#: ̗̀➛ the sightless know no rules┊ic

[sumerus-little-sprout]

As Collei was brushing her teeth, the sound of a notification reverberated off the counter.

You're blind? Really? And you could still type! I don't mean to be rude! I used to be disabled too, Im sorry if I'm offending you...

An issue? What kind of issue?

Could I even trust you?

Master Tighnari said to be careful for strangers I've never met before, even if you're a part of the Akademiya. Especially if you're part of the Akademiya! He doesn't like you guys very much...A forest ranger? Goodness, no! Im only a trainee....

Greetings, Miss.

My apologies at the time, I know most people are asleep at this hour. But…I would like to say hello and maybe introduce myself if that’s okay?

You can say no. It does seem like I am a stranger to you, and honestly you are little more to me.

Anyhow. Take your time responding to this message. And rest well if you are asleep.

-Naila

@knowledge-of-the-blind-forest <3

// Trying a letter-ish format even though for them it’s basically a text? But time for Naila to try to get in contact with her Niece she’s only heard about and never met!

Collei reads the message and furrows her eyebrows in vexation. Who could this person be? Naila...it was somehow familiar, and not familiar to her at the same time. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and shoving her math homework aside, she sends a message back.

Its ok, I wus just doing homwrok. I don't now who you are, but I gus its fine.

Did you get permishon from my dads? I don think they wll like srangers at our hous. Sorry if my speling is bad, im not very gud at righting

-Collei

[team-council]

Title: It’s never getting titled

TW: Character Death, Lightly Grotesque descriptions of wounds, Possible Scuicidle Implications (I didn’t really mean to imply it like that, but I realize it can be read that way and will tag to be safe)

Description: Takes place directly after the council manages to quell the everblaze from book three. Bronte takes some healing salve to Oralie for her shoulder and reflects on Kenric’s death.

Notes: I would scincerely like to thank anyone who bullied me. I haven’t finished a fic in literally ever, meant a lot. This monstrosity is also not proofread and I am sleep deprived so I’m sure it’s absolute garbage near the end but just ignore that. Might clean it up and put it on ao3 later who knows.

An angry grey sky wept dry shudders of ash over each of the miserable, bowed figures that stumbled across the rolling fields stretching beyond and between the crystalline castles scattering Eternalia’s fading outline. The sun was nothing but a sunken stain on the sky, feathery gold light turned a sick shade of pewter as rising smoke choked the warmth from what of it still lingered beyond the horizon. The neon glare of Everblaze could no longer be seen melting crystal and dragging harsh lines of terror down the face of the distant city, but the air still smelled like burning sugar and dizzying sweetness.

With every ragged breath Bronte drew the saccharine sting of the now extinguished fire coated his tongue anew and prompted another fit of coughing to wrack his body. Though the soot that caked his face in thick, dark splotches had long dried his eyes, the muted sting of fresh burns sweltering along his cheeks and arms coaxed tears to blur his staggering vision. He’d long abandoned attempting anything resembling a graceful stride forward, allowing his feet to stumble over each other with every messy attempt he made to not hit the earth. Ignoring the trembling in his knees. Praying mutely that they might give way beneath him. That he might fall and never get have to get up. A fantasy of melding into the cool grass enticed his mind from the fervent protesting of his aching muscles. He imagined idly how the paled blades would curl at the corners of his mouth, cradle his hands and still the weary tremors that weighted his chest. Dazed, he was unable to keep from fancying what it would be to shatter into the dirt. To become ethereal and unknown, sunken beneath a tangled weaving of root where there would be naught to do but unlearn the world. To divorce sorrow and grief. To let the burdens of the many long centuries he’d endured go in passive dismissal.

His thoughts were interrupted as his foot caught the edge of something tough, and when at last he fell it was only to be met with the glassy, calloused embrace of faceted crystal. A dim, concerned muttering of multiple shrill voices hovered above his head, but as the councillor drew to his knees he found in clarity only the gaunt, drawn man staring back at him through the fuzz of a soot-drowned Amaranth stairway. Reminding him. Mocking him. To disappear was not a mercy he deserved.

“Councillor,”

Bronte was forced to respond when the stairs beneath his legs fell away from him, a large pair of hands having drug him up by the shoulders. Well, respond might have been a gracious word for the half-conscious grunt he managed to the goblin bearing his weight in their palms, his eyes not bothering to search the face of the guard, to know whether or not they held his weakness in contempt or pity. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t fathom caring. All that mattered was that there was no attempt to stop him from dragging his reluctant body up the steps, that no hand batted his away from the knob of the door, that the scanner reading the intricacies of his palm managed to make sense of his identity despite how fresh burns and ash might’ve tried and scrub it away. There was no triumph in the silent, inward sliding of the towering doors, no pleasant rush as frigid, bitter air swept the welts tapering down from his forehead. He hardly found himself capable of much but standing at the brink of the darkness that spilled forward into the until living room at his feet.

Lavish furniture sat steeped in shadows deep enough to sink under, curtains drawn to block the pitiful laces of grey-yellow light that might have struggled through had they been parted. Bronte’s own silhouette was absorbed effortlessly into the black, his whole body soon after as he mindlessly stepped forward, doors clicking shut at his back with an echo of finality.

The world was void of sound until the shake of a fragile breath bit the quiet in faint retaliation. Bronte followed the quivering whimper around the barest, ebon outline of a table, managing to discern only a tenebrous jumble of shapes wrapped up in the stifle of self imposed twilight. Whatever discomfort he might have felt at the still sightlessness, it was welcomed compared to the snap that brought light back into the chamber, cutting through the veil of blissful ignorance that had pardoned any necessity to look upon what it had charitably concealed. However selfish it might have seemed, for the smallest instant Bronte thought of turning the lights off again,

“Sit up,”

It felt wrong to speak- especially ask anything of Oralie. Her ringlets- dull and stringy- pulled down in thick tangled over her face as she rigidly drug her back up the arm of the lovesteat she’d curled into, blankets falling limp onto the floor with a meek thud. Bronte simply knelt atop them, his fingers trailing the pockets of his clock for the smooth outline of a familiar metallic tin. Oralie made no sound of pain or acknowledgement as he pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a thickly wound bandage fastened over her shoulder. The white color had turned yellow, and as the kneeling figure peeled back each layer the room- what of it he could smell above the saturated, sugary smoke bathing his clothes- began to scent of balms and puss, a littering of welts and shrunken skin having festered beneath the dressings. The case in his hands came open with yet another sound Bronte found himself too far away to register, his fingers diving numbly into the salve inside,

“It’s my fault,”

Came a sound like the shifting of a fault line. Bronte traced his fingers over the rim of the burn,

“I couldn’t do anything but watch,”

Cracking like stained glass. Bronte smoothed his thumb across a patch of withered, pink flesh,

“H-he moved so quick,”

He had been avoiding her eyes, her face. And still he found himself caught in both. Her soft features hollowed. Her warm eyes gutted, occupied only by vacancy. Ghosts of the nots. Of the would never bes,

“And I- I jus-just-“

And her anguish came again with vengeance. Came with strength she did not have to spare for tears she did not have to shed. How dare she think she had wept enough. How dare she think she couldn’t hurt any longer. With a long, godless wail it came back to her in waves, thin fingers gripping his shoulders as she curled forward, her whole frame shaking with the labor of forcing from her throat a cry like cracking ice. What little tears she could manage soaked through his cloak,

“And I j-us did no-nothing! I di-didn’t do anything! I jus-just le-let him go! I le-let him d-“

She had been doomed to fail the sentence from the very start, her broken declarations falling to senseless sobs and howls of pain as she rocked her forehead into his shoulder, re-adjusting her grip at his arms every so often as if letting go might send her physically spiraling into whatever pit of grief pulled at her mind, down somewhere she couldn’t be followed,

“It’s not your fault,”

Again. It felt wrong to tell her anything with certainty, even the truth,

“It’s not your fault,”

It came stronger this time. Still a whisper in her ear, but less like a mist and more like a fog,

“It’s not your fault,”

That’s right. It wasn’t her fault. It was his,

“You couldn’t have known,”

But he had.

“There wasn’t a way you could’ve known,”

He’d known everything. That the healing was dangerous. That he should’ve gone with them.

“You did everything right...”

It was his fault that they hadn’t listened,

“I promise,”

That Kenric hadn’t listened,

“You were everything he needed you to be,”

Why should he have? He had been impatient. Stubborn. Cruel. /Weak/.

“You’ve been so strong,”

For the past three years his judgement had been ruled by fear. Fear of a little girl,

“And so brave,”

And hatred. Hatred of species who’s betrayal’d dawned the advent of millenniums lifetimes ago,

“This could never have been your fault,”

Kenric was dead,

“It will never be your fault,”

Because he hadn’t been stronger,

“No matter what you might think,”

Because he hadn’t been wiser,

“Kenric wouldn’t want you to think that,”

Because he hadn’t been kinder.

“Ever,”

Her wailing had only gotten softer, grip having loosened the slightest bit. He couldn’t tell if anything he’d said had reached her or not. Had he even been speaking aloud to begin with? Had he even been loud enough for it to matter? He had to hope so. Their ilk was not meant to die, and thus not meant to grieve death. To mourn in earnest was not theirs. It never was. He knew too well how easily it would be for her to break beneath the weight of it. He could already feel himself webbing with cracks,

“I-I....”

She couldn’t protest beyond a dry heave, her shoulders raised for what felt like ever in a deep wrenching motion as Bronte clasped the fresh bandages over her newly dressed wounds. In the end, she merely fell into him, grabbing his shirt. His arms. His cloak. Anything she could to prove to herself she was still there with him. Every new hold she had on him felt like another clutch of guilt bearing at his knotted stomach. The morphine drip of shell shock had begun to fade and chip away. Clawed to pieces by the daggers of sharp mourning that broke his haze with every whimper Oralie managed into his shoulder. He knew even in the pathetic state he was in he couldn’t outrun his guilt forever. But he’d been hoping that he might for a bit longer. Selfish as it was,

“Oralie...”

He whispered after a moment. And was met with quiet. Quiet and trembling breaths. She’d become heavy against him, her grip gone slack, eyes finally falling to tearless rest. Good. He hadn’t been sure what he was going to say anyways. The lights echoed out again with another dry snapping sound and Bronte stood from the thicket of blankets at his ankles, propping Oralie’s head on a pillow before draping her in covers again, still hoping- desperately and undeservedly- that she had believed him.

He paced the length between his and Oralie’s office with more grace this time, aware now of what the lull to fall and fade and become nothing but memory was in truth.

Not escape from sorrow or grief, but from consequence.

Consequence for the person he’d become. For that he’d done to others... There would be no reckoning with Councillor Kenric. He was dead. No apologies or tears- though he would certainly be giving both in abundance regardless- would change that.

But Oralie wasn’t dead.

The rest of the council wasn’t dead.

Sophie wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t dead.

And to that end there were still plenty of consequences to face.

[lunadensmidnightprowl]

Let Trouble Lie - CH 2

𝕚 𝐃Ø𝔫'ⓣ   ςＡ𝐫€   𝐖𝕙αⓉ   ЎσǗ   Ŝᗩㄚ  ᗩภⓨ𝕄ｏ𝕣є   𝕋Ｈ𝐈s  𝒾Ｓ  爪Ў  𝐋ᶤ𝔽𝕖

✣●✣

My name is Mikaela, Mikaela Misjinx.  And yes, if you've figured it out by now, I am also Thinaire.  It sounds cool right?  Being able to turn invisible at the drop of a hat?  Well, it's not.  I'm cursed.

Maybe it would make more sense if I start from the beginning...

My family was small, just me, my mother, and my father, living on the outskirts of the city, doing anything we could to survive.  Sure, things were pretty bad now that I reflect on it, but it was happy.  I was 7 years old when the incident happened, a day were I was just grumpy and angry with everything, recently ticked off because it started to feel like my parents were smothering me.  Taking a walk by myself, I met a creepy old man coming out of woods, asking what I wanted the most, and what did I tell him?  I wished that I could become invisible.

That man was gone by the time I turned back and it seemed like the encounter never happened, so I went on back to where my family was camping for the night.  Only when I got there, calling out to my parents, they didn't respond.  Inside our little shelter lay their bodies, as if someone had just sucked their very souls from them.  "Maybe it's all a joke?" I had thought.  Begging and pleading for them to get up and talk to me, they never did because there was no pulse, they were dead.

At that moment I was so distraught that I hoped I would vanish right there, and I did.  I felt that something was different before I saw it.  Raising my hand to wave in front of my face, I saw nothing there but felt the air shift.  The rest of my body was the same, sightless but still retaining feeling.  I scuffled my feet, trying to raise dust and move the dirt, it worked, I was only invisible it seemed.

That was not what I meant!  I didn't actually want to be invisible!  Just for my parents to lay off the extra attention and let me live the most of my life.  At that moment, I wished hard to be seen again, that I wouldn't be invisible anymore.  That same weird feeling happened again, when I opened my eyes I was back to being visible.

"This is trippy," my mind said.  Once more I wished to be invisible, not even bothering to close my eyes this time as I watched myself fade away.  On and off I went, flipping like a lightswitch as I went between being seen and not.  It was all too weird, too specific, something like this didn't just happen, there was always a cause.

For awhile I thought, trying to figure out how I had gained such an ability not long after my parents had died.  What drew my attention was my encounter with that weird old man, he had asked what I wished for, then not much later it had happened.  But it wasn't really lucky that it did, there was a consequence, the death of two people had resulted from that wish.  It all clicked together.  When I had made it, my parents had become some sort of a sacrifice for the ability, it wasn't a free wish, it was more of a curse brought onto myself.

I had to live with the knowledge that I had killed my parents, though unintentionally so I wasn't all to blame, if anything it had been that man.  The curse hung over me, sobering me up so I could prepare to take care of myself.

For the next several years of my life after that one day when I was that 7 year old girl, I resulted to stealing just to stay alive.  Robbing places during akuma attacks when they started happening frequently brought in enough income to get me a more permanent shelter and food enough to live.  I never took more than what I needed and just a little extra to keep for longer stretches between attacks, trying to keep things as painless as possible for the store owners.

Lenny, or as I had called him when I was younger, Mr. Money Man was my pawn shop guy, never questioning how I acquired things and just handed over a reasonable amount of money for whatever I brought.  He knew I was Thinaire, but never sold me out, he knew what I was going through and decided to not give me anymore trouble.  Lenny was the closest thing to being my family.

Now having Ladybug and Chat Noir on my trail was not good, but I had to keep going.  If I didn't pilfer when I got the opportunity, things would go downhill fast for me.  I didn't bring in enough to buy a phone, or any other device, so I sometimes used the public computers in the library to check for news, especially when it came to me.

Apparently the hero duo had made an announcement over the website, the Ladyblog, that they were working on something else besides fighting the akumas.  They said that there was a thief, some kind of burglar, that went by the name of Thinaire and was seen only during akuma attacks.  If anyone knew anything about Thinaire, motive, location, anything at all, were advised to set up a meeting with the bug and cat through the Ladyblog.

There were many comments on that announcement, most of them were theories and rumors about Thinaire, some simply outlandish.  One said they was working for Hawk Moth based on their appearances, another said they were positive that Thinaire lived in the sewers.

I huffed at all of them, not one was remotely true in the slightest.

✣●✣

"Ya better be careful hun," Lenny murmured to me when it was just us left in the pawn shop, "If ya not, dem heroes are gonna catch ya."

"Believe me, I'm trying," I muttered back, heaving the rest of the load of stolen jewelry from the recent akuma onto the counter.

"Start trying harder, dat one little mistake gotcha name all over da net.  People are and will be scouting for ya all da time during attacks," Lenny held up one of the bracelets, eyeing it with his little magnifying glass.  "Well ain't this one just a beaut, surprised they made it so easy for ya to get it."

I rolled my eyes, "None of it's easy to get these days."

He shook his head, "Miky, ya just got to power through all dis media stuff, lay low and people'll forgetta boutchu.  Maybe lay off da next attack?"

Pressing my hands flat against the glass countertop I leaned forward, almost growling, "I can't damn well do that, now can I?  You of all people should know that."

"It was just a suggestion," Lenny said, inspecting the next piece, "Keep going out when people are hunting you is risky is what I'm saying.

Sighing, I leaned up against the countertop, occasionally looking at the items on display under the glass.  "I'll take my chances.  Pretty much the least I can do after that incident."

The man nodded in silent understanding, not wanting the emotional outlash if he mentioned anything specific about that incident.  He just went about his business in silence, moving quickly so I could go home.

"Here ya are," he slid the stack of bills across the counter to me, putting away the jewelry, "Take care of ya self Mikaela.  No doubt I'll be seeing ya soon."

"Thanks Lenny," I said, a small smile on my face, "You probably will."  With the money in the backpack hanging from my shoulders, I stepped out of the pawn shop into the cool night air, walking down the sidewalk back to my small place.

✣●✣

There's only so much I can afford with what I do, therefore my apartment was really small, on the edge of a somewhat good neighborhood and a somewhat dingy one.  You had to be careful in the area at night, always alert for someone intent on causing harm, but I didn't worry.  I knew I was light on my feet and evasive, able to escape almost anybody's clutches if it came to it.

I went up the steps at the front of the apartment building and down the hall to the left of the lobby.  Tarnished metal letters and numbers for apartment 2D were nailed to the door above the peephole, the plain white door hosting several scuff marks.  Putting my key in the lock, I opened the door and walked into the room with green threadbare carpet, being greeted by my cat.

The building had no rules against pets, the owners didn't seem to care as long as the rent was paid on time, so I had adopted the stray I found a year ago.  It was a ginger she cat with ice blue eyes, I had named her Clover, hoping she would some luck to my name.  Clover was always there for me when I needed her, it seemed like she had a sixth sense for it, becoming the fluffy purring machine that really helped.

Most of my days were just me and Clover, sometimes we went outside when the sun was shining, but most of the time we stayed inside, trying not to be bored to death.  That plethora of free time did give me time to train my cat, making sure she knew what she should do in certain situations.  If I told her to go home, she came back to wait in a hidden spot near the apartment until I came back.

Then there were times when Clover just stayed home and I went outside by myself, when attacks happened, the akumas could be dangerous and I didn't want to get her mixed up in that if I didn't have to.  Once the heroes started coming after me, the ginger cat stayed home at every attack, I just couldn't worry about her when I was trying to get away from them.  Now that citizens were looking out for me too, I couldn't have them connect Mikaela and Thinaire through Clover either.

But avoiding people for the most part was the most effective at keeping my identity secret, I wasn't interested in the public, and for the most part the public wasn't interested in me.  Like Lenny said, each passing day without an appearance of Thinaire lowered the interest in the character, people not being on as high of an alert.  Whether or not that was happening, an akuma attack in the future was inevitable.

[children-of-the-star]

You're an akademiya body guard right? I'm sure I've seen you around, I work there as well! I'm a scholar, working as Sumeru's rep. Plus, I see you around the sages a lot.

-🪷

// For Adelia

…

I see you followed me.

Why? You seem to be a…fashion model. We have nothing in common.

I prefer to be straight to the point.

I am Naila. Although you already knew that.

-@knowledge-of-the-blind-forest

oh please! you don't know, we could have much in common. .. And I did, I'm Adelia, but thats known across our globe, I'm sure we could get along.

-🪷

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Prompts with boxes around them have been taken. Highlighted prompts have been written.

Death of a Bachelor

Summary: Prisoners set in an unfair game, Logan and Remus plan to both come out alive.

Warnings: major character death, blood, violence (If there are others you notice need tagged please let me know)

Prompt: Deadly Game and Doesn't Realize They've Been Injured Combo (Only one is marked off the card as per BTHB rules)

Ships: Intrulogical, Logan x Remus

wc: 2496

AO3 link!

@warcraftedtardis​

Remus was numb as they strapped him into the armor, poorly made with an even poorer fit but with little he could do about it in the situation he was in. He glanced over subtlety so as to not attract the guards attention, the man across from him offering a grim barely there smile.

Make that the situation they were both in.

He winced as he was shoved into line behind the other, taking comfort in the others presence even if they couldn't speak. Up against the wall as they were he waited until no one was looking and reached forward, brushing fingertips with the darker haired man. Logan reached back to grab at him quickly, offering a tight squeeze before letting go. That was all Remus needed. They would get through this. They would win and they’d be alright and taken care of until the next tournament. Guards didn’t care what anyone did in a shared cell as long as it didn’t effect their fighting and Remus was definitely counting on cuddles and stories after this.

An alarm sounded outside and the crowd cheered as another fight began. Idly he wondered what weapons the prisoners had chosen. You were only allowed one, prisoner against prisoner until one died and left one less mouth to feed in the system and left thousands entertained. A mockery of the ancient gladiator tournaments turned to keep jail cells empty and offer a small chance bag freedom. Your crime didn’t matter here. Only your skill. A deadly game set to leave a bloodstain on the tragedy human history was becoming, setting you free with fake honor and a grudge against the barbaracy of society.

The crowd cheered again as a winner was declared, alarm sounding for the next two contestants. The line moved forward as a slashed and bloodied woman stumbled through the door, adding together stains on the floor and glaring at anyone who dared even peek at the state she was in. She was hustled away quickly to be taken care of and thrown back in a cell to heal. Logan tensed in front of him but another brush of hands let him relax slightly. Everything was fine.

A man stood out from the line suddenly, looking the guards straight in the eye before rushing them head on. Remus' ears rang before the bullet wound in the mans head registered and he sucked in a quick breath. The body was left there, cold eyes staring sightless as a challenging warning to anyone else that might think of going the route of stupidity. There was at least one everyday.

"Remus." Logan whimpered quietly.

He turned his head to look at Logan in confusion, the other nodding to the lines order. The mans spot was already filled by another moving up and the guards weren't rearranging them. The pairs were different now.

Remus would now be paired with Logan.

Ice ran through his veins as the line moved forward with every battle. Every alarm sent another wave of unwanted thoughts pounding against his brain. Every winner that stumbled through the door brought another image of a dead Logan or Remus being dragged out another. He couldn't bring himself to speak as they were shoved towards the weapons rack, both choosing simple swords as they gave each other panicked looks through the crowds demanding cheers. Simple refined weapons for a quick painless death. Remus winced at the thought.

The guard waited for them by the door, thankfully not looking as Logan turned to him. "Remus listen to me if we hold out and fight for long enough they might get bored and declare a tie. They've done it before and since we've already proven before that we're decent fighters they may do it again."

The alarm sounded and Remus shot panicked eyes to the guard heading their way. Snapping back to Logan he sucked in as much air as he could to calm his shaking form.

"Do you understand Remus?"

"I-"

"What the hell are you doing? Get over to the door!" The guard laid a hand on his belt, prompting them both to hurry towards the door. Remus gave Logan a determined nod before pushing the door open letting blinding sunlight stream in.

The feild was a little less than the length of the average football field, grass well kept despite its constant carnage. The stands rose up as high as a 10 story building easily, maybe even a bit higher; a huge screen sat on the far end up high enough so that people could see and bet on the prisoners, the smaller screens in front of them allowing them to see as the fight went on with added updates in between. The screen zoomed in on their faces, both white as snow as they stepped carefully forward to the starting positions. Remus gazed at Logan across from him, the shorter man looking smaller and more fragile than Remus had ever seen him. Their swords were gripped tightly in their fists, the shouting and jeering of the crowd fading out until it was just the two of them. Their chests were heaving and faces twisting though they hadn't even started yet, white knuckled and weak knees with apprehension. The grass between them seemed to stretch for miles yet it may as well have only been an inch for all the details Remus could pick out. He saw how Logan’s freckles stood out proudly against his blood drained face. Saw the way his lip quivered and jaw worked as if he had his inner cheek caught in his teeth. Watery brown eyes met his own as he took a sick sort of comfort in knowing Logan was just as terrified as he was.

The alarm sounding snapped him back for only a brief moment, crowd practically roaring as they ran towards each other.

---

Remus giggled madly as he ran towards his friend, backpack slipping off his shoulders and falling behind as Logan caught him up in a squirming mess of a hug.

"Hi, Lo!" As he squeezed his favorite person in the world the other groaned in mock annoyance, hugging him back all the same. Logan was in second grade while Remus was in kindergarten which made the hours spent in school especially lonely for the hyperactive younger child. Logan swung Remus around to grab his bookbag and placed their fingers together carefully to walk home, Remus carefully tucked at his side on the inside of the sidewalk as they both babbled on about their days. Remus had gotten a gold star on his latest art project while Logan was at the top of his class in the reading assignments. Their arms swung between them, oblivious of everything else outside of their comfortable bubble.

---

Remus' arm swung down and to the side, jumping back to avoid a wide swipe by the others sword. Remus bit his lip as he jabbed at the air a centimeter from Logan's face and winced when it came close to slicing off an ear.

---

"It'll be fine I promise." Logan held his hand comfortingly while Remus squirmed in the chair. "You won't even feel it."

The tattoo artist had all the tools laid in front of her, antiseptic at the ready. "You sure this is what you want kid?"

"Yes!" Remus eyes gleamed with nervous excitement as he squeezed Logan's hand, getting an immediate answering squeeze back. His ears were swabbed and he caught Logan's eyes as the needle was pushed through, hardly able to contain his bouncing excitement.

Later as Logan admired the work at a cafe down the street, he laughed a little to himself. "Your parents are going to be so pissed at you."

"I'm 14. What are they gonna do?"

Ground him without phone privileges for a month it turned out. Logan didnt believe him when he said it was worth it, clutching his own ears in horror.

---

Alternating between stabbing offensively and slicing defensively they danced around the field in a carefully improvised dance, eyes locked in desperation and worry. Remus' sword arm was already numbing from the constant clashing but he couldn't let his concentration waver. A misplaced backstep nearly sent him to the ground, crouching low to recover his balance before rolling quickly out of the way of a powerful downward strike.

---

"Remus!" The front of his shirt was caught as he was yanked forward, Logan tipping backwards and letting him fall on top of him with only a slight groan.

Remus huffed against his chest and propped his chin on his hands, palms flat against the others chest. Logan eyes him carefully, looking for any sign of injury. Finding none he breathed out a sigh of relief and gently whapped him upside the head.

"Idiot." He declared fondly.

"Your idiot." Remus corrected.

"I regret ever meeting you if only because you decided dancing on top of an apartment building was a good idea."

"But you can see the stars up here."

"You aren't even looking at them."

Remus locked eyes with him, smiling softly at the way the moonlight caught Logan's eyes, making them practically glow with the mirth that was already there. "Yes I am."

Logan sputtered and flushed darkly, tightening his hands around Remus' waist. Grinning in victory, Remus snuggled in further into the warm safety.

---

Remus heart skipped a beat as he nearly knocked the sword from Logan's hands, panic flashing in his eyes as he fumbled for a second. Feigning a stumble he let him recover, covering it with a close swipe that was easily covered.

---

Logan stumbled forward in his haste to get into the house, nearly dropping the stack of boxes in the process. He looked up gratefully as Remus braced his hand against the top ones to keep them from falling, nodding gratefully as he recovered.

"So this is it." Dumping his own stack in the living room he looked around at their new home. A nice trailer just big enough for two people in a quiet neighborhood with a park just down the road. Logan stepped beside him and took his hand, squeezing it tightly before bringing it to his lips with a soft smile.

"This is everything." Logan answered quietly, adoration so clear in his tone that Remus could think of nothing better to do than lean forward, capturing his boyfriends lips in the peace of their fresh start.

---

They were both tiring, movements slowing down dangerously but still they fought. Eyes locking along with their swords as their feet slid on blood soaked grass and their ears rang with the crowds jeering. Metal found metal again and again as Remus became slightly more aggressive in his delivery, driving Logan back inch by careful inch.

---

They were both tired, Logan slumped in Remus' lap as he gently carded through his sweaty locks. A guard slammed into the door but neither flinched. No one cared. No one had the energy to. Silent tears tracked down the shorter mans face as Remus tried to gently bring him back to reality. Logan had done the same with him after his own first kill and he'd be damned if he didn't do the same.

"I killed him." Remus froze as Logan spoke his first words in days, quickly resuming his careful touches.

"No. They killed him. They put you on that field to see if you survived and you did."

"I could have-"

"No you couldn't." Remus cut him off with an accompanying scratch to the scalp. "You go out there and its kill or be killed. You aren't a monster Lo."

---

Remus froze as he drew back his blade, the tip slick with blood that ran down its length and stained his fingers. He brought it up quickly as Logan swung down again, switching to careful defense even as shock racked his body.

"Logan-"

Sweat dripped down the others face mixing with the tears that had been falling since the start. Muscles strained and tendons twisted in his valiant attempt to keep moving. Remus saw none of this as his eyes were locked onto the spreading stain on the others shirt, chest plate having done nothing to protect him from the clumsy jab to the abdomen Logan hadnt ducked away from in time.

"Logan!"

Still they fought, legs stumbling and movements becoming clumsier by the minute. The blades flashed in the late morning sun that rose above the stands to shine light on the carnage below. Blocking another blow, he wrenched the sword to the side and knocked Logan’s out of his hands. Dropping his own Remus reached out desperately.

"Logan." He choked on a sob as the other finally stopped moving, grimacing as he looked down and brought a hand to his stomach.

"Oh."

Remus didn't care about the crowd yelling. He didn't care whether or not the guards would be coming. He didn't care what the moderators caught on their stupid screens. Logan was in his arms and on his lap and bleeding and reaching for him and crying in sobs that caught painfully as his breath hitched in desperate gasps.

Remus caught the grasping fingers tightly in his own and held on for all he was worth, his sole focus on Logan’s eyes and Logan touch and trying to stop Logan from bleeding out and Logan Logan Logan

"I didn't mean to, oh god no please." Remus words bordered on hysterical wails as he brought the rapidly cooling fingers to his cheek. "I'm so sorry I'm so so sorry Logan you can't-"

"I love you." His breath caught as Logan focused on him for only a second before his eyes began glazing over. "I love you so much, Remus."

"Logan." Clutching at him tighter he began rocking slightly, pressing down insistently on the wound even as he felt the blood rush out regardless. The hand against his cheek relaxed as Logan's entire body went limp, eyes void of the stars he loved so dearly. "Logan? No no no no no Logan please!"

He clutched at the body even as he was jerked away, screaming at the top of his lungs as Logan was ripped away from him. Grass and dirt slipped from his blood soaked hands as he tried to claw his way back, the other being dragged by his leg in the opposite direction. To be declared dead and disposed of. To clear the field for the next game. To tick one more number off their list.

No one spared him a second glance as he was dragged past the line and down the halls. Thrown into his cell where stars were scratched carefully on the ceiling and only one bed was ever used. His wails echoed unnaturally in the emptier space, cold unforgiving walls slamming his sorrow back into him tenfold and he curled into himself and wept.

Blood stained his hands hours after it cooled, the only thing he had left of the man he had loved.

[drakengaze]

The Rise of Gatlefain

                 -Makotoila-

“You’re telling me she’s a spell, Toriya?” The low hiss from the advisor of the clan, Makotoila, spoke over the Chief and the babe she cradled close upon her chest. His golden dreads fell down his ebony back, the beads in them rattling as he anxiously swayed his weight from hindheel to padded toe..

“She is, yes. An alliance between Drakengaze and the Dawn Seat. Caran lent his prowess in weaving the magic I exhausted. She is a bloodless child.” The deep blue gaze of the proud Chief slid to study her Advisor, curious of his concerns. Or challenging them by her stiff gaze. “She will be called Gatlefain, and we will raise her among our people as a leader.”

There was a deep pause in the pale yellow eyes of the Advisor. He had made many hard choices working with his Chief, and he was highly regarded within the elders of Drakengaze. He knew that Toriya had ruled by the sheer strength of her Authority over the others in the clan, her spark of wisdom and her brute strength lending her a unique charm over her assortment of warriors and wandering feral half-gods and witches. He had never seen her make such a gamble in his decades at her side, never witnessed another dragonblooded creature sacrifice all of their own magic to create a progeny. But after her time in the ice and the decimation of the old clan, he couldn’t call himself surprised that she would want to relieve herself of leadership over the new. “She will be called Gatlefain, my Lady. I will announce her birth to the clans.”

And with that he left the Lady and her daughter in their quarters, walking swiftly on his claw ended feet and swaying his tufted tail in aggravation behind him. How would he announce the daughter? What could he call such an abomination of creation? The Chief had created a life, a child, both with and without her womb. He knew the dark nature of the magic that had brought the Gatlefain to their world, knew that few among the clans were old enough to even know what the word meant. He knew the nature of the gamble, and he knew that Toriya wouldn’t have made such a bet if the Council of Magi, the Dawn Seat, had not grown so corrupt and powerful under her waning ability to lead. The ice had taxed Toriya beyond the limits of her fortitudes, and though they had brought her body back from the eternal blizzard it had been clear to him and the other elders that much of her mind had remained behind. Even so, they’d done their best to structure and reign over the people that relied on their land to live. 

“You’re so deep in thought, Mako.” A flicker of flame whispered past his ear, and the heavily robed Seer Tenphris padded up to his side, her short frame always so subtle and quiet he hadn’t noticed her to greet amidst his worrying. “Guide me to the Maker’s Guild, will you? We can talk along the way.”

“I know you hardly need my help, Lady Tenphris.” His voice came out lighter than usual, as always for her. He saw how her attendant, the Scholar Tetai, bristled quietly at her flank for the tone. But that, as usual, didn’t deter him from gently taking the Lady’s hand over his palm and falling into step with her. 

Her shawl covered her sightless eyes, but the grin that teased on her lips was visible to Mako as they walked the grassy path away from the Grand House Drakengaze, bearing toward the marketplace. “Perhaps I do not, but you seem troubled my friend. Tell me what irks you?”

“Toriya has made a choice, as usual. It will affect all of the clans, and all of our lives. I’m not yet certain how.” He worded it so carefully, mindful not to enact treason in the company of Tetai. “I’m uncertain, Lady Tenphris, what is coming.”

“A new age, a new way. Our society is going to reshape itself under this choice. We will be little more than leaves on this wind of change.” She spoke gently, though Makotoila knew the tone in her voice was fearful. She saw what was coming, and his own hesitations confirmed something she didn’t like either. His posture was tighter as they walked on quietly for a few steps, the hardiest of the head Clan, they both were. But they felt fear deep and dire in their bones. 

“Yes, that is what I feel too, Lady Seer. We have been made quite strangely powerless, and we must see the shape that makes of our lives. The beginning is now, I must announce the nature of the choice to the others.” Trepidation working through his tone, he hated having to speak in codes with Tenphris, but they both knew Tetai’s nature. Anything that could be perceived as weakness or doubt in the Elders of Drakengaze would find its way to the Dawn Seat through his mouth. Though Tenphris was an invaluable asset within the Dawn Seat herself; keeping Drakengaze from falling utterly into upheaval with her intuitive codes; the council had appointed her a ‘Knight’ to insure she didn’t speak too openly about their inner workings. It only helped that Tetai and Makotoila both dearly loved Tenphris. Though she made virtuously clear which of them she cared for with little regard the bristling and jealousy of the opposite. 

“We will see the end of this change, Lord Advisor. And we will see peace in the conclusions that come.” The Seer assured her Clanmate softly, ever so gently touching her palm to his as they came to the entrance of the Marketplace. “Here we must part, I have scrolls to purchase before I announce your appointment with the Dawn Seat for this evening. May your announcements go well. Come, Tetai, I require your eyes.”

The Lord advisor closed his fingers around his palm, watching the Seer and her Attendant part from him with as impartial an expression as he could muster. When they were vanished into the bustling crowd of visitors he turned his focus away from the main Market, treading on toward the Guildmaster’s hut. A brief knock before he strolled in, inserting himself into an argument between the Elder hunters Rhianyd and Enef at the desk.

[the-blue-fairie]

Skyclad

Inspired by @nudistrachelberry

Overwhelmed by her situation after finding Luke, Rey seeks peace through meditation and introspection.

On Jakku, the elements were her enemy and so Rey armored herself against them.

She learned from a young age how the sun could sear the flesh, how the winds could tear it, how the sands could sting.

She saw scavengers with backs of mottled purple, their skin stripped away as though by a tyrant’s bloody scourge.

Yet, the tyrant was not some overlord. It was the planet itself. Stories of the emperor, his rise and fall, of the Republic’s spires, of any masters from on high were fairy tales.

Not even Unkar Plutt was as fearsome as Jakku. Unkar Plutt was a creature of meat and bone. You knew what was within his power, you didn’t want to cross him or incur his anger, but he was not the heat of the day. He was not the ice of the night. He was not the shifting sands that could suck you down and leave you half-buried like the hulks you sought to scavenge.

The wrath of Unkar Plutt was terrible, but Rey felt more terror the first time she saw a sandstorm swallow an encampment whole.

She was tiny then. She did not see much. An old woman shielded her eyes. Still, she remembered flashes. The sand like a great wave, towering to heaven, on the horizon. The sounds of fumbling, scrambling. No screams. She did not remember screams. The sand engulfed everything too fast for screams, it must have. She remembered the sting of sand tumbling from the cowl the old woman wrapped around her. Remembered the feeling of keeping her eyes clenched shut, lest the grains of sand burrow in their corners…

Unkar Plutt did not like to be argued with, but it was possible to argue with him. Even if the consequences were brutal, it was possible.

You could not argue with Jakku.

Jakku had no mind to reason with, no beating heart to move. It simply was, in all its sightless, lifeless barbarity.

That was what Rey taught herself. And so, she fitted herself to fight against an implacable enemy.

She bound her body tightly with wrappings to keep out the sun and sand. She swathed herself like an already mummified husk. One tear in the wrappings and Rey knew the result. Her eyes took in the livid scars and blotches on other scavengers’ skin, the bleeding welts and blisters. She saw the way Jakku ate you to the bone if you let it.

Rey would not let it.

She shrouded herself, hooded herself, gloved herself.

Her goggles, she fashioned from an old stormtrooper helmet.

These garments were her weapons against the elements, weapons as formidable as her quarterstaff.

On Jakku, she could never conceive of nature as anything but hostile.

Leaving that planet opened her eyes.

The stars sprawled before her, celestial marvels.

The lush green of Takodana flooded her view. It was almost beyond her imagining, a world you did not need to arm yourself against.

It was there Rey heard the call first, felt the vision wheeling around her – but she resisted then. She threw down Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber and fled. She had built walls around herself on Jakku. She had bound herself tight so that she might let nothing in.

Strength had always come from masks, from shields, from armor of cloth that always kept the world at bay.

Yet, another form of strength presented itself to her, a Force beyond her comprehension. It sought to break down her defenses, to flow through her, but it was not like the forces with which she had so long waged war.

It was cool and placid as the surface of a lake, soothing as the shade of green trees.

When she opened her heart to it for the first time, she felt that.

The snow was cold, the earth shattering around her when Rey drew Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber to her hands.

Yet, when she shut her eyes and felt, she felt as she never had before.

“The belonging you seek is not behind you… It is ahead…” Maz Kanata had said.

The past clung to her like her clothing. She cocooned herself in the past for the same reason she wrapped gauze around her face in the desert. For protection. Memories wound around her like cloth over her body, like the wrappings over her mouth, her head. Memories of a small child gazing up at the blue, screaming, “Come back!” Memories as coarse and rough as the feeling of the mask against her face when she scavenged through the broken monstrosities on Jakku. Like the mask, the memories were uncomfortable. But like the mask, they shielded her.  

You already know the truth… Whomever you’re waiting for on Jakku, they’re never coming back…

The memories gave her a reason to stay.

Hope for her family…

They would come back for her…

She had to wait…

Years of waiting…

Like the mask, the memories shielded her from what she dared not face.

Or did they suffocate her?

All those years…

(Barely able to breathe…)

Waiting…

(The heat of her breath against the cloth of a mask…)

Immobile…

(The mask protects you from the sand, but there is so much more than the sand…)

Unable to rise from the dust…

(What good is protection if…)

Never coming back…

(…it protects you from all that you can be?)

Breathe. Just breathe. Reach out with your feelings. What do you see?

Now she was here, on this island, the birthplace of the Jedi Order. Its trees were as green as the trees she had seen on Takodana. Its rocks were as old as any. The rocks and trees were far older than the ruins scattered amongst them. The Jedi must have known this when they built their first temple. Nevertheless, it was the temple that made the air there seem heavy with history, the ruins that entangled with the green and became one with it, the ruins that the Caretakers sought to guard for they carried a sense of sacredness.

She felt the Force within her, burning and persistent, like the flow of lava over a volcano’s black slopes.

Yet, she could not partake in the sacredness. Though something stirred inside her, she could do little more than give it name. Skywalker refused to teach her more. She had come so far only to be met at the end by the stubbornness of an old man.

Now she was alone in darkness, in the midst of a storm. Somewhere, Skywalker was holed up in his hovel. She did not know where. She had stormed away in frustration and, looking back, she realized she had lost sight of the flicker of fire at his window.

She almost wanted to scream.

The island was screaming around her already. The rain roared as it pelted her ceaselessly. The sea bellowed as its grey waves crashed upon the rocks. The wind shrieked in her ears and kept on shrieking. Porgs squawked from their nests. From elsewhere, the cries of other beasts of the isle rang in chorus.

She trampled through the grass, over rocks. Where was she going?

Was she wandering blind?

No, not blind, but…

Exhausted.

(She had seen so much.)

She pushed on through the rain.

(Seen families wither and die on Jakku.)

Upward, she felt herself moving upward.

(Seen Han Solo’s body tumbling, lifeless, into the abyss. Lifeless. Bereft of all that made him who he was…)

Her clothes hung heavy about her, soaked by the deluge.

(Seen Finn struck down.)

Heavy like her gear on Jakku. Weighing her down.

(We will see each other again. I promise.)

Heavy like memories. Heavy like responsibility. Heavy like disappointment. Like the shock of seeing a hero fallen from grace.

(Luke Skywalker. She had grown up hearing stories of his adventures.)

All this… weight…

(Her family, gone. Han Solo, gone. Luke Skywalker…)

She found herself tearing off the sopping rags clinging to her.

Tearing them off as she staggered upward, a great cliff rising before her.

Casting them behind her, casting them to the ground.

It felt surreal at first, standing nude on the edge of a cliff.  She was used to having some covering, some protection.

But this was not Jakku.

And, even on Jakku, some forms of protection merely shadowed her eyes, stifled her, kept her in place…

Nude, she stood upon the brink, gazing down at the whirling waves bristling with foam. The waves cascaded upon the rock of the cliffside below her, the rock that seemed indomitable but that let itself be worn away as it had always been worn away, as it always would be worn away…

Here was a place to scream, to cry out to the heavens.

But Rey did not scream.

Rey shut her eyes.

Water droplets splashed upon her body by the hundreds, but unencumbered by her garb, Rey did not feel a weight. She felt as smooth as sheer stone… as though she, like the rock face beneath her, might dissolve away…

Yet, this dissolution was not an annihilation.

Rey thought of something Luke had told her: “And this is the lesson. That Force does not belong to the Jedi. To say that if the Jedi die, the light dies, is vanity. Can you feel that?”  

He had spoken in bitterness, to discourage another generation of Jedi, but there was something beautiful that she now felt in his words, whether he realized that beauty or not – something that shone like rays of sunlight through the cracks in the walls of a darkened temple. She did not need Luke’s teaching simply to partake in the sacredness. She did not need the training to feel the exultation of the Light. The training was meant to hone one’s skills, to shape the unmolded clay… but there were so many ways to shape unmolded clay, each more wondrous and unique than the last.

What did it mean to be a Jedi? Did it mean the dogma, the rules and regulations, the strictures? No. It meant accepting the embrace of the Light.

The way of the Jedi could grow and change, change like the island rock reshaped by the waves. The dogma could be chipped away and washed out to sea. The structures set in place eons ago by those long dead could be worn down to the finest powder. As long as the Light remained, the Jedi remained.

The rock of the island had been reshaped for millennia. Worn down. Swept away. Built up. New rock took its place alongside the old. Caverns collapsed inward or were sculpted by the water. The coastline was always transforming and yet always was itself. The island did not die with change. It did not fall into disorder. Change was its natural order. It could be so with the Jedi, for it was vanity to think a change in the structure of a thing could dilute the essence of the Light. The Light was ever-guiding…

At the same time, the Light was ever-changing – like the island, like nature itself. She felt the Force within her, the Force that before had burbled in her chest like magma deep beneath the earth, that had burned like the spout of lava. It had cooled, but not congealed like lava into rock. No, it flowed through her still. Now its flow was like the river, rich with new-melted snow. The Force was like one of the raindrops sliding down her back. In the sky, it took one form. It was a droplet. But the instant it struck her shoulder it took a new form, gliding down her body in a shimmer of silver whilst remaining itself. Other raindrops took other forms, some clinging to her skin and slipping, some splintering like distant stars and glistening in their multiplicity. They were individual. They were a multitude. The Force, like them, was ever-shifting and transformative. It could not be circumscribed.

Trying to bind the Force to dogma was a fool’s errand. Even the temple on this island, the hallowed ruin, seemed a monument to hubris behind Rey’s closed eyes. It held wisdom, yes, but Rey felt a greater wisdom in the wind that beat down its walls, in the ooze that trickled into its cracks, in the moss that flourished on its broken remnants…

Through the darkness of her eyelids, Rey felt a flash of light. Sightless, she saw the pale lightning fork across the sky more clearly than with her eyes open. Then she heard the roll of thunder from afar, but there was no trembling in her heart. These things were like the sandstorms of Jakku, mighty and unyielding, but in meditation she understood they all had their place within the Force. Even the sandstorms of Jakku. The sandstorms swallowed up souls, but they were not evil. They were not the Darkness. Shadows grew in hearts and minds. Beings who sought to oppress the galaxy, they were evil. The First Order was evil. But the sands… were the sands. The Light shone over them the same way it did bodies rotting in the earth. Death and decay, in themselves, were not cruel. They were part of the great cycle…

(All things fall away, but nothing falls away.)

The island no longer screamed at her. Its myriad voices flowed together and yet it was not as if they all became one voice. Each voice retained its individuality, its uniqueness. From the howl of the wind to the reverberating thunder, from the groans of the thalla sirens on the rocks to the rumble of the serpents in the sea, from the cries of the birds to the weeping of the rain – no voice drowned out another. And yet they all came together in unity, in a haunting and harmonious song…

From her place on the edge of the precipice, Rey kept her eyes closed and listened.

***

When she awoke, the storm had passed.

The dawn was painting the clouds with rosy fingers. The suns had not yet crested the waves on the horizon. Still, their dim glow spread art across the firmament, art that met Rey’s eyes as they fluttered open.

She rose, taking in the pastel warmth surrounding her. The sea shone a pale crimson, its foam the softest pink. Rich plumes of red billowed above the surface of the waters. Turning her head, she saw her clothes strewn behind her like debris that had been tossed ashore.

She might have gathered up her garments, but she did not.

Instead, she kept on walking.

The suns rose higher, bathing the world in orange and gold. Their rays felt gentle on her skin.

There was a tranquility in being nude. Nude, she could feel things better. She felt the way the warmth of the suns mingled with the cool morning air. It felt pleasant. She felt the blades of grass bending beneath her feet. She felt the drizzle of water that dripped from arches of stone as she wandered under them. Stretching out her arm, she felt cold stone against her palm, felt its texture. There were so many small things, sensations, that she missed while wearing clothes. There were so many things too that she took for granted. She had felt the warmth of the suns every day since landing here, but now their warmth felt different as she let it wash all over her body. More special somehow. Transcendent. She felt blessed to have such lights in the sky. It was like she was coming to understand the world anew.

She found a green place in the valley and sat down. The grass tickled her buttocks. A few porgs waddled by. She smiled at them. They cooed in return. Some Caretakers passed her and wagged disapproving fingers at her, but she paid them no mind. The smile that spread across her face upon seeing the porgs spread into her heart. She fixed her gaze ahead, where the mountains glistened in a halo of gold.

She knew that in time she would have to pick up her clothes like clumps of brown seaweed and put them on again. But here and now, she focused on the serenity of things.

The Force was all around her.

[why-is-my-husband-like-this]

Ah! Finally. We'll be having boiled rice, daal curry, beef curry, and palak paneer, and carrot halwa for dessert....Maybe I should make more...

I miss my hubby 😢😖

[arathergrimreaper]

Went looking through my WIPs (i haven’t really touched them since college and with good reason) and found an interesting piece I might revisit someday while looking for another thing to share with ya’ll. Gonna put it under a readmore.

WARNING: allusions to rape under the cut. Sorry mobile users. I will also be tagging it as usual.

Possible excerpt from story concept titled Deana’s Inferno

Deana stepped down and yet another level materialized before them. She paused for a moment in shock. It looked to be a grand hall of some sort if the high ceiling and large rose windows bordering it were anything to go by. Details were difficult to make out, however, as everything, from the ceiling to the floor, was covered in thick layers of jagged white ice. Deana was surprised her sodden boots didn’t freeze to the floor the moment she stepped down from the final stair of the Pit.

Standing in the middle of the room was a tall, slender figure garbed entirely in white. A hood hid their face from view.

“So...that's Satan, huh?” Deana threw over her shoulder at Maria, who looked immensely uncomfortable, "he doesn't look so big and bad,"

The figure in white laughed at that. It had a woman's voice. Maria gripped Deana's arm.

“That is what many like to call me, yes, but I’m afraid you’re all wrong. I was once the most brightest star to shine," the figure in white spoke, not making a single move toward them.

“The Morningstar, yeah, we know that,” Deana replied, feeling gooseflesh raise on her bare arms, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with the hall they stood in. Maria's hand did not loosen either.

“Then you must also know why I hate you all,” Satan said in a low voice, almost a growl, and Deana shrugged Maria off. Clearing her throat, she asked, “What is this place?” Maybe if she could keep her (him?) talking, she could actually make it out of this whole thing alive.

“My prison,” Satan replied. Catching Deana’s confused look, she laughed again, a bitter, rusty sound, “What? Did you really expect me to rule from some grand dark palace after my fall from grace? No, no, Father would have never allowed for that. My title as ‘Prince of Darkness’ is entirely in name only. I am trapped here, just like the rest of you pathetic fools. Only I did not earn my place here because of the evil deeds you commit. I...am here because even now, in this dismal and frigid cell, I love,”

“ ‘Love’?” It was Deana’s turn to laugh, ignoring Maria's gesture for her to be quiet, “What does the devil know about love?”

It was apparently not the right thing to say, as one moment Satan was across the hall, and the next, she towered over Deana. Her hood had blown back to reveal yards of singed flaxen hair and a charred, eyeless face, which snarled a mere few inches away from Deana’s, “More than any of you foul, ungrateful heathens. I died for Him--for the love He had for me first.”

Deana lost her footing and fell back onto the floor, wincing at the smack of her shoulder against the ice. She rolled back and onto her feet again, ready to defend herself or run (where could she go, really?), but Satan was standing at her original spot once more, hood no longer in place and a defeated set to her shoulders.

“He was ours first,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “we loved him more than anything, but we were not enough. Don’t you see? He picked you.”

Tears welled from the empty sockets of her eyes and rolled down her long and leathery chin. Upon dropping to the floor, they splashed up again and formed new spikes of ice. Deana couldn’t help the twist of guilt in her gut.

“You rebelled,” she said, more to convince herself than the pathetic creature before her, “you deserve to be here,”

“Ah,” Satan chided, holding up a clawed finger and fixing her sightless gaze on Deana once more, “but didn’t you as well? When you swallowed all of that poison down into your belly? When you drowned yourself in spirits just to rid your mind of the one who hurt you so badly you could not sleep?”

“Shut up,” the memories of that night at the barracks came creeping into Deana’s vision as Satan spoke and her stomach rolled for an entirely different reason.

“Those hands creeping around your pretty little throat to keep you quiet whilst he took what he wanted?”

“Shut up!” Deana screamed, taking a couple steps forward.

“He had you on your back, crying like scared little girl you are. So lost and alone after that you had nowhere else to turn than—“

“I said,” tears were pooling in her eyes already, “shut up!”

“You and I are very much alike,” Satan said, after a moment of tense silence in which only Deana’s halting breaths could be heard, “both left to rot after our usefulness ended and both seen as nothing truly special by those who claim to love us. If I possessed the ability to create life, I would hope to have a daughter like you, little Deana.”

Deana barely flinched when Satan appeared in front of her again, but she felt Maria's warm hand come to rest on her back, “So much bitterness lies in your heart, but you are capable of so much more. That is why I believe He has always preferred you to us: You are far easier to break. You are like toys cast aside by a careless child. He likes breaking things, I have noticed.”

Satan reached out one of her claws to catch Deana's tear as it fell and brought it to the tip of her gray tongue, which protruded from in between the rows and rows of saw-edged teeth lining her lipless maw.

"Poor little wretch," she sighed, drawing the shriveled appendage back, and Deana's eyes watered anew as the scent of burning flesh assaulted her nose.

[windfall-fr-blog]

HALLA

          SIT, BE SILENT AND LISTEN TO THE BONES.                             tongues are treacherous, they twist and lie.

Halla's red eyes are sightless, and yet that has never hindered her. She wanders the lands at the edge of the clan's territory, where the permafrost has begun to thaw. Sensitive, deft paws seek out bones released from the retreating ice, each ancient treasure held to her snout, murmured to in prayer, and then placed gently in her satchel until she can return to the lair. Her abode, like all the rest, is a cave hewn of ice, the blues and whites of endless winter carved by dragonfire into the side of the great, timeless glacier that floats upon a cold and unforgiving sea. Blind Halla, the clanmates know, is a seer; the bones she brings back to hang from the ceiling of her cave clink against one another, a soft, eerie music. They tell her things - she is never wrong in her fortunes. She does not fight. Of all the dragons to ever make their home under Khaegris' leadership, she is the only one pardoned from that ironclad rule. She guides; and the clan's vicious matriarch listens, even when she does not like what she hears.

     BONES ARE CAPABLE OF NO DECEPTION;      for what reason do the dead have to lie to the living?

Seer, speaks to ancients Build: noncombatant Mates: nonbreeding Possessions: Crown of bones, Skeletal Chimes, Sanddune Rags, White Birdskull legband, Greybeak Reaper, Unnatural Leg Bones, Bonebound Chest, Weathered Grimoire Gene Plan: Peregrine -> safari

This problem daughter is why I became a lore clan. I saw her markings and I just knew she had a story to tell. She was sold without lore, with her name. Her parents have unrelated lore. 

[rospeaks]

empty space

rating: g ; ~1200 words ; graves-centric, graves/credence ; post-movie ; vague crossover with petshop of horrors

The rules are simple. Kill the monster, or it will eat your heart, and all that will be left is the empty space inside you.

Graves doesn’t know what to do with himself after he comes back to the office. Grindelwald has left his little touches everywhere. Books in his home are in different places. The files in his desk drawers are out of order. There’s a divot in a cushion at the other end of the sofa. When Graves sits in his usual spot, it feels almost like Grindelwald is sitting next to him -- haunting him in his own home, in the empty space where another man should be.

There’s a peeling bit of wallpaper that’s in his line of sight whenever he looks up from his book. No number of sticking charms will keep it down, and Graves can hear it -- the small ticking sounds as each piece of glue comes undone. He can’t help imagining thin, bony fingers with long nails scratching at the underside of the plaster, undoing the charm’s work with wicked dedication. It drives him to madness.

So Graves makes do with abandoning his home altogether -- abandoning the shadowy corners of his living room, of his kitchen, of his bedroom, from which dark whispers slip toward him in the cracks in the floor. If he’s going to be sleepless, he figures, he might as well do it where Grindelwald’s memory won’t find him.

He paces the streets of New York instead of the hall of his home. Night after night, meandering through dark alleys and lanes lit by a few incandescent street lamps. He walks past buildings he’s never seen before, past people he will never remember as more than a shadowy figure on the opposite walk, past houses and complexes and factories.

He stops for a smoke on a corner near what might be Lower Manhattan. He can’t be sure, hasn’t been keeping track, and the street signs are too poorly lit to read. Frankly, he doesn’t care.

But the reason he thinks it’s the Lower East Side is because he’s looking at a distinctly Chinese store front. It’s doors are open, which is unusual enough, but there’s no sign saying that they’re welcoming customers. It’s just a square, gaping maw of a doorway, a void that beckons to him with the exotic tease of incense and the sound of small bells tinkling in a breeze.

He’s in the shop without being aware of a single step, and soon, Graves is wrapped in the soft warmth of small gas lanterns. The incense is stronger now, almost stinging his nostrils. There are cages all around the room, hung up high and set down low. A room divider stands tall near the back, its wax paper painted with foreign dancers wrapped in silks -- their faces backlit by flame.

“How unusual,” purrs a voice from behind the divider. “I don’t usually get one of your kind here.”

A man -- or a woman, Graves has a hard time telling, and honestly the clothes are no help -- steps out and looks Graves over with mismatched gold and violet eyes and a thin-lipped smirk.

“My kind?” Graves asks.

“Magic folk,” they say. “A wizard.” They hold up a hand when Graves raises his wand. “You can try taking my memories if you like, but it won’t make much difference in the end. You’ll keep coming back until you get what you need.”

Graves grits his teeth. “And what is it that you think I need?”

Their smirk stretches into an outright grin, and they gesture expansively to the shop around them. “I sell many things here. A companion, perhaps? A pet to lighten up the dark spaces in your life?”

He isn’t sure what makes him lower his wand, but he does. He isn’t sure what drives him to search the shop either, but he does that too. The shop owner doesn’t seem bothered by Graves diving into the depths of the shop on his own. They simply linger nearby, always within eyesight but never quite hovering. The halls get deeper and the doors get taller. This place must be magic; it must be. Touching the walls is like touching a heart. They hum with life, with secrets, with desires lurking between the studs. He can hear the ocean behind one door, the whistle of a strong wind behind another. He can smell the jungle, the desert, the crisp mountain air, and then--

Graves stops.

His hand is on the knob of a small door. Rickety, wooden, and plain; the knob a blemished brass that rests like ice against his palm. The door behind it is dark, lit only by a glowing orb of light. Graves can see the arches of a large golden cage, the thick lock, a nest of pillows across the cage bottom. Graves approaches swiftly, drawn in by the sound of soft tears and the sight of a small hand peeking through the bars of the cage.

As soon as he sees whats in the cage, he turns accusingly toward the shop owner. “A human!” he hisses. “You can’t--”

“Look closer, if you please,” the shop owner says very calmly. They lift the shining orb slightly higher, revealing how the boy’s pale torso melts into shadowy darkness, a feathered body of inky black that whispers as it writhes and twists against the confines of the cage.

Not a boy then, Graves thinks, but a creature.

The owner smiles. “You see, I only sell pets here.”

“His face,” Graves says.

The owner reaches between the bars and cards his fingers gently through the creature’s hair -- which Graves realizes now has feathers between the strands. The creature stirs to wakefulness and opens eyes of pearlescent white. They glitter like stars in the darkness and are possibly sightless. Despite those eyes, the creature’s face is eerily similar to that of Credence Barebone -- the cut of his jaw, the angle of his cheeks, that plush and generous mouth.

“What is he?” Graves asks.

“A type of feathered serpent, very rare,” the owner says. “I found him in the streets a few weeks ago, barely a scrap of him left. As you can tell, he’s grown quite a lot since then.”

Indeed he has. When the owner lifts the ball of light even higher, Graves can just make out what be ten feet of coiled length, short black feathers overlaying one another and reflecting a deep deep green. It hardly seems important when Graves can’t tear his eyes away from the serpent’s face. Graves puts his hand between the bars, lets the snake brush his cool cheeks against Graves’ knuckles, lets him flicker a thin forked tongue against his wrist.

“Are you interested in purchasing him?” the owner asks.

“Yes,” Graves breathes.

He’ll have to rearrange some of his rooms and he might never be able to tell his co-workers about what is undoubtedly a magical creature. But it’ll be a fine change to be able to concentrate on a pet rather than himself.

“Serpents like him require a great deal of love and attention,” the owner warns. “Are you sure you’re prepared for that?”

“Of course,” Graves promises. “Other than work, there’s nothing that would distract me.”

“Very well,” the owner says. “Then I’ll just draw up a contract.”

[kwasifmp]

The Death of Balder

I had the same with this story where i couldn't reasonably fit the story in the sketchbook in my sketch book so i shortend it 

Nothing there is that does not love the sun. It gives us warmth and life; it melts the bitter snow and ice of winter; it makes plants grow and flowers bloom. It gives us the long summer evenings, when the darkness never comes. It saves us from the bitter days of midwinter, when the darkness is broken for only a handful of hours and the sun is cold and distant, like the pale eye of a corpse. Balder's face shone like the sun: he was so beautiful that he illuminated any place he entered. Balder was Odin's second son, and he was loved by his father, and by all things. He was the wisest, the mildest, the most eloquent of all the Aesir. He would pronounce judgement, and all would be impressed by his wisdom and his fairness. His home, the hall called Breidablik, was a place of joy and music and knowledge. Balder's wife was Nanna, and he loved her and only her. Their son, Forsete, was growing to become as wise a judge as his father. There was nothing wrong with Balder's life or his world, save only one thing. Balder had bad dreams. He dreamed of worlds ending, and of the sun and the moon being eaten by a wolf. He dreamed of pain and death without end. He dreamed of darkness, of being trapped. Brothers slew brothers in his dreams, and nobody could trust any-one else. In his dreams, a new age would come upon the world, an age of storm and of murder. Balder would wake from these dreams in tears, troubled beyond all telling. Balder went to the gods and he told them of his nightmares. None of them knew what to make of the dreams, and they too were troubled, all but one of them. When Loki heard Balder talk of his bad dreams, Loki smiled. Odin set out to find the cause of his son's dreams. He put on his grey cloak and his broad-brimmed hat, and when folk asked his name, he said he was Wanderer, son of Warrior. Nobody knew the answers to his questions, but they told him of a seer, a wise woman, who understood all dreams. She could have helped him, they said, but she was long dead. At the end of the world was the wise woman's grave. Beyond it, to the east, was the realm of the dead who had not died in battle, ruled over by Hel, Loki's daughter by the giantess Angrboda. Odin travelled east, and he stopped when he reached the grave. The all-father was the wisest of the Aesir, and he had given his eye for more wisdom. He stood by the grave at the end of the world, and in that place he invoked the darkest of runes and called on old powers, long forgotten. He burned things, and he said things, and he charmed and he demanded. The storm wind whipped at his face, and then the wind died and a woman stood before him on the other side of the fire, her face in the shadows. "It was a hard journey, coming back from the land of the dead," she told him. "I've been buried here for such a long time. Rain and snow have fallen on me. I do not know you, man-who-raised-me. What do they call you?" "They call me Wanderer," said Odin. "Warrior was my father. Tell me the news from Hel." The dead wise woman stared at him. "Balder is coming to us," she told him. "We are brewing mead for him. There will be despair in the world above, but in the world of the dead there will be only rejoicing." Odin asked her who would kill Balder, and her answer shocked him. He asked who would avenge Balder's death, and her answer puzzled him. He asked who would mourn Balder, and she stared at him across her own grave, as if she were seeing him for the first time. "You are not Wanderer," she said. Her deadeyes flickered, and there was expres-sion on her face. "You are Odin, who was sacrificed by himself to himself so long ago." "And you are no wise woman. You are she who was in life Angrboda, Loki's lover, mother to Hel, to Jormungundr, the Midgard serpent, and to Fenris Wolf," said Odin. The dead giantess smiled. "Ride home, little Odin," she told him. "Run away, run back to your hall. No one will come to see me now until my husband, Loki, escapes from his bonds and returns to me, and Ragnarok, the doom of the gods, tearing all asunder, approaches." And then there was nothing in that place but shadows. Odin left with his heart heavy, and with much to think about. Even the gods cannot change destiny, and if he was to save Balder he would have to do it with cunning, and he would need help. There was one other thing that the dead giant-ess had said that disturbed him. Why did she talk about Loki escaping his bonds? wondered Odin. Loki is not bound. And then he thought, Not yet. II Odin kept his own counsel, but he told Frigg, his wife, mother of the gods, that Balder's dreams were true dreams, and that there were those who meant their favourite son harm. Frigg thought. Practical as ever, she said, "I do not believe it. I shall not believe it. There is nothing that despises the sun and the warmth and the life it brings the earth, and by the same token there is nothing that hates my son Balder the beautiful." And she set out to ensure that this was so. She walked the earth and exacted an oath from each thing that she encoun-tered never to harm Balder the beautiful. She spoke to fire, and it promised it would not burn him; water gave its oath never to drown him; iron would not cut him, nor would any of the other metals. Stones promised never to bruise his skin. Frigg spoke to trees, to beasts, and to birds and to all things that creep and fly and crawl, and each creature promised that its kind would never hurt Balder. The trees agreed, each after its kind, oak and ash, pine and beech, birch and fir, that their wood could never be used to hurt Balder. She conjured diseases and spoke to them, and each of the diseases and infirmities that can hurt or wound a person agreed that it too would never touch Balder. Nothing was too insignificant for Frigg to ask, save only the mistletoe, a creeping plant that lives on other trees. It seemed too small, too young, too in-significant, and she passed it by. And when everything had sworn its oath not to harm her son, Frigg returned to Asgard. "Balder is safe," she told the Aesir. "Nothing will hurt him." All of them doubted her, even Balder. Frigg picked up a stone and whipped it towards her son. The stone skipped around him. Balder laughed with delight, and it was as if the sun had come out. The gods smiled. And then one by one they threw their weapons at Balder, and each of them was astonished and amazed. Swords would not touch him, spears would not pierce his flesh. All the gods were relieved and happy. There were only two faces in Asgard that were not radiant with joy. Loki was not smiling or laughing. He watched the gods hack at Balder with axes and with swords, or drop enormous rocks on Balder, or try to strike Balder with huge knotted wooden clubs, and laugh as the clubs and swords and rocks and axes avoided Balder or touched him like gentle feathers, and Loki brooded, and slipped away into the shadows. The other was Balder's brother Hod, who was blind. "What is happening?" asked blind Hod. "Will somebody please tell me what is happening?" But nobody talked to Hod. He listened to the sound of merrymaking and joy, and he wished he could be a part of it. "You must be very proud of your son," said a kindly woman to Frigg. Frigg did not recognise the woman, but the woman beamed when she looked at Balder, and Frigg was indeed proud of her son. Everybody loved him, after all. "But won't they hurt him, the poor darling? Throwing things at him like that? If I were his mother, I would be afraid for my son." "They will not hurt him," said Frigg. "No weapon can hurt Balder. No disease. No rock. No tree. I have taken an oath from all the things there are that can harm." "That's good," said the kindly woman. "I'm pleased. But are you sure you didn't miss any of them?" "Not a one," said Frigg. "All the trees. The only one I did not bother with was the mistletoe—it's a creeper that grows on the oak trees west of Valhalla. But it's too young and too small ever to do any harm. You could not make a club from mistletoe." "My, my," said the kindly woman. "Mistletoe, eh? Well, truth to tell, I wouldn't have bothered with that either. Much too weedy." The kindly woman had begun to remind Frigg of someone, but before the goddess could think who it was, Tyr held up an enormous rock with his good left hand, held it high above his head, and crashed it down on Balder's chest. It disin-tegrated into dust before ever it touched the shining god. When Frigg turned back to talk to the kindly woman, she was already gone, and Frigg thought no more about it. Not then. Loki, in his own form, travelled to the west of Valhalla. He stopped by a huge oak tree. Here and there pendulous clumps of green mistletoe leaves and pale white berries hung from the oak, seeming even more insignificant when seen next to the grandeur of the oak. They grew directly out of the bark of the oak tree. Loki examined the berries, the stems and the leaves. He thought about poisoning Balder with mistletoe berries, but that seemed too simple and straightforward. If he was going to do harm to Balder, he was going to hurt as many people as possible. m Blind Hod stood to one side, listening to the merriment and the shouts of joy and astonishment coming from the green, and he sighed. Hod was strong, even if he was sightless, one of the strongest of the gods, and usually Balder was good about making certain that he was included. This time, even Balder had forgotten him. "You look sad," said a familiar voice. It was Loki's voice. "It's hard, Loki. Everyone is having such a good time. I hear them laughing. And Balder, my beloved brother, he sounds so happy. I just wish I could be part of it." "That is the easiest thing in the world to remedy," said Loki. Hod could not see the expression on his face, but Loki sounded so helpful, so friendly. And all the gods knew that Loki was clever. "Hold out your hand." Hod did so. Loki put something into it, closed Hod's fingers around it. "It is a little wooden dart I made. I will bring you close to Balder, and I will point you at him, and you shall throw it at him as hard as you can. Throw it with all your might. And then all the gods will laugh and Balder will know that even his blind brother has taken part in his day of triumph." Loki walked Hod through the people, towards the hubbub. "Here," said Loki. "This is a good place to stand. Now, when I tell you, throw the dart." "It is only a little dart," said Hod wistfully. "I wish I were throwing a spear or a rock." "A little dart will do," said Loki. "The tip of it is sharp enough. Now, throw it there, like I told you." A mighty cheer and a laugh: a club made of knotted thombush wood studded with sharp iron nails was swung by Thor into Balder's face. The club skipped up and over his head at the last moment, and Thor looked as if he were dancing. It was very comical. "Now!" whispered Loki. "Now, while they are all laughing." Hod threw the dart of mistletoe, just as he had been told. He expected to hear cheers and laughter. Nobody laughed, and nobody cheered. There was silence. He heard gasps, and a low muttering. "Why is nobody cheering me?" asked blind Hod. "I threw a dart. It was neither big nor heavy, but you must have seen it. Balder, my brother, why are you not laughing?" He heard wailing then, high and keen and awful, and he knew the voice. It was his mother who wailed. "Balder, my son. Oh Balder, oh my son," she wailed. It was then that Hod knew his dart had hit home. "How terrible. How sad. You have killed your brother," said Loki. But he did not sound sad. He did not sound sad at all. IV Balder lay dead, pierced by the mistletoe dart. The gods gathered, weeping and tearing their garments. Odin said nothing, save only, "No vengeance will be taken on Hod. Not yet. Not right now. Not at this time. We are in a place of holy peace." Frigg said, "Who among you wants to win my good graces by going to Hel? Perhaps she will let Balder return to this world. Even Hel could not be so cruel as to keep him ..." She thought for a moment. Hel was, after all, Loki's daughter. "And we will offer her a ransom to give us Balder back. Is there one of you who is willing to travel to Hel's kingdom? You might not return." The gods looked at each other. And then one of them raised his hand. This was Hermod, called the Nimble, Odin's attendant, the fastest and the most daring of the young gods. "I will go to Hel," he said. "I will bring back Balder the beautiful." They brought forth Sleipnir, Odin's stallion, the eight-legged horse. Hermod mounted it and prepared to ride down, ever down, to greet Hel in her high hall, where only the dead go. As Hermod rode into darkness, the gods prepared Balder's funeral. They took his corpse and they placed it on Hringhorn, Balder's ship. They wanted to launch the ship and burn it, but they could not move it from the shore. They all pushed and heaved, even Thor, but the ship sat on the shore, unmoving. Only Balder had been able to launch his ship, and now he was gone. The gods sent for Hyrrokkin the giantess, who came to them riding on an enormous wolf, with serpents for reins. She went to the prow of Balder's ship and she pushed as hard as she could: she launched the ship, but her push was so violent that the rollers the ship was on burst into flame, and the earth shook, and the waves were terrifying.

  "I ought to kill her," said Thor, still stinging from his own failure to launch the ship, and he grasped the handle of Mjollnir, his hammer. "She shows disrespect." "You will do nothing of the kind," said the other gods. "I'm not happy about any of this," said Thor. "I'm going to kill somebody soon, just to relieve the tension. You'll see." Balder's body was brought down the shingle, borne by four gods; eight legs took him past the crowd assembled there. Odin was foremost in the crowd of mourners, his ravens on each shoulder, and behind him the Valkyries and the Aesir. There were frost giants and mountain giants at Balder's funeral; there were even dwarfs, the cunning craftsmen from beneath the ground, for all things that there were mourned the death of Balder. Balder's wife, Nanna, saw her husband's body carried past. She wailed, and her heart gave out in her breast, and she fell dead on to the shore. They carried her to the funeral pyre, and they placed her body beside Balder's. Out of respect, Odin placed his arm-ring Draupnir on to the pyre; this was the miraculous ring made for him by the dwarfs Brokk and Eitri, which every nine days would drip eight other rings of equal purity and beauty. Then Odin whispered a secret into Balder's dead ear, and what Odin whispered none but he and Balder will ever know. Balder's horse, fully caparisoned, was ridden to the pyre and sacrificed there, in order that it would be able to bear its master in the world to come. They lit the pyre. It burned, consuming the body of Balder and the body of Nanna, and his horse, and his possessions. Balder's body flamed like the sun. Thor stood in front of the funeral pyre, and he held Mjollnir high. "I sanctify this pyre," he proclaimed, darting grumpy looks at the giantess Hyrrokkin, who still did not, Thor felt, appear to be properly respectful. Lit, one of the dwarfs, walked in front of Thor to get a better view of the pyre, and Thor kicked him irritably into the middle of the flames, which made Thor feel slightly better and made all the dwarfs feel much worse. "I don't like this," said Thor testily. "I don't like any of it one little bit. I hope Hermod the Nimble is sorting things out with Hel. The sooner Balder comes back to life, the better it will be for all of us." 

V Hermod the Nimble rode for nine days and nine nights without stopping. He rode deeper and he rode through gathering darkness: from gloom to twilight to night to a pitch-black starless dark. All that he could see in the darkness was some-thing golden glinting far ahead of him. Closer he rode, and closer, and the light grew brighter. It was gold, and it was the thatch of the bridge across the Gjaller River, across which all who die must travel. He slowed Sleipnir to a walk as they crossed the bridge, which swung and shook beneath them. "What is your name?" asked a woman's voice. "Who are your kin? What are you doing in the land of the dead?" Hermod said nothing. He reached the far end of the bridge, where a maiden stood. She was pale and very beautiful, and she looked at him as if she had never seen anything like him before. Her name was Modgud, and she guarded the bridge. "Yesterday enough dead men to fill five kingdoms crossed this bridge, but you alone cause it to shake more than they did, though there were men and horses beyond all counting. I can see the red blood beneath your skin. You are not the colour of the dead—they are grey, and green, and white, and blue. Your skin has life beneath it. Who are you? Why are you travelling to Hel?" "I am Hermod," he told her. "I am a son of Odin, and I am riding to Hel on Odin's horse to find Balder. Have you seen him?" "No one who saw him could ever forget it," she said. "Balder the beautiful crossed this bridge nine days ago. He went to Hel's great hall." "I thank you," said Hermod. "That is where I also must go." "It is downwards, and northwards," she told him. "Always go down, and keep travelling north. You will reach Hel's gate." Hermod rode on. He rode northerly, and he followed the path down until he saw before him a huge high wall and the gates to Hel, which were higher than the tallest tree. Then he dismounted from his horse, and he tightened the girth strap. He remounted, and holding tight to the saddle, he urged Sleipnir faster and faster, and at the last it leapt, a jump like no horse has made before or since, and it cleared the gates of Hel and landed safely upon the other side, in Hel's domain, where no living person can ever go. Hermod rode to the great hall of the dead, dismounted, and walked inside. Balder, his brother, was seated at the head of the table, at the seat of honour. Balder was pale; his skin was the colour of the world on a grey day, when there is no sun. He sat and drank the mead of Hel, and ate her food. When he saw Hermod he told him to sit beside him and spend the night with them at the table. On the other side of Balder was Nanna, his wife, and next to her, and not in the best of tempers, was a dwarf called Lit. In Hel's world, the sun never rises and the day can never begin. Hermod looked across the hall, and he saw a woman of peculiar beauty. The right side of her body was the colour of flesh, but the left-hand side of her body was dark and ruined, like that of a week-old corpse that you might find hanging from a tree in the forest or frozen into the snow, and Hermod knew that this was Hel, Loki's daughter, whom the all-father had set to rule over the lands of the dead. "I have come for Balder," said Hermod to Hel. "Odin himself sent me. All things there are mourn him. You must give him back to us." Hel was impassive. One green eye stared at Hermod, and one sunken, dead eye. "I am Hel," she said simply. "The dead come to me, and they do not return to the lands above. Why should I let Balder go?" "All things mourn him. His death unites us all in misery, god and frost giant, dwarf and elf. The animals mourn him, and the trees. Even the metals weep. The stones dream that brave Balder will return to the lands that know the sun. Let him go." Hel said nothing. She watched Balder with her mismatched eyes. And then she sighed. "He is the most beautiful thing, and, I think, the best thing, ever to come to my realm. But if it is truly as you say, if all things mourn Balder, if all things love him, then I will give him back to you." Hermod threw himself at her feet. "That is noble of you. Thank you! Thank you, great queen!" She looked down at him. "Get up," she said. "I have not said I will give him back. This is your task, Hermod. Go and ask them. All the gods and the giants, all the rocks and the plants. Ask everything. If all things in the world weep for him and want him to return, I will give Balder back to the Aesir and the day. But if one creature will not cry or speaks against him, then he stays with me forever." Hermod got to his feet. Balder led him from the hall, and he gave Hermod Odin's ring, Draupnir, to return to Odin, as evidence that Hermod had been to Hel. Nanna gave him a linen robe for Frigg and a golden ring for Fulla, Friar's hand-maiden. Lit just grimaced and made rude gestures. Hermod clambered back on Sleipnir. This time the gates of Hel were opened for him, as he left, and he retraced his steps. He crossed the bridge, and eventually he saw daylight once again. In Asgard Hermod returned the arm-ring Draupnir to Odin, the all-father, and told him all that had happened and all that he had seen. While Hermod was in the underworld, Odin had had a son to replace Balder; this son, named Vali, was the son of Odin and the goddess Rind. Before he was a day old, the baby found and slew Hod. So Balder's death was avenged. VI The Aesir sent messengers across the world. The messengers of the Aesir rode like the wind, and they asked each thing they encountered if it wept for Balder, so that Balder could be free of Hel's world. The women wept, and the men, the children, and the animals. Birds of the air wept for Balder, as did the earth, the trees, the stones—even the metals the messengers encountered wept for Balder, in the way that a cold iron sword will weep when you take it from the freezing cold into the sunlight and warmth. All things wept for Balder. The messengers were returning from their mission, triumphant and overjoyed. Balder would soon be back among the Aesir. They rested on a mountain, on a ledge beside a cave, and they ate their food and drank their mead, and they joked and they laughed. "Who is that?" called a voice from inside the cave, and an elderly giantess came out. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but none of the messen-gers was entirely certain what it was. "I am Thokk," she said, which means "grat-itude". "Why are you here?" "We have asked each thing there is if it would weep for Balder, who is dead. Beautiful Balder, killed by his blind brother. For each of us misses Balder as we would miss the sun in the sky, were it never to shine again. And each of us weeps for him." The giantess scratched her nose, cleared her throat and spat on to the rock. "Old Thokk won't weep for Balder," she said bluntly. "Alive or dead, old Odin's son brought me nothing but misery and aggravation. I'm glad he's gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Let Hel keep him." Then she shuffled back into the darkness of her cave and was lost to sight. The messengers returned to Asgard and told the gods what they had seen, and that they had failed in their mission, for there was one creature that did not weep for Balder and did not want him to return: an old giantess in a cave on a mountain. And by then they had also realised who old Thokk reminded them of: she had moved and talked much like Loki, the son of Laufey. "I expect it was really Loki in disguise," said Thor. "Of course it was Loki. It's always Loki." Thor hefted his hammer, Mjollnir, and gathered a group of the gods to go look-ing for Loki, to take their revenge, but the crafty troublemaker was nowhere to be seen. He was hiding, far from Asgard, hugging himself in glee at his own clever-ness and waiting for the fuss to die away.

[naivety]

Hollow Lungs

Spoilers for A Lie Guarded, 4x04. Just some good ol agony from Bellamy's perspective after the end of A Lie Guarded because I am not okay and I needed an outlet for these horrifying emotions.

Fandom: The 100 Words: 1170 Chapters: 1/? Characters: Bellamy Blake, Marcus Kane

On AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9896435/chapters/22184660 On fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12379348/1/Hollow-Lungs

A/N: I am not okay.

No.

It begins with a swell, a swoop deep in his chest, a cavity opening to the frigid air. He feels reality wobble at his fingertips.

It was a good death.

Muscles refuse to cooperate, stiff yet weak, sick, unsteady, but he manages to swivel away from their faces, their unreadable faces. The waves crash one after another, cold, hot, deep aches spreading over his body. A rushing in his ears. A keening sound deep in his chest, knotted, tight, heavy. An explosion without means of escape. He knows more than feels his body drop to the floor, fingers curled around rusted bars until they creak.

The world fades with a high pitched ring as something splits deep inside, shattered glass in his throat, gravel between his teeth, fire and ice in his veins, swarming like bees. Violent expulsions of the chaos beneath his ribs wrack his entire frame, dry like wood, bones scraping together. A fuzziness, clouds hovering, he's hovering, floating, simply existing and nothing more. He feels disjointed, sliced into pieces and scattered in the wind. He distantly registers hands seizing him from behind, pulling. The world is a blur, nothing save the vice gripping his chest, constricting his airway.

O.

Limp like a puppet with its strings cut. Wooden, hollow, cold, dead. Pain sprouts goosebumps over foreign skin, tracing a pattern, carving loss into his being. Etched by an angry claw, tattooed over his heart. Where the burning ache is. Where a gaping hole is. Emptied. Numb.

What was the last thing he said to her? Her name? Did she know, as a simple fact of reality, how much she means to him? Simply by existing? Did she know?

Death feels like a tangible force looming against his spine.

No.

A rushing glow of pain, twinging across his collarbone down to the pit of his stomach, curling and twisting, all-encompassing, overwhelming.

Octavia—small fingers, wide eyes, head nestled in the crook of his arm.

Octavia—sad smile, genuine laugh, petite body crammed beneath the floor.

Octavia—bright features, excited, awed, feet shuffling to the beat of a crowd. Octavia—scared, tear-stained cheeks, too far for him to reach.

No.

Octavia—bold, ambitious, reckless, embers in her eyes and in the quirk of her smile. Octavia—dirt and grit, strong arms, fierce, coordinated, deadly, worn but standing tall. Octavia—thick-skinned, eyes shadowed, shielded, angry, still strong as her knuckles dig into his face. Still strong as she fights alongside them, as she moves forward, as she protects. Tears gathered but not falling. A clench in her jaw. Blood on her hands, but he's got blood on his too.

Octavia—his sister, his family, his support, his strength, his inspiration. His everything.

Octavia.

His sister. His responsibility.

A gag pinches at the base of his throat, choking through saltwater and numb lips. He can't breathe. The ground rattles beneath him, trembling, shaking, his heart slamming against his spine, knocking on his ribs.

Voices garble and entwine, incomprehensible, just another sound, meaningless as a rustle of wind, the chirping of birds. He feels body-less, disconnected. Nonexistent. Drifting through a world reduced to muffled sensations, a poor imitation of life, of existence. Hands brush over numb skin, words fall against deaf ears, questions, unanswered by a mute tongue, people moving across a sightless gaze.

Bellamy.

The vice is thick, strong, pressed against the inside of his lungs. They're shriveling like raisins, twitching to the too-quick drumbeat of his blood. Breathing is hard. But that's reasonable. When a person becomes your oxygen, you wouldn't expect any less when they disappear.

He doesn't want to feel. He doesn't want to exist. Yet when his knees buckle beneath him, he feels it. When fire ants sprout inside his lungs, his existence is startlingly palpable no matter how much he wills it away, corners it in his mind.

"Bellamy," a sound, solid, enticing.

He despises how much he wants to reach for it.

"Breathe."

He doesn't want to.

A firm grip takes hold of his shoulder, familiar features sharpening as his mind works against him to comprehend. He sees brown eyes, dark hair, peppered.

"That's it. Just breathe."

And as much as he wills himself not to, to just fall asleep, to let the universe take him, instincts claw their way from his thoughts. They believe the voice, the eyes.

The jaded scraps of reality scramble to fit themselves back together, disjointed sensations rushing to the forefront of his mind. The wind on his neck, the earth beneath his knees, the concern in the voice that strives to sooth his mind. Breathing is what his instincts tackle first. Taming the creature that writhes in his stomach, clawing at his lungs, seeping him of strength. He listens to the steady breath of his companion and tries to match it.

"Good. You're doing good."

Words jumble at the back of his clogged throat, threatening to spill, stuttering from his lips in a choked sound.

Everything feels so heavy. Like his skin is pulled taught around bones, a rusted machine with too-dry joints. Unable to function, gravity too much for fragile messes and exhausted muscle. A deep, tingling ache has burrowed into his marrow, settling in, ruling his movements, tired, lethargic, heavy.

"Hey... Hey. Look at me, Bellamy."

On impulse, he obeys, registering the quiet worry masked in the firm command.

"Listen to me. You're going to be okay. You just need to breathe. Can you do that?"

It doesn't sound wary, soft, like he would expect it to be. Instead, it's steady, an honest request that he can read in Kane's gaze.

He can't maintain eye contact, but he nods at the blurry ground anyway, throat knotted even as he tries to steady his breathing. The heels of his hands dig into his eyes, stars popping on the back of his eyelids from the pressure. Breathe. Breathe.

The rough hands return to his biceps, dragging him to his feet before he can gather himself, limbs still pinching with pins and needles. They do the same with Kane, ushering them both onward. It's only then that he vaguely registers the roaring sound ahead of them. Cold browns, grays, blacks, a sea of dull color, bodies strong and armed with sharpened metal.

No.

He takes a deep shuddering breath and closes his eyes, blocking out the sights, the sounds, the overwhelming pressure of living.

And then he focuses on the effort of putting one foot in front of the other.

Shout out from the bottom of my lungs A plague on both your houses This thing It's a family affair It's drawing out my weakness Big boys don't cry They don't ask why

A/N: Still not okay. Come and cry with me. Bob Morley, take my stupid money. You're incredible. Thank you for making my chest hurt and my stomach squirm in the best way possible. You are amazing, and talented. R.I.P. me.

[sumerus-little-sprout]

Oh..i see! Sorry if I'm asking too much or being annoying, it's just that I haven't met many people like you, and I'm just afraid of offending you..

Oh, really?! That's great!..I think. I may not be an expert on romantic stuff...but I have a girlfriend! So I guess that's qualification enough

Hey Col.

Up early today, nothing to do though. Wanna talk?

I know you probably have some questions about my pronouns and stuff. I’m always happy to give info. Especially to you.

How’d you sleep?

-@knowledge-of-the-blind-forest

I slept....fine! And I'd love to talk! I'm quite bored after all.

[why-is-my-husband-like-this]

No, it's alright beti, I was just being dramatic.

I miss my hubby 😢😖

[children-of-the-star]

Ah, I'm much more then what people think. But yes, I do travel quite a bunch, though I spend most of my time in sumeru when I can, which means we can meet up more-if you're willing-I have no travel plans as of now.

-🪷

// For Adelia

…

I see you followed me.

Why? You seem to be a…fashion model. We have nothing in common.

I prefer to be straight to the point.

I am Naila. Although you already knew that.

-@knowledge-of-the-blind-forest

oh please! you don't know, we could have much in common. .. And I did, I'm Adelia, but thats known across our globe, I'm sure we could get along.

-🪷