted to swear at him for daring to underestimate him, but instead added a hurt undertone to his edge. “Really, I’m not. I’m old enough to know what I want,” Gerd’s hand traveled downwards, not fighting Dmitri’s encouragement as he stepped closer once more, their breaths mingling together, maddening the other with desire just as it left him unaffected. A small, pleased smile lightened his features once the merchant’s hand rested just below his waistband. “See?” he made sure to make his question innocent, but even with no verbal reassurance, the man looked down, and Dmitri could have laughed at his victory.      

“Oh,” the exclamation was breathed, rather than spoken, and he glanced at him once more, a brief nod from him enough to have him return to mauling Dmitri’s mouth. Had he had any intention of bedding him, he’d have trained him on how to do it properly, commanded his body to please himself, but seeing as that was not the goal here, he allowed himself to be pushed into the thin railing, the metal burrowing into his skin. He feigned enjoyment and Gerd’s grip on him tightened, breathless whispers of yes please, and more falling from his lips, as he  leaned back, giving him access to his throat. He could feel his father approach, just out of his periphery, and he rolled his eyes to the heavens, partly relieved at the respite, partly piqued from having his toy taken away before he could properly teach it how to play nice.      

“What is the meaning of this?” his father almost boomed, but cast a nervous glance at the lit house, as though he didn’t want to draw others’ attention to his son’s shame. Dmitri shrugged, hiding an attempt to wipe the slobber from his neck through the motion, but managed to look properly horrified and chastised at being caught. The merchant stammered beside him, having jumped away from him at the sound of another’s voice. “Father, I…” he began meekly, not looking at him, suffusing his face with blood as he shuffled awkwardly.      

“Silence!” it wasn’t much of a command, his father had actually managed to sound too pained to be imposing, but all that changed as he turned to glare at the councilman. “You dare to come into my house and attempt to debase my son?” Dmitri nearly cleared his throat at that, trying to direct his father’s attention to his final touch, to the cherry on top, but he didn’t have to resort to such obvious ploys. Instead, he merely pushed his father’s eyes downwards, at the merchant’s crotch. Black was not really the best color to make his shame easily observable, but then it didn’t have to be, if one knew what to look for. His father sputtered, overdoing his indignation, Dmitri thought, but it was no longer his show, and he kept his head down, and his cheeks rosy, scurrying hurriedly back inside as his father dismissed him.      

He’d asked his father for a challenge earlier, no more perverted old fucks who would follow him around dicks out before he even had a chance to toy with them, but as it turned out, the positively saintly Gerd Aling hadn’t been much of a trial either.      

[tw: death]    

ii. HIS EYES FOLLOWED THE MAN CURIOUSLY FROM HIS SEAT, a little out of the way. The flash of blue from his ratty sack had drawn his attention, certain he’d recognized a kefta’s colors, but he wore mismatched clothes, his trousers too big for him, while the shirt was too short at the sleeves, and strained across his chest. He watched him try to push the sleeves up, apparently uncomfortable with the stiff materials. He tilted his head sideways thoughtfully, before gracefully uncurling from his spot, to wander closer as it was his turn at the counter, wanting to know what his business here was.      

“I would like to sell my indenture,” he spoke with a strong Ravkan accent, and Dmitri tensed, looking around hurriedly to see if others had heard him. “I am a Squaller,” he had lowered his voice further as he said it, but not low enough for Dmitri to miss the words. His eyes narrowed, washing once more over him with renewed concentration. His boots were different colors, and one was noticeable smaller than the other. His teeth gritted, and he stepped back into the shadows, aware he couldn’t really do anything about it in a room full of people.      

But he waited, and paid attention, and followed the man out as he brushed past the crowd, stuffing a paper in his too tight shirt. He focused on the sound of his heart, clung to it, to make it easier to shadow him as they emerged into the street. From the look of him, he wouldn’t have found rooms in the nicer districts, and they soon entered the swarming, dirty alleys of the Barrel. This area suited Dmitri’s purposes just fine, and he hurried to catch up, needing only the smallest opportunity – an empty side-street, or reasonably empty, at any rate. No one here would intervene.      

“Hey you!” he called in Kerch, his accent indiscernible from that of a local, and he swaggered towards him as the man tensed. “Heard you were looking for a job.” he smirked knowingly, his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t dressed garishly enough to competently pass for a gang member, but he didn’t look like a merchant either, and he’d mused his hair and clothes so as not to look too evidently a noble. “Why would you want to sell yourself, when you can be a free man and still get fed?” he carelessly leaned his shoulder against a sooty building, unconcerned about his jacket. He had countless others back home. “Merchants are a bore, stuffy and proper and completely out of their league. How would you like to work for the Lions, instead?” the man frowned, struggling to keep up with his fluent Kerch. He could switch to Ravkan, but it wouldn’t make for a street rat to know the language. “Come on. You’ll be paid. We could use someone like you. Running away from something? We can hide you,” he grinned dastardly at him.  The man shifted, clutching his sack.      

Dmitri’s attention focused on that. “Anything of value in there? I can tell you where to sell it,” the material was riddled with holes, he could still see the blue occasionally showing as he shifted, even in the darkness of the alley. The houses on either side of them looked just about ready to fall over. The man hesitated, looking ready to bolt. “Now, now,” Dmitri straightened, raising his arms to the side to show he came in peace. It was a wholly human gesture, he thought, Grisha would push their hands forwards, when focusing their power. “I mean you no harm.” his tone became confidential. “Are you a deserter? Heard those Ravkans treat their soldiers like shit. They’re nothing but cannon fodder. Even the Second Army. And they couldn’t possibly afford to feed you all that well, either,” he wrinkled his nose in apparent disgust, and rolled his eyes at the folly of all those paper pushers who made decisions without having to suffer the consequences. “I can help you,” he let his arms drop, and stepped even closer. Surely the man’s Kerch was passable enough to understand that last sentence.      

His mouth opened and closed for a few times as he considered his options. “H-how?” he stammered, in strongly accented Kerch.      

Dmitri straightened, smug. “By putting you out of your misery,” his arms shot out, a split second before the soldier tensed, eyes widening in realization, and tried to attack as well. But by then Dmitri had his claws in him, twisting the muscles in his fingers, closing his hands into too tight fists. His upper arm cramped, the noise of bone breaking like a gunshot in the muffled silence of the alley. The Squaller screamed, falling to his knees, lifting his eyes to glare hatefully at him. “Heartrender,” he hissed in Ravkan, and Dmitri feigned confusion.      

“Heart?” he asked, switching to his mother tongue. “What heart?” he squeezed his fist, and the man seized, eyes rolling back, as he crumpled into the dirt of the alley. Dmitri walked closer, straightening his vest, and reached with his boot to push him on his back. “Oh, that one,” he commented casually, his head tilted sideways in interest. But a dead body couldn’t hold him in place for long, and he turned around dismissively. Traitors were not worth longer than the time he took to kill them.      

But the man did make an idea bloom in his mind, a thought he’d considered before, though never as fervently as now. Ketterdam had become boring, and there was only so much pleasure a man could take before even that lost its luster. Perhaps it was time to go home. He rather thought he’d be excellent at killing.          

iii. THERE WAS A SYMPHONY PLAYING IN THE DARKNESS, all around him, within him, for him. Dmitri wasn’t surprised, not really. He’d been made for the True Sea, why should the Unsea be any different?  Indeed, why should anything in the world not be for him to pluck and inspect and toss aside should it bore him? He was, and the environment would simply have to adjust to the irrefutable fact of his being, and reshape and bend to his indubitable will.    

He stood on the deck, unmoving and resolute, eyes closed against the annoyance of the Ifernis’ flames. He wanted to enjoy this, he wanted to stick out his tongue and taste the power of the Shadow Fold for himself. The screams, human and Volcra alike made his ears ring, but his blood listened to him, obeyed his commands, a steady, cool flow beneath his skin. His heart – he knew he had one, for all they whispered heartless as he walked by, he could always feel it beat, betraying its presence – was steady and subdued. He wrapped himself in a blanket of chillness, drawing from the air around him, becoming one with the void. It was so easy, and such a delight, to feel his power cocoon him so, making him invisible to the predators swooping in all around them. The screeches of their death throes buoyed him. Their wings buffeted him, but they did not know he was there. He could feel them, sense them, burning as bright as any flame in their absence, not quite alive, but not of death either. Something else altogether, something unfamiliar, and oh, how he exulted in finding new toys.    

He never doubted he’d survive the trip. The Fold could not take what didn’t belong to it, and he would never belong to anything but himself. He blinked in the light, even night time seemed so bright after such a complete and all-consuming darkness, dazed, but calm, as he willed his body to move, to become warm again, to resemble a person and he stepped down from the skiff, ignoring the tallying of the dead and the sobs of the survivors. He might not have been born on its shores, but Ravka was home. He could feel its call in his bones, stronger now that he was finally here. Its son of glorious crimson.  Its collector of hearts.    

Dmitri recognized in the Darkling a kindred spirit, an equal in brutality and ambition. It was a revelation, as though he was the first of his kind he’d ever seen. And it wasn’t far from the truth, indentured Grisha back in Ketterdam were not like him, like them, wretched, servile creatures that they were. Later, but not much later, he understood his true brilliance. The Darkling was not like him, the Darkling was who he would become. Powerful and feared and revered, for all his darkness.    

They’re lying to you, he’d whisper in his ear, always at his side; they’re scared; they will desert you; they’re hiding something; that question – there – press the matter. He never failed him. He couldn’t read minds, but he could read bodies, and the longer he spent in their presence, the louder they spoke to him, spilling their secrets like blood from an open wound. The Darkling’s own lie detector. A truth potion made flesh, more accurate than the Alkemi could hope to concoct with their foul smelling substances, in an altogether prettier package.    

He hadn’t expected his vanity to be his downfall. Indeed, he had not expected to have one, to be weighed and measured and found wanting. It created an ache in him, unfamiliar in its keenness, in its failure to be filled and plugged as any other need in him.  It humbled him – humbled! – and that only made the sting grow worse. Dmitri was made to be favored, he wouldn’t settle for less. He wouldn’t settle for anything. Not even the Darkling, with all his aloofness, could keep him under his heel for long. He gouged others’ needs as easily as he drew breath, he couldn’t understand the seemingly impenetrable wall that rose between them.    

It was a betrayal of their covenant – but he could not tell who it had come from. Who had blinked first, who had ruined this thing they had between them. Did he not gather secrets to lay them at his feet? Did he not needle and coax and turn people to the Darkling’s side with sure hands and poised smiles? His accomplished recruiter, working within the Grisha’s ranks to exhort their commander’s virtues, to bring his enemies low. Had he not uncovered countless plots against him and his before they came to fruition?    

So what if he allowed himself to get distracted by the dazzling Ravkan court? So what if he sometimes woke late in the day, groggy and irritable after a long night of debauchery? He brought the courtiers’ secrets to the Darkling, whispered of their petty machinations, and still turned many a tide in their favor, even as he filled his rooms with glittering trinkets and left a trail of disillusionment in his wake. He would play his own game, too, he needed the distraction – deserved it, for all his hard work. It wasn’t his fault that those paltry nobles grew increasingly more tiresome, less useful the longer he spent in their presence. What more could they expect of the otkazat’sya? They were as small and insignificant as the meat that contained them, and just as prone to Dmitri’s guidance. It wasn’t his intelligence that grew weaker, it was simply that they were worthless.  

“What of the Lantsovs?” the Darkling would ask. “What are they doing? What are their plans?”  

“To put a bastard on the throne,” in hindsight, perhaps his tone had been a touch too dismissive. But everyone knew that, didn’t they? It was no secret. They did not need to have it spelled out for them when it was right in front of their noses.    

The Darkling’s frown was unforgiving. Dmitri stood at attention, a disgraced soldier in front of his superior, chaffing at his shackles, even as he yearned to feel them return to what they once were – proof of his worth – people kept under lock and key only what was valuable, did they not?    

And yet, the Darkling dismissed him from his presence with only an indifferent flick of his wrist.    

[tw: sexual content]

iv. DMITRI LEANED BACK AGAINST THE WALL heedless of the bite of the cold in the corridors, unconcerned with the beauty of the night sky, where stars glittered sharply, distant and lovely, made even more piercing by the gloom of winter. Frost covered the great window he lounged in front of, glazing it with delicate lacework that clung to it, thickest at the edges. His fingers flexed impatiently as the hall remained accursedly silent, eyes set sightlessly ahead in his stubborn vigil.  

He’d never liked quiet, never craved the solitude he now suspected he’d been tricked into, removed from his playground purposefully and purposelessly, to wait in the shadows for a tryst that was not going to happen, simply to satisfy the prince’s galling propensity for one-upmanship, his perverse tendency to pretend resistance to Dmitri’s lure.  

He could not – he would not – be denied. And whether the blood flowing through one’s veins was red, or blue, they all answered to his call when he turned his attention to them. Whether it’d be sooner, or later, he would cloak himself in patience even if he sweltered under its cloying weight, and in the end, they’d suffer all the more under his yoke, until they accepted his bridle.  

And finally, finally, he tilted his head to the side at the sound of footsteps, his attention hooked at the edge of his sight. The darkness of the hall might have confused him momentarily, made him wonder at what he  saw, but he was attuned to Viktor’s heartbeat as he was to his own, and he recognized the tumultuous storm of his blood before he turned to fully face him, no trace of annoyance on his expression, as he smirked at the other man. “Loath to leave the party?” he questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow even as his voice remained reverent. “I shall endeavor to make it worth your while, my prince,” his tone did not change, remaining solicitous, though his countenance was anything but, something predatory filling his gaze as Viktor came closer.  

Dmitri did not need his assistance in getting to his knees, his earlier frustration pushed back as he gave the other man a look full of dark promise before sinking gracefully to the ground. His hands made quick work of the laces of his trousers, lips pressing hard kisses from hip to hip, making sure that every light touch of his fingers would send shivers down his spine. It was easy to use more than his skillful tongue to bring Viktor off, easy, as he was this close to him, to sense every single shift in the man’s body, to ride the wave of desire with him and enhance the experience with well-timed jolts to his nerves, or an opportune stutter of his heart.  

He reveled in the feel of rough skin under his fingers, of hard muscles and marks of battle, the prince’s ruthlessness written all over his body in a language that called to Dmitri’s own understanding of violence. He rejoiced in the power he had over a Lantsov, in the ease with which he could make him tremble, and moan and bite his lips helplessly as he struggled to keep the pleas from slipping out. He was granting him unbearable pleasure, part punishment for having made him wait, part promise of even more ecstasy, should he return. He was drawing out the man’s frenzy, his body a mere instrument in the hands of its master, who was tuning it to the perfect frequency so that when Dmitri tasted his seed, it felt almost sweet on his tongue, coated as it was in his sense of victory.

“You have the tastes of a king, Your Highness,” the pretense at deference had left him completely as he licked the corner of his mouth, almost thoughtfully, not raising from his obeisance. He glanced up at Viktor, chin tilted up, a dark lock of hair artfully fallen into his eyes, and smirked.  

“Don’t you mean I taste like one?” Lantsov gave a harsh laugh and Dmitri raised, confident now that the man’s muscles had loosened, his limbs grown heavy with his exhausted desire, and firmly pressed his lips against his, the slant of his mouth harsh and demanding, fingers resting against the nape of Viktor’s nape, pulling him even closer. The split moment’s resistance was dealt with swiftly, firmly, and soon there was nothing preventing Dmitri from taking what he wanted. They were both breathless when he drew back, heated and dazed, and he blinked once, languorously, before glancing in Viktor’s eyes, an insolent grin on his lips.  

“Do you – my liege?”  

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:        

SPOILED BRAT – waited on by servants his whole life, Dmitri is incredibly careless about his things. His rooms are a mess, his writing is atrocious, all his books, barely read as they are, have broken spines and dog-eared pages. He has no idea how to pick up after himself, and indeed, the mere notion that he has to, offends him.        

KING OF HEDONISM – he’s accustomed to having his every whim indulged. He doesn’t refuse himself anything, be it food, drinks, expensive clothes, or people. There is no vice he hasn’t tried, no line he hasn’t crossed. He does as he pleases, and he will never refuse himself anything. He isn’t made for moderation.      

CHOSEN ONE – travelling the Unsea was a revelation, a revelry. To be surrounded by darkness and not be touched by it was a heady feeling. Then again, he never lets anything that matters touch him. Why should the Fold be any different? He isn’t scared of shadows – he isn’t scared of anything. And his power makes him invisible to the Volcras. He became cold, his blood turned to ice in his veins, his heart quiet in his chest, unmoving and unbreakable. Like a tailor bleeding colors into pasty skin, he took the darkness into himself, wrapped himself in it to become a shadow. Invisible, unreachable, undefeated and undaunted. Why would someone like him ever have to experience fear? He is a disciple of the Order of the Living and the Dead, he carries the greatest power of them all, and what is strength but a tool in his hands, to make the whole world take the knee?      

A SCRIBBLE WITH FANGS – a selfish, demanding child, Dmitri cannot pinpoint the exact moment he’s come into his powers. There must have always been there, lurking beneath his skin, fashioning him into the hungry being he’s become. It started off small enough, as a call for attention, for his nannies, for the servants, for his parents. He wouldn’t be ignored, or denied, not without dire consequences, sweats, and tremors and dizzy spells. He had to have everything just right, and he had to have it now. Like dogs reacting to the whip, he’d taught those around him to bend to his whims, by giving them treats, or taking them away until everything was the way he wanted. Colors, materials, food, even the temperature of his milk. A tyrant in diapers, smiling sweetly whenever he saw them flinch, king of his own little kingdom, and cruel to the bone.      

BATTLES OF THE FLESH – he was a precocious child, growing into a precocious teenager. Not studious, not particularly curious about the world either, but when it came to bodies, to what they could do, the pleasure they could bring, or the pain that brought them to their knees, he was an ardent pupil. He began early, not quite an adolescent, but old enough to get a taste of what he could take from others. He manipulated and beguiled, and later on, blackmailed, for his own purposes, but they just so happened to coincide with those of his parents, filling their coffers, and even Ravka’s. Kerch had too much money, anyway, greedy and grubby bottom feeders that they were, and he used his gift in service of himself, just as much as in the king’s.      

PLEASURES OF THE FLESH – to call him a skilled lover would be to do him a disservice. Indeed, it’s almost an insult. Dmitri is flawless, capable of intuiting what his partner wants before they realize it themselves. He’s pansexual and non-discriminatory in his choice of sexual partners. His libido would put an incubus to shame. To partake in his talents is to never be satisfied by others again. He is sublime and brazen, and he enjoys exerting his influence long after he’s grown bored with his conquests, just for the pure joy of watching them waste away in longing. He’s a storm, taking others by surprise with the suddenness of their sheer need for him, or a subtle poison, torturing them with overpowering feelings and inexhaustible longings, toying with them mercilessly until he deigns to bestow his favor, or deciding to leave them unfulfilled and miserable until the urgency of their desires drive them to their knees, ardent supplicants at the altar of his decadence. He loves the flavor of their desperation once he gives them what he wants, the ease with which their brutalized flesh yields to his manipulations, buoys himself with their momentary relief, and finally finds his own pleasure in their complete surrender.    

LEVIATHAN – his time at sea is one of his fondest memories, if one such as him could experience fondness. He took longer than necessary to get himself to Ravka, given his enjoyment of captaining his own ship, sowing terror on the waves. His mastery of his body meant he suffered no sickness, even as inexperienced as he was with the motions of the boat. Ships sailed a wide berth around his, protected as it was by the ambassador’s flag. But one, unwise and desperate did try to attack in the dead of night. He bathed their deck in their own blood, taking exquisite pleasure in watching them squirm under his eyes. Theirs were not quick deaths, not good deaths, they lived with no dignity and they would die as they have lived. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed, but it was the moment his hunger for it ignited, and he turned his ship around, a hunter in a sea full of helpless little fish, wanting Ravka to know of his coming long before he stepped onto their land. The prodigal son returned after washing the True Sea in blood. A god that would not deliver them from darkness, but teach them how to live in it.      

NOT FASHIONED FOR LOVE – there’s no bigger motivation for Dmitri than boredom. In fact, his willingness to avoid falling into that state is what drives most of his actions, including twisting the purposes of his power in untried ways. He’s used it for giving pleasure long before he’s killed with it. Oh, he knew how even then, of course, he could sense the sickness lurking beneath people’s skin, the fragility of their organs, the inelegance of their bodies’ design. He could make a muscle twist in the most embarrassing way when going down the stairs, he could make them choke on their food with a mere inopportune hiccup. But he had no need for death when he was young, for his hungers lay elsewhere, and so he became something altogether different. Heartrender he may be, but he’s also a heartbreaker, and the latter provides more amusement in the halls of the court.

EXTRAS:        

[DISCLAIMER: He is unapologetically vulgar. He’s quite graphic in his lewd comments, and whatever redeeming qualities he exhibits, they’re likely just a dissimulation in order to ensure he gets what he wants.]  

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS: He’s left handed – indeed, given his dominant hand is the left, he sees being the Darkling’s left hand as no demotion. However, he is a self-taught ambidextrous. He can use both hands to manipulate his power, or just one, and in this aspect, there is no difference in ability or the accuracy of his aim. When it comes to other skills, like writing, eating, or fighting, he shows a preference for his left hand. The more menial the task, the more he will use his left, but at physical fighting, such as firing a weapon, or fencing, the difference is quite small – noticeable only when one knows to look for it. He’s brown eyed and black-haired and while he doesn’t go out of his way to exercise, he can control his metabolism to burn fat at an alarming rate. His body shape falls into the lithe and svelte category. His muscles are well-defined, but lean. He’s 6’2’’. Like all Grisha who consistently use their powers, he is alluringly beautiful, and healthy and his skin is unblemished. He has no distinguishing marks like scars, birthmarks, tattoos or piercings.  

POWERS & ABILITIES: While Dmitri can kill, and do it in quite creative ways, and he has a moderate talent for healing (he can heal small cuts, bruises, and mend broken bones if they’re small – e.g. fingers) his true talent lies in subtly affecting a person’s bodily functions. He can excite nerves, he can fake the symptoms of medical afflictions, like heart-attacks or asthma, he can induce panic attacks, or incite people’s lust. He can modulate his own voice to make it higher or lower, control his and others’ body heat and he can forge people’s writing to perfection – he has to actually watch them write in order to do this. His muscle memory is impressive. He can mimic mannerisms, or mirror fighting stances effortlessly on first try.  He has a minor ability for surface tailoring – best shown by the ease with which he can make himself, or others blush (by using his power, rather than by trying to embarrass them, I mean).    

TARGETS: Even when he isn’t using his power to influence people, Dmitri still reaches out with it to better gauge their reactions. He’s so well versed in this and is immensely subtle, that it’s highly uncommon for his marks to realize something is amiss. He works in steadily increasing, but small increments to allow them to acclimatize to the changes as not to raise their suspicion. Most humans never find out that he’s doing it, even the ones he sleeps with. There are few, precious exceptions, usually repeat partners. He’s more willing to let other Grisha know that he’s using his power on them if they’re having sex – it’s in service of increasing both their pleasure, after all, and he finds they respond more easily when they’re expecting his guidance and are willing to be influenced by it – however he draws a line at Corporalki, not wanting to betray the secrets of his trade. They alone have a similar understanding of bodies, and if they’re crafty enough they might manage to replicate the effects. He is already sufficiently sunk in the Darkling’s esteem so as not to add fuel to the fire by further lowering his worth and unwittingly training his replacement.  

STAR SIGN: Scorpio [November 13th]         MBTI:ESTP [The Doer]         MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil [The Destroyer]     HOGWARTS HOUSE: 100% Slytherin    

[PINTEREST] [tw: blood, nsfw content]

[MOCKBLOG]

[SOUNDTRACK] [instrumental]

ANYTHING ELSE?    

I modified the last plot idea, expanded on my activity and my answer about the possibility of Dmitri’s death, and I replaced the fourth para sample. Other changes to the original application are minor.  

FAVORITE BOOK: Deathless by Catherynne Valente||The Secret History by Donna Tartt    

[loveiscosmicsin]

Picturesque

FFXV Spoilers

I’m writing this by the ear and not using much reference or information. The timeline of FFXV is confusing so whatever. I wanted to write about Ardyn and Gentiana or Gentianardyn or Ardiana. There’s something going on, but nobody’s saying much about it (much like the plot of XV, basically). Can’t help imagining Ardyn/Gentiana/Luna except, not a poly ship, but a complicated love triangle of new loves, lovers spurned, and portions of hearts remaining with the other person. As far as this fic’s concerned, Gentiana had a thing with Ifrit, Ardyn, and Luna. Let me tell you that I prefer Brotherhood!Gentiana because at least she doesn’t speak in confusing riddles and actually was at Luna’s side. Might become part of a series: The Accursed and The Liars. Posted on Ao3.

-

She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules or customs. ‘Time’ for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water. - Roman Payne

-

“Lady Lunafreya, would you like to hear a bedtime story?” Gentiana proposed to the former Tenebraen princess one night.

Lunafreya’s brilliant amethyst flickered to the older woman’s face. Her confusion was understandable. There was no precedence leading up to the inquiry. It came unexpectedly. “A little old for bedtime stories, I’m afraid,” she replied reluctantly, tucking short blonde hair behind her ears.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret was a young woman  at the tender age of fourteen. Gentiana never paid much heed to mortal lifespans for she knew that when there’s a beginning the end not far behind. Everyday was either a celebration or a curse. Lunafreya attained an air of maturity for someone barely at the peak of womanhood but Gentiana would consider her a child.

“Forgive me. I mean no offense, I seek to assuage feelings of self-doubt and reinvigorate your will.” Gentiana hovered her hands over the girl’s legs and concentrated white magic over worn muscles, her eyes shut not to betray her thoughts. “Lessons can be interpreted from stories.”

Gentiana came into Lunafreya’s service as a lady-in-waiting and her Messenger two years ago. It won’t be until two years later Gentiana would re-introduce herself as the Glacian, Shiva, one of the Six Astrals that safeguarded Eos. Though the Fleuret heiress was destined to accept the role of Oracle in the near future, there was little that the two maidens knew about each other. Lunafreya was the youngest acolyte placed in Gentiana’s care but possessed great promise. She would make a powerful Oracle under firm guidance.

Before a woman of the Fleuret lineage ascended to her calling, she must undergo a set of arduous trials. Queen Sylva, the former ruler of Tenebrae and Lunafreya’s predecessor, too, endured the training.

The princess suffered considerably through hers. Her spiritual energy was spent after dispelling a miasma that Gentiana projected. It was minuscule in scale and non-threatening, but Lunafreya collapsed after containing most of it. She was unsuccessful today, but improving with each attempt, refusing to be discouraged by present limitations.

It was nightfall now. Lunafreya’s body was plagued by severe chills and cramps that left her whimpering involuntarily and restless, a frequent occurrence. Even as Gentiana tended to the young girl, sympathy for her charge was inevitable. Lunafreya had no liberty to protest about burden when so many cannot find solace in this world. A calling must be heeded and the Oracle shall go to those in need. She accepted the hardships rather than to defy them, an attitude Gentiana herself had fostered.

One day, Gentiana would instruct the rites and the Oracle must be ready to commune with the Six so the King of Kings could fulfill his destiny. By then, the Astrals shall bear witness to humanity’s determination. After all, Lunafreya had already won over the Glacian’s unconditional admiration.

Lunafreya was silent even after Gentiana ceased healing. The servant bowed her head, interpreting silence as an answer and it was her time to retire. But the girl spoke with unwavering resolve to compel the Messenger to remain, “I’ve a feeling that this isn’t a mere children’s bedtime story. If this one is as important as you assert, I’d like to hear it.”

“Very well,” Gentiana nodded.

Once upon a time, there was fox king. He was neither of light or dark. He alone illuminated the world and fearlessly ventured the bleakest regions no one dared walk. But for that, his people loved him. He possessed a pure, uncomplicated heart that rivaled even the brightest of stars.

The gods awarded him with a bejeweled crown in all the colors of the rainbow.

A beautiful crown fit for a spectacular king! Everyone, in all the land, lauded over it.

But the gemstones on the crown were heavy, so heavy, they banged against his eyelids and weighed him down.

No one, from anywhere, wanted to hear the king’s voice again. The neglected soul contested to remove the crown.

He walked to the ends of the world to uplift his burden, but to no avail. A hole awaited him.

The fox king fell into the hole. No one remembered the fox king.

Everyone had forgotten him. Poor king. Poor king.

Gentiana paused with a grimace. That tale went untold for over a millennia, but the wounds were as fresh as received on that day. Not a day went by that she hadn’t thought of him and the Messenger lived many years. She brought a hand to her breast, feeling the medallion concealed there. It was far more than a trinket, it was a music box, the melody jarring after it had been exhausted repeatedly. A memento of better times and what could have been.

“Is there more to the tale?” The girl asked, perturbed by the ending.

Yes, Gentiana thought immediately before resigning with a painful lie, “No. This was his fate.”

Lunafreya pursed her lips, pensive as she leaned in the palm of her hand. “Gentiana, did you know this fox king?”

Gentiana laughed softly but no humor came of it. “Is that assumption you have derived from the tale, m'lady?”

“If I may be so bold, I’d say that you knew this fox.”

“The fox’s tale is a chapter read and closed by those who walked that path until they met their demise. The fox saw the world through a different lens, did what he felt was right and perhaps condemned for a nature that was but a dark seed in his heart. Perhaps he was destined to bring ruin unto others. Who could say?” The Messenger paused, extending a finger over the promised Oracle’s heart. Perhaps the girl would understand the hardship. “Tell me, Lady Lunafreya. What is heavier? The world or its people’s hearts?”

Lunafreya glanced down at the Messenger’s hand, puzzlement touched her features briefly before an eerie answer left her mouth, “The heart holds as much as it would allow, Gentiana. If we were at any liberty to choose, the weight could be lighter or heavier as we wish it.”

Gentiana tilted her head, envisioning the girl who once sewn her crown with delicate blue flowers. A halo of holy light glittered around her, leaving the Astral enraptured. “You would submit yourself to the latter if you had the choice?”

“I would, but I already do. Even if it meant giving up my life, I will defeat the Starscourge. I must.” Unwavering dedication resounded in her words.

Gentiana took the girl’s hand between her own and the Oracle-to-be flinched, never had the attendant been so forward as to touch her. A mortal’s warmth was something the goddess hadn’t felt in a long time, chipping the glacier around her heart. Gentiana had known two great tragedies in her lifetime, there won’t be another, she would rather die first before anything happened to Lunafreya.

Both the girl and the fox were willing to sacrifice their lives for the greater good. Their hearts had the capacity to hold the world and its habitants, a pure and idealistic love, but naïve. The fox possessed the eyes to distinguish the light of expiring souls yet he was determined to avert certain death or at least, ease suffering. His final act of love should’ve marked him as the last king, unparalleled and forgotten by descendants after him. The kings of yore saw to this banishment of their ilk.

She cannot erase the fox from history, this Gentiana knew, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake with her charge. Lunafreya was a paragon of the peace and should she die, then the world would come to an end.

History had its eyes on Lunafreya, after all.

-

“I sense you, but I find your power wanting.” Ardyn Izunia hummed to the sound of his own noncommittal tune, swishing brandy in a glass.

The mauve-haired chancellor chuckled, finger tapping against the glass impatiently. It had been a millennia since he had been ignored, having grown accustomed to commanding gullible audiences who latched on to his every word.

The uninvited guest was nothing like that. A force of nature, elusive and omnipresent. While Ardyn’s words corroded and dominated willpower to a world he made for himself, planets orbited around her without consequence. It didn’t matter to her how many devotees clung to her tits like babes or treated her name as it was a curse in itself.

“I confess, I didn’t expect your intervention. I thought you would be too preoccupied mourning your darling Lunafreya. Extinguished like a star, that one.” Feigning pity, he raised the glass to toast in the late Oracle’s memory, “A shame that her lungs weren’t in agreement with the sea water.”

Silence persisted, but the room had progressively gotten colder. Frost crept up around the rim of the glass. He took a sip.

“The cold never bothered me anyway,” he chuckled as he finished the drink. The glass shattered in his hand, crystal fragments spilled on the floor. “Come now, do show yourself. I’ve no quarrel with you though my feelings are a little hurt.” He shook his head in dismay, clicking his tongue.

A flurry of ice stormed into the room, projecting frost within the vicinity. The dance ended as the crystal particles revealed a woman donned in a black and gold dress. Her ivory face was devoid of emotion, but her temperament spoke otherwise. That woman always had an inclination for the theatrics.  

“Ah, the heavenly ice goddess herself appears before me of her own accord.” Ardyn rose from his chair, removing his fedora as he bowed humbly. Though his grin was amicable, anger glinted in his amber eyes. “I must be truly blessed.”

“You lost the Gods’ favor.” The raven-haired woman brought her hands forward, the movement as gradual as glaciers coming together. “The stars no longer shine for you, fallen king.”

“I’ve made my dwelling in the darkness.” The man sighed as he readjusted his hat. “After all that has happened, still you live. I’m rather curious why you persist using that form, masquerading as something you’re not.” He paused, hissing a word as it was vile through clenched teeth, “Human.”

“A question I pose to you,” The Glacian reached out to touch the chancellor’s ageless and handsome mask. “You call yourself Ardyn Izunia.” The illusion came undone, gold pupils glinted violently through obsidian, tan complexion paled, and the ebony blood oozed from his hollow eyes and cracked lips, dousing the Messenger’s hand in its viscous taint. “Now the vessel emulates its essence.”

Demonic. Grotesque. Unclean. Accursed. Let the entire universe bear witness to his true face. The form bestowed when he was denied to pass over and condemned to eternal life. He was no longer human.

The Immortal Accursed snarled with penetrating roar and lashed out, his grip a vise around Gentiana’s throat. The Messenger’s head jerked back by the impact, but her emerald eyes bore down on him. His fingers dug deeply, searching for vitals to snuff out, crush and claw until nothing remained of her. It was unfortunate for him that the Glacian’s life couldn’t be ended in such a crude method.

Gentiana’s other hand joined on the Accursed’s face, fingers delicately wiping at the scorned sludge. They were reminiscent to tears though she doubted that he shed them still.

He was a vessel of darkness and it poured out of him endlessly; submerge the both of them in this very room, if it were possible. She soiled her hands, anointing the sanctity of her office with Ardyn’s taint. Before him, she was a sinner, embalming for a funeral, but the man knew no grave, thus, he had no need for one.

Ardyn ceased squeezing and in a huff of disgust, almost as if he lost interest, released Gentiana. The Astral lowered her hands, sludge evaporated harmlessly out of existence. The Accursed’s exposed mask lingered for a moment before the man she knew as the former King of Light stood before her. His face never left her dreams. Old wounds carved deeply into the goddess’s soul as Gentiana had guided and loved Lunafreya as immensely and passionately as she did this man.

He couldn’t end her life no more than she could his.

Even when she wished destruction upon the pariah who brought harm to the prophet.

Gentiana’s beloved Lunafreya. It wasn’t the Oracle who granted the Glacian reprieve and boundless solicitude, but the woman behind the authority.

The goddess felt the bonds she forged with the Accursed and the Oracle still, if not more strongly than ever. Those connections were all that remained. Time of separation and death could never sever them.

“Eirlys.”

Gentiana’s heart crashed like an avalanche  against her rib cage. She had not heard that name in a long time, having discarded it when she was reincarnated as Gentiana. Those that knew that name had been permitted entry to the Kingdom of the Dead, Ardyn was the only exception who bore knowledge of it. Eirlys was never Gentiana’s true persona, but it was an element of herself. Part of her resonated strongly to the past and all the memories she held dear and promises gone unfulfilled with it.

“Why are you here?” The inquiry was void of malice and honeyed threats. It was hollow and splintering. When Gentiana looked to him, Ardyn’s eyes were no longer hot coals in a fire but mirth curled a corner of his mouth. “Revenge? To declare war? To ask for my forgiveness? Why, my snowdrop Messenger, does the passage of time run by too slowly for the Six? Even though it’s you, I don’t sway to the temptations of the flesh as easily as I did in my youth.”

“It is none of your concern.” The frostbite in her tone went unheeded when the man clicked his tongue.

“Ah, a courtesy call then.”

“A courtesy call would be to those holding reputable offices, correct? What is yours when your actions vanquished an empire and ultimately betrayed those who trusted you?”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Ardyn sighed deeply as he extended a hand to the ice goddess. “I hope you see the world has made liars and traitors out the both of us, Eirlys. Allegiances fickle affairs, promises are meant to be broken. Today’s allies become tomorrow’s enemies. What comes up, must come down.” He dramatically made a circular motion. “And etcetera, etcetera. You get the picture. Deities have witnessed the worst of humanity and are no strangers to it themselves.”

“An Astral’s word has and will always be their bond.” Gentiana asserted, apprehension boiled deep within her. It took her back to the day she saw Ardyn’s face and all those promises exchanged came crashing around her. Mortals were indeed cruel.  

“I recall that same gimmick that long ago so don’t delude yourself now,” Ardyn waved off as he walked past Gentiana. “And so you forged a covenant with the Chosen King. Your second choice and only hope. Save one, let your fair maiden die, too little, too late, to stop the darkness that’s to come.”

Lunafreya’s death was unavoidable but Gentiana didn’t expect her to fall at the Walls of Water. The Astral couldn’t bear the alternative even if the Oracle survived, a vessel of otherworldly power succumbing to rotting flesh and uncooperative limbs, her beloved Lunafreya paralyzed for life, losing all functionality of what made her human until her mind remained. Drowning was a mercy in comparison to fading out of existence and Gentiana knew she had no regrets.

Lunafreya had asked Gentiana not to intervene, to then form a covenant with the King of Stone to bring light back to the world. It was the most excruciating order the Glacian had to follow, she after all sought mankind’s salvation from the plague.

There was nothing else that needed to be said, Gentiana realized. She wished that she found solace in seeing her former charge and lover once more. The Glacian didn’t come to wish the peace or to free him from a millennia-old curse. There was only one king, rightful and true, who she willfully tethered herself to and even then, she had her own objectives to see to fruition.

Perhaps in another life…

“What will become of you, Ardyn Lucis Caelum?” Though Gentiana already knew the outcome of Ardyn’s plan. A goddess of death needn’t a crystal ball or tarot cards to predict the end of the Caelum bloodline. What began in blood, must also end in blood and the world would become whole again.

Would she see Ardyn welcomed to the Gates of the Undead?

“Never you fret, my dear. I’ve always been a man of no consequences. Ah, don’t tell me that there’s still a flame in that tundra you call a heart.”

Ardyn turned around, finding that the goddess was no longer there. She left no trace of her existence, but he would always remember this conversation until the end.

“My heart will always belong to you.” Ardyn whispered, remnants of his former self, a humanity he thought long forgotten, loathed the emptiness. “As it always had.”