#[ gatherer's guile ]

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Mirri's Guile

Hanna was astounded. Mirri read every leaf and wisp of breeze like a book of ancient lore.

Artist: Brom TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[whitherwanderer]

5 // stamp

// 670 words. Nathalie thinks in flowers.

She seals every letter with a pressed flower and green wax. Both a message in themselves; a token of feelings. And always, always stamped with her signet ring. To say that decoration was her favorite part of letter writing was an understatement. Such care was taken to consider what was in bloom, what would carry her message with just a flower or two. Moons of gathering and pressing and flipping through each page of unread tomes to examine her catalogue for the perfect ambassador.

This moon: A stem of bluebells.

Mother, Father, and my dearest sisters,

I miss you all, as I’ve admitted time and time again. Is everyone well? Did you like the tea I blended? Maybe I will send along a package of goods from the city. Sweets and toys for the little ones, dyes and fine tools for the rest. If I can provide anything, you need but ask.

Nathalie delivers her letter by hand. Most of the way, at least. She might as well if she’ll be in the area rooting through the brush and picking around the rivers. Buscarron always receives it with the utmost care, sliding it atop a stack and promising her that it’ll be picked up in due time—the others always are.

Letters home, she explained to him once. His was the only establishment that wouldn’t chase them off, and it was blessedly close. When asked why she didn’t simply deliver them then, her smile grows tired, her eyes drift away.

She asked him, sheepishly, if he could recall ever once receiving a letter addressed to her. He couldn’t apologize profusely enough.

I think of you often, and fondly. I think of the milestones I’ve missed. The celebrations and the hardships that I cannot share with you. I keep space for them in my heart, and I can but hope that you spare a place for me in yours, however small.

Perhaps, for the next moon, it will be oxeye daisies. Maybe yew. Was that a bit dramatic?

It’s only when Rakaso parrots back, “A bit dramatic?” that she realizes perhaps she’s thinking about this too hard, and when she should be focused on work, no less. Maybe Rakaso would enjoy the frivolity of receiving such a letter? She’d no doubt find it trite—they work together. What’s left to be said that would be worth writing?

And yet Nathalie cannot help but imagine blue periwinkle under a gold seal.

If you worry for me at all, I pray you find solace in the fact that I am cared for. I live well. I still practice all you have taught and it helps people that pass through our clinic. Some cannot find it in themselves to be grateful to my kin, just as you warned me. But many—most, in fact—stop me to speak as friends.

I still want to visit, if you’ll allow it. I’d have you here in a heartbeat if I didn’t know I’d be asking the star of you all. But I reserve my right to hope, and yours to surprise me.

Buscarron flags her down from across the Druthers in a mad excitement, and for a moment, Nathalie assumes something might be wrong. He tells her to wait there at the bar while he shuffles back to his office, producing a letter with its own seal. Red wax, a solitary V pressed into its center.

Nathalie quakes with it in her hands all the way back to the privacy of her small apartment.

She opens to find more pressed plants, and not a word on the page that encloses them. Last year’s fading, purple columbine and the brittle yellow of autumn aspen leaves. It’s all she can do not to throw herself out the door, pacing in a daze until she arrives at Rakaso’s with little more than apologies and a manic need to be somewhere, anywhere louder than her own mind.

And yet, with every step beyond her door, she thought of snowdrop.

Patiently I remain, N.V.

[sansaorgana]

— FOREVER BOUND

PAIRING — Sauron x fem!Maia!Reader

SUMMARY — You and Mairon were created together by Eru and ever since you remained nearly inseparable. He chose to follow Melkor but you stayed loyal to your gods. Even though he was believed to be slain, you meet your soulmate once again many years later in Númenor where you serve the Valar by helping Tar-Míriel with your counsel.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I started writing this fic like two weeks ago but I got distracted in the meantime with different ideas 🤧 (Y/N) is used here as the Reader's "real" name, therefore I gave her human form in Númenor a name and that is Maneth, which apparently means Departed Spirit. The dynamic between Sauron and the Reader is lowkey inspired by that quote from Wuthering Heights – He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. Also, I was very fixated on making the short prologue of this fic sound like it was taken from The Silmarillion but it was a challenge, especially when English is not my first language, so yeah, I have to admit I used "the chat" a bit to help me in the beginning (and only there) 🙈. It didn't write even a single sentence for me, though, it only helped me with reshaping the phrases to sound more like the way I wanted them to be. I have never used AI to help me write my fics, so I feel a bit weird with it but I think the prologue sounds great now, so I decided to keep it this way. However, I wanted to admit to it here because I would feel bad otherwise. Once more – "the chat" did not write even a single sentence for me. I only needed its help with finding better sounding phrases to express what I have already written all by myself and it was only for the short prologue of the story. I didn't put any warnings but I think that – if you squint – it can have a bit of a twincest vibe...? 😳 At least I thought so while writing some scenes but maybe it's just my messed up mind going into such places 🙈 The fic is quite long but I didn't want to divide this one into two parts.

WORD COUNT — 7,930

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

FOREVER BOUND

Together were they fashioned by the thought of Eru Ilúvatar, Mairon and (Y/N), kindred spirits among the Maiar, and thus were their fates entwined. Mairon was drawn to Aulë the Smith, whose lore of crafting and forging he learned with eager mind, while (Y/N) was taken under the care of Varda Elentári, the Queen of Stars, and to her was revealed the mysteries of light and the heavens.

In those days of ancient bliss, when the first flowers were made to bloom, Mairon would gather their blossoms for (Y/N), and together they would abide for hours in fields unmarred by shadow. Often, he would craft jewels of wondrous beauty, offering them to her in token of his affection. Yet his most treasured gift to her was a ring, fair and unmarred, crafted in the purity of his early days, before his spirit turned to darker counsel.

It is said that (Y/N) wore that ring ever upon her hand, and that when Varda revealed to her the art of setting stars in the firmament, she bestowed the first star of her own making with the name «Mairon», that his light might endure forever.

In the later days, when Mairon fell to the shadow and allied himself with Melkor, he sought ever to draw (Y/N) to his side, weaving words of guile and repentance. Many times did he deceive her, and she, moved by their bond, hoped he might yet be redeemed. Yet she held fast to the Valar, and her faith remained unbroken.

Mairon's descent brought sorrow unending to (Y/N), and often she pleaded with the Valar to grant him mercy. Yet Varda would have her no longer as a disciple, for the brightness of her spirit had dimmed, and her heart clung still to one who had been corrupted. Then Nienna, She Who Weeps, took pity upon (Y/N) and took her into her care, teaching her of endurance and grief. And it was Nienna who spoke in favour of Mairon when Melkor, feigning humility, sought pardon from the Valar, for she understood well the love that bound (Y/N) to him.

Yet no reunion came to pass, for Mairon fled from the wrath of the Valar, and he vanished into the shadows of the world, so that some claimed him slain. The star that bore his name faded from the heavens, and it is told that (Y/N) wept until her tears filled a lake in The Southlands, and thus was the dark and bitter Lake Núrnen brought into being, a testament to her sorrow.

You were sent to Númenor to aid the Queen Regent with your counsel. Míriel suspected that you were no ordinary human being but she knew better than to ask too many questions. Very quickly you were promoted in her council, which was visibly making Ar-Pharazôn uneasy and suspicious of you because you had shown up out of nowhere one day, posing to be a noble Lady from Middle-earth… but who truly knew where you were coming from? 

The fate of this beautiful island given to the ancestors of these people was uncertain, though. It was teetering between glory and ruin. You were there to make sure they would choose the right path when the time of difficult decisions would come.

When you heard that one of the captains brought a She-Elf to Númenor that he had found in an open sea, you knew immediately that it was no coincidence. It was surely the very beginning of something new. Something exciting and worrying, too.

The time you had already spent in Númenor was enough for you to fall in love with the island and its people. The Queen Regent was truly your friend and you hoped for nothing else but for this realm’s happiness.

You were standing next to Míriel when Captain Elendil walked two castaways inside the hall. She-Elf you recognised immediately because it was Lady Galadriel. She, however, could not recognise you because of your disguise. At the sight of a dirty, ragged common man walking beside her, you felt an odd shiver going down your spine.

You looked down, nervously, when he looked up to meet your gaze. Your fingers busied themselves with a ring that decorated your finger for long centuries now – it would never leave you, no matter what form you were in.

You could not understand why some random human was making you feel such odd sensations as if the air between you two vibrated and caused disruption inside the room.

“No one kneels in Númenor,” the Queen Regent announced to Lady Galadriel and her new friend when they attempted to do so.

Out of curiosity that you seemed not to be able to stop, you looked up again when the man did the same. Your eyes met and you could barely contain yourself because the soul trapped inside the form you were in was about to explode.

He was no ordinary human being and you wondered if Lady Galadriel knew about it.

Who could it be, though? The Valar would not send any help for you here without warning you beforehand. Even if they would, no other Maia was able to make you feel this extraordinary way. 

No other Maia except for one.

The fingers fidgeting with your ring squeezed it tighter at the memory of Mairon. He had been long gone now and all that seemed to be left of him was that ring. Not even his star shone bright in the night sky anymore.

The only part of Mairon that still remained was not that ring, though. It was you – he would forever live inside of you like you had lived inside of him and like part of you had died the day he had been slain.

“Speak, Elf. Name thyself,” Míriel ordered Lady Galadriel and Galadriel’s eyes found yours. She tilted her head but decided not to comment although now you were certain that she could sense what kind of spirit you were.

“Galadriel of the Noldor,” she introduced herself. “Daughter of the Golden House of Finarfin. Commander of the Northern Armies of High King Gil-Galad.”

The man she came with looked at her with furrowed brows before deciding to introduce himself as well.

“Halbrand,” he said. “Of The Southlands,” he added.

“A man and an Elf, together?” You asked as you approached the Queen Regent.

“Circumstances arose that–” The man named Halbrand began but Galadriel did not allow him to finish.

“We are companions by chance. Met on the open sea. Your captain here, delivered us from certain death,” she looked at Elendil. “All we ask is that Númenor continue his mercy and grant us ship’s passage to Middle-earth.”

The crowd gathered inside the hall began to chatter between each other. It was uncommon to see an Elf in Númenor these days and Galadriel was far from humble. Her demands were not making anyone here happy and you could sense that.

The only man whose aura you could not sense was him again – the filthy commoner.

Míriel exchanged a meaningful look with Ar-Pharazôn before her cousin spoke.

“It’s been generations since a ship of Númenor was permitted to make such a journey on an Elf’s behalf,” he told the Elf, harshly.

You wondered how Galadriel would accept the fact that here, in Númenor, she was not an authority to anyone and her presence was barely intimidating. You knew her heart was of a pure kind but it was no mystery amongst the Valar, the Maiar and the Elves that she also needed to be humbled very often but such occasions were quite rare.

“It is because of the Elves that you were given this island,” she reminded but such words only worsened her situation. “Surely you can spare a few planks and a rudder.”

Míriel looked behind to stare at your face, visibly searching for your counsel. You shook your head slightly to let her know that you did not think following Galadriel’s orders was a good idea. It did not escape Ar-Pharazôn’s eye as he shot you a deadly glance. He hated the influence you had over his cousin.

“Our ancestors were not given anything,” the Queen Regent smiled softly at Galadriel as she walked down the stairs to approach the Elf and her human companion. “They paid for this isle with the blood of their kin.”

“What the Elf means–” Halbrand tried to save the situation.

“Then if blood be the price of passage, I will pay it,” Galadriel interrupted him again and you sighed softly. “But one way or another, I will depart.”

One of your tasks in Númenor was to help rebuild the friendship between the humans of this island and the Elves. Lady Galadriel was definitely not helping you.

“I welcome you to try,” Míriel nodded.

“I have no need of your welcome,” Galadriel continued with her rude remarks and Halbrand looked at her with panic in his eyes before looking back at the guards by the doors.

“And you are quickly wearing out yours,” the Queen Regent warned Galadriel. “Guards,” she called for them.

“My friends!” Halbrand exclaimed, getting everyone’s attention and you despised it.

You despised it because your weak human form struggled once more to contain your trembling spirit. You were scared that you would be this island’s doom yourself any given moment if you suddenly erupted as if you were a volcano. Your fingers began to tremble and you lowered your gaze, pretending to be humble.

“It seems to me that our leaving presents some complications,” Halbrand pointed out. “Perhaps it’d be better if we stayed–”

“Stayed?!” Galadriel barked at him.

“Long enough, good Queen, to give you and your advisors adequate time to weigh our request,” he looked up at you.

You were holding your gaze lowered but you knew somehow that he was staring at you. You could feel his eyes piercing you through because the way he was staring was not of an ordinary kind. He was not glancing at your flesh but at your soul. You felt as if you were naked in front of him and as if there was nobody else inside this palace except for you two.

The ring around your finger seemed to get heavier all of the sudden as it reminded you one more about the only creature in this world who had known you so well and who could have made you feel similar.

“A few days, perhaps?” Halbrand looked back at Míriel and you sighed out of relief once you got free from his burning gaze.

The Queen Regent looked back at you once more and you looked up only slightly to nod at her. Ar-Pharazôn rolled his eyes but he did not disagree – at least not openly.

“Three days,” he ordered. “And the Elf is to be restricted to palace grounds.”

“I will not be made a prisoner!” Galadriel protested.

“I would sooner knee-cap a stallion than seek to imprison the mighty Commander of the Northern Armies,” Ar-Pharazôn answered ironically and the crowd laughed at her. “So, you shall be Númenor’s guest.”

You could feel the tension in the room slowly relaxing and you nodded at the Queen Regent before walking out in a hurry, feeling Halbrand’s eyes on you as you were walking out in a haste with your skirts gathered in your fists, rushing to your chambers to collect your chaotic thoughts.

You had a malicious feeling creeping up deep inside of you – no, not even a feeling. An odd, eerie certainty. And as much as you wished for it to not be true, you also wanted it to be and you felt guilty for experiencing such cursed yearning to see and touch him again. Your Mairon.

When you heard from your maid at the end of the day that the human named Halbrand ended up in jail already for starting a fight, you simply could not stop yourself from paying him a visit. You walked inside the prison area of the palace carefully as you moved quietly throughout the hall with your dress flowing behind you gently.

The man was sitting on the floor with his back leaning on the wall. He was smirking as he watched you with no reaction whatsoever. Once more you noticed that you could not sense his aura or predict his mood like you usually could with most creatures, even the noblest of the Elves.

“You are no human,” you stated as you stood right in front of his cell. Halbrand snorted at that and rolled his eyes. “Who are you?” You asked and he only shook his head.

You grabbed the bars and squeezed them tightly as the silence broke due to your ring clashing with the iron. The sound echoed and Halbrand turned his head around rapidly while he squinted his eyes at your ring.

“Are you him?” You asked, nearly desperately. “Are you my Mairon?”

Halbrand stood up finally and even though he seemed to be more serious now, he still had a playful smirk on his lips. He approached you with his arms crossed and you caught yourself staring at his tan, flexed muscles before you looked up to meet his sparkling eyes once more. Nothing but the iron bars between you two and it was you squeezing them tight although he was the imprisoned one.

“You would look like a crazy maniac if I was not,” he whispered, leaning in. He was so close that you could feel his warm breath on your face.

“You were supposed to be dead…” you whispered and closed your eyes, feeling warm tears streaming down your cheeks. You squeezed your fists even tighter around the bars as your whole soul vibrated throughout your human form.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” Halbrand answered.

“Your star has faded away, I have cried so many tears, have been outcast by Varda because with you, some of my own light faded away, too,” you revealed in a trembling voice before opening your hazy and wet eyes. He was staring at you without playfulness now. “I know it would be better for this world if you stayed dead but I feel joy to be with you again,” you confessed.

His rough fingertips brushed the ring wrapped around your finger as he smiled sadly.

“This ring remains older than most creatures of this realm,” he pointed out.

“I have never taken it off, Mairon,” you assured him. “Nothing in this world is older than the bond between us.”

“That is quite blasphemous,” he smirked and you shook your head as you had no idea what to say to that. He was right – you should not claim such things, you were no god. But yet, whatever was between you and him – it felt so overwhelming, so overlooming. 

Your souls were entangled, made of the same stardust. You were the same spirit, the same heart, the same blood; only split in two forms and that was enough pain to be apart in that way. Spending centuries without him at all, thinking he was dead… It was like death itself.

But Mairon was back now and alongside him back was the part of you that had died with him.

“Will you tell them about me, (Y/N)?” He asked, quietly.

“I should, should I not? You are up to no good,” you sniffled your tears back and your eyes met his. You let go of the iron bars and extended your hands to cup his scratched cheeks. When you touched, you felt your whole body trembling, barely able to contain your spirit and your power.

“I am up to the greater good. You know that my path is the right one; it is the only path. My only goal is to heal,” he assured you and leaned in to place a soft kiss upon the palm of your hand as you gasped.

“Up to no good then,” you let out a small chuckle through your tears. You knew him enough already to know what it meant.

You wanted to get rid of the iron bars and to kiss him. His form differed from his previous one but it was never about his flesh – it was always about whatever it contained.

You had never really kissed, though. All those centuries you had spent with each other, you had spent it on yearning and gazing at yourselves, stealing soft pecks upon your cheeks or knuckles, giving each other gifts and talking sweet to one another.

Because you knew that the Maiar had not been created to love – not like this, at least. They had not been created to know the pleasures of the flesh or its desires. They had been created to serve the gods.

Perhaps something had gone wrong during the act of your creation. Perhaps it had not – perhaps it was that part of him living inside of you that craved to be close to him at all times just like the part of you living inside of him craved to be close to you.

“Join me, (Y/N), come with me, be my Queen,” Halbrand whispered and you froze, taking your hands away immediately.

“Not even half an hour I was given to enjoy your return for you are trying to deceive me once more,” you remarked, harshly.

He had been known to tease and tempt you countless of times but your soul remained pure no matter what.

“Melkor is no more. I am my own master now but I will never be whole without you by my side,” Halbrand was the one to wrap his hands around the iron bars now as he moved even closer while you took a step back. “Varda outcasted you? I will make sure no one in Middle-earth worships her no more for you will become their Queen of Light.”

“Revenge is not what I seek,” you shook your head. “Please, Mairon, your words are like daggers. I cannot handle them,” you turned your head around as more and more of your tears streamed down your cheeks.

“Refuse me as much as you like, (Y/N). A part of you lives inside of me and that is my lightness. A part of me lives inside of you and it is the part you consider rotten. Be careful, my dear, for the rot likes to spread,” Halbrand warned you although his voice remained sweet.

“I have never considered anything coming from you to be rotten,” you laid your eyes upon him again.

“Can you not see, my sweet? They keep us apart because together we would become so powerful that we could outcast the gods themselves,” Halbrand continued and his whisper caused a shiver to go down your spine. His words were wrong… So wrong. “Together, we could be anything we wanted. We could be forged into one flesh if we wished, forever bound.”

“If you cared so much about us being together, you would let me lure you back into the light instead of trying to tempt me to join you in darkness, Mairon,” you whispered in Quenya.

“It pains me when you keep insisting that my path is the darkness. Your blind obedience to our creators is much darker to me, my love,” he answered.

Perhaps you would go on like that – and knowing you two, you could do that for ages. But you were interrupted by Lady Galadriel, who looked you up and down with curiosity as she entered the prison.

“The most trusted advisor of the Queen Regent,” she greeted you, “but the least trusted one amongst her subjects. You come from Middle-earth, they say. A noble Lady. But I have never heard of you before,” Galadriel pointed out.

“Must Elves know all about human affairs?” You challenged her and she smiled, softly.

“Human? Yes,” Galadriel answered. “There are spirits, however, that remain out of our grasp. They are no gods but nearly like them. Sent to us by the Valar when we need aid,” she squinted her eyes.

“I shall remain out of your grasp then,” you nodded and she nodded back.

“What is going on?” Halbrand whined, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms again. Putting on an act of a common man in front of Galadriel and even though you knew you should scream into her face that he was the very darkness she had sworn to fight and defeat – you chose to stay silent. Perhaps he would redeem himself, perhaps he would realise that he might be given a second chance if only he decided to choose the right path this time.

Perhaps, before outing him to the outside world, you would try to fix his way of perceiving which path was the right one.

And you knew he had been given too many chances already but your heart would never give up on him. You would forever find excuses for him and try to make it right between you two.

“You…” Galadriel approached the iron bars as she smiled softly at Halbrand. “You do not belong on this island.”

“If there’s one of us that doesn’t belong here, Elf, it’s you,” Halbrand shook his head.

“I’m not so sure of that anymore,” Galadriel’s eyes sparkled as she briefly laid them upon you. “But one thing I am now certain. You are more than you claim,” she took a step further. “I found this in the Hall of Lore,” she handed Halbrand a scroll of paper that made you squint your eyes.

He took it, pretending to be unbothered. And when he opened it, you saw a heraldry drawing, suddenly realising he was wearing a pendant with the same mark. What was the game he was playing…?

“That’s funny. I found this on a dead man,” Halbrand winked at you before he looked at Galadriel with a smirk. “Thought the pattern suited me,” he added and sat down on a bench inside his cell.

Galadriel sighed and she glanced at you, as if she was expecting you to help her. You did not move an inch, however.

“Many ages ago, a man bearing that mark united the scattered tribes of the Southlands under one banner,” she told Halbrand. “The very banner that might unite them again today. Against the evil that now seeks to claim their lands. Your lands, Halbrand,” she emphasised and you sucked on the inside of your cheeks after realising what his clever scheme was. “Your people have no King for you are him,” Galadriel kept insisting.

Your Mairon, the great deceiver, knew very well that eagerly agreeing to all of this would not be as powerful as trying to pretend to be uninterested at first. Therefore, he looked away and chuckled.

“That’s an odd thing to say to a man in a cage,” he pointed out. 

“A cage you have landed in because you chafe under the rags of the common,” Galadriel claimed as she looked at you again. “My Lady, you must tell your Queen the truth.”

“No Elf will tell me what I must or I must not do,” you smirked as you shook your head at how arrogant she was. You had to play your role but even as your Maia self, you wanted to humble her. “I doubt one pendant proves this man’s heritage enough.”

“What about his testimony?” Galadriel was not giving up as she looked at Halbrand again. “The armour that ought to rest upon your shoulders weighs upon your soul, Halbrand.”

Long silence occurred, in which you were able to watch the master of deception performing his craft. The way he kept staring at the drawing, his face full of mixed emotions and confusion, guilt. The way he grabbed the pendant with his hands and brushed it gently with his fingertips. Everyone would believe him.

“Be careful, Elf,” he said eventually. “The heir to this mark is heir to more than just nobility,” Halbrand stood up to approach the iron bars. “For it was his ancestor who swore a blood oath to Morgoth,” he reminded her and you were in awe how he used the bits of dark truth about himself to toy with her and test the waters.

And how oblivious she was, how eager to keep following the scenario she had already prepared for this situation to go with in her head.

“I am not the hero you seek,” Halbrand shook his head.

Indeed, he was not.

“For it was my family that lost the war,” he added.

“And it was mine who started it,” Galadriel insisted. “Ours was no chance meeting,” she pointed out and looked at you again. “No fate, nor destiny, nor any other words men use to speak of the forces they lack the conviction to name. Ours was the work of something greater,” she smiled at you and you forced a smile back.

Was she thinking that it was you who caused this meeting? Gods, if she only knew…

“You must see it,” she looked back at Halbrand.

“All I see is an Elf who won’t put down her sword,” he remarked.

“Come with me to Middle-earth,” she leaned in to be closer to him and you felt an odd sting of pain inside of your heart. Was it jealousy that another woman dared to stand so close to your Mairon…? Most likely. “And together we will redeem both our bloodlines.”

“How?” Halbrand asked, looking at her intensely. “You’re stuck on this island and you’re still short an army,” he smirked.

“That is all about to change,” Galadriel smiled and turned around to walk away.

You glanced at the man one last time before hurrying after her.

“Lady Galadriel!” You called out her name once you were outside the prison.

“My Lady,” she turned around to face you and you nearly bumped into her. “I did not expect to encounter an emissary of the Valar in Númenor, I must admit,” she bowed her head slightly. “How should I address you?”

“Here, in Númenor, you must call me Lady Maneth. In Valinor you would know me as (Y/N),” you introduced yourself and Lady Galadriel’s eyes widened slightly.

“(Y/N)...” She breathed out. “You know more than anyone else how important my task is. We must stop the darkness from spreading,” she pleaded.

“No,” you shook your head. “You must stop pushing this man… Halbrand… Into whatever you are trying to push him into,” you scolded her.

“Do the Valar have different plans for him?” Galadriel wondered out loud.

“It is not about him,” you winced, not wanting to discuss Mairon any longer with her. “It is about you, Artanis. You are beginning to become the very darkness you swore once to destroy,” you warned her.

“What do you mean?” Galadriel furrowed her brow as she took a step back.

“It is still cheating when one betrays a cheater. It is still a theft when one steals from a thief. And it is still a murder when one kills a murderer. Because it is not the matter of whether one deserves it or not – it is a matter of the act itself being committed. Too many pure and good souls were lost to us, driven by the desire to do justice,” you lectured her and you could feel her anger and frustration rising, however she would never dare to lash out on an emissary of the gods.

“Pretty words, that is all you can offer, meanwhile people are dying,” she spat out.

“Do you truly care about them, Artanis, or is their suffering your excuse to pick up the sword once more?” You asked but she was walking away angrily already and all you could see was her back, disappearing in the darkness of the corridor ahead of you.

You turned around once more and sighed at the doors leading back to the prison. You decided to leave Halbrand alone for the night but you worried about what would happen next. If he was about to choose the wrong path again, you would have to reveal his true self to everyone and interfere with his scheme.

Hope was all you had as you fidgeted with the ring around your finger.

“The visions are back and worse than ever,” Míriel confessed to you. “I suspect that it all has something to do with the Elf,” she added as she was trying to read your face but you made sure not to reveal anything.

“I knew that people of Númenor despised her kin but I underestimated the delicacy of the situation,” you admitted as you moved closer to the Queen Regent. “This is beyond worrying. The future of Númenor depends on your relationship with others. It is no time to make enemies instead of friends,” you warned.

“It would be an easier task to convince them that the Elves are not our enemies if only Lady Galadriel was not so…” the Queen Regent sighed, looking for the right word.

“Insufferable?” You chuckled and she nodded with a smile. “Elves differ from humans. They are not raised to be humble.”

“You know a lot about their kin,” Míriel pointed out, trying to make you confess who you truly were once more. She would never ask openly but sometimes she was teasing you this way.

“There are quite a few in the lands I come from,” you only answered.

“The lands you come from… Are they not The Southlands?” Míriel raised her eyebrows. “Like that human man?”

You took a deep breath in. If only you had known back then that your backstory would cause problems a few years later… But it was too late to change it because it would be highly suspicious.

“Yes,” you nodded. “But he is a commoner. I was a noble,” you added.

You were interrupted by Captain Elendil leading Lady Galadriel to you. She bowed her head slightly and exchanged a meaningful look with you.

“Lady Galadriel wishes for an audience,” Captain Elendil said and the Queen Regent nodded her head.

You stood still because these days she wanted you by her side always, no matter what. You did not even have to ask if you should leave or not.

“What is it?” Míriel asked when Galadriel stood on the other side of the table, facing you. She laid out two scrolls of paper in front of you – one was the same she had shown to Halbrand on the previous day and the other one was much more worn out and dirty.

“I found this in the Hall of Lore,” Galadriel informed the Queen Regent mysteriously and you allowed Míriel to see the items with her own eyes as you kept standing there with your hands clasped behind your back.

“You vex me, Elf,” Míriel looked up at Galadriel. “I welcome you as a guest and you gallop off to our countryside to steal ancient scrolls whilst your Southlander companion assaults our citizenry.”

“He is understandably quick to temper. His people are dying,” Galadriel explained.

“His people?” The Queen Regent asked, surprised.

“I believe the man you hold in your dungeons is no common brawler, but the lost heir in exile to the throne of The Southlands,” she revealed.

Míriel turned around to look at you and you raised your eyebrows slightly. You were not sure what to say to that. Should you help Mairon or interfere with his schemes? The answer was only easy for your mind but your heart wished to never cause him any trouble.

“Lady Maneth comes from The Southlands. She would know about that,” the Queen Regent informed Galadriel and the Elf looked at you, intensely.

“I cannot be sure,” you only said. “That there was a long gone line of Kings, I have known. That there are still their living descendants, I have not been aware of. That is not impossible, though,” you explained.

“His people are scattered. Leaderless,” Galadriel looked back at Míriel. “But with your backing they might unite behind his banner. And fight.”

How oblivious she was. His banner was nothing she would want to ever see floating in the air. His banner was nothing she would want to ever see people follow.

“What do you mean backing?” Míriel asked, taken aback by Galadriel’s proposal.

“Sauron was once your people’s enemy, as much as mine,” Galadriel reminded her and you moved uncomfortably. “I call on you to finish the task left undone.”

You might have hated this name more than he hated it. It brought you nothing but pain when others would address your Mairon this way – The Abhorred.

“I shall go,” you spoke, interrupting the tension between the two women. Míriel looked at you with a slight panic in her eyes because she did not want to be left alone with Galadriel but you simply could not stand being there anymore, hearing her talk about your Mairon. “I shall question that man, Halbrand. Mayhaps I will find out if he truly is what the Elf claims,” you said and Míriel nodded at you although you could sense she still felt uneasy to be left without your counsel.

You walked past Captain Elendil and went to the prison area of the palace like on the night before. Halbrand was sitting on the bench this time, with his back leaning on the iron bars. At the sound of your footsteps, he did not even flinch nor turned his head around. He did not have to. He knew it was you coming.

“Mairon…” You crouched down in front of his cell and wrapped your fingers around the bars. “Do not follow her, resist her temptation. Stay here with me.”

Halbrand turned around slowly with a playful smile on his lips as he looked down at you. You were not on your knees but it still seemed as if you were begging him.

“Stay here with you? Are you not a grand Lady on this island?” He asked.

“I can be anything I want and so can you,” you reminded him, your whisper was nearly inaudible but you did not need to speak your words out loud at all for him to hear them anyway. “We can live a lifetime here and then change our forms once more, start all over again. Over and over for the whole eternity. Far away from the rest. If I am to ever abandon my life alongside the gods, it will not be for your darkness… But it could be for this. For us.”

Halbrand stood up and the distance between you became even bigger now as he kept looking down at you with a hint of adoration mixed with pure contempt. He had to think you were pathetic and some part of him found it adorable but the other part found it embarrassing.

“It does not have to be Númenor,” you added. “We can go anywhere.”

“Let us go to The Southlands then,” Halbrand smirked. “Be the Queen alongside me.”

“You have made your decision then, I see,” you sighed and leaned in to press your forehead to the iron bars. “Will you ever love me enough to choose me over power?”

Halbrand did not like your choice of words as his eyes darkened. He crouched down as well, slowly, in a nearly threatening way. Now you were on his eye level as he looked intensely at you.

“Will you ever love me enough to choose me over your gods?” He asked.

The sound of footsteps made you stand up quickly and fix your dress. Halbrand also moved up and sat down on the bench. It was all done right in time because the guards walked inside the prison, dragging Lady Galadriel behind them. You watched with widened eyes as she was being thrown inside one of the cells.

“Don’t tell me,” Halbrand chuckled at her. “Tavern brawl?”

“Sedition,” she answered and Halbrand laughed as you gave her a scolding look.

When you joined Míriel again, she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, staring outside the window. She turned her head around to smile at you gently and then she went back to staring ahead of her.

“And?” She asked.

“He asked for my hand,” you informed her with a playful smirk and the Queen Regent turned her head around once more to look at you with wide eyes.

“The audacity…” She sighed.

“Why?” You asked her with a soft smile.

“For a commoner to propose such a thing to a Lady like you… Even if it was only to jest–”

“It was not to jest, “you interrupted her. “If he is what Galadriel claims, then he would be my King,” you pointed out and an odd feeling filled your whole body when you called Mairon your King. A malicious one but also honey-like warm; sweetly spreading throughout your body.

“You are above human Kings, are you not, Lady Maneth?” Míriel raised an eyebrow at you. It was the very first time she asked such a thing so openly.

“I cannot answer that, my friend,” you smiled at her mysteriously, “but if he chooses to follow the path Lady Galadriel pushes him onto, I might have to follow him.”

“And abandon Númenor?” The Queen Regent asked. “Abandon me?”

“I am sorry,” you sighed. “Following him might be a task much more important than watching over this island,” you revealed to her.

Even though you were not given direct orders from the gods, it was obvious that watching over Mairon was more important because keeping his schemes under control would only profit in the end for everyone, including the people of Númenor. Míriel could not be told all the details, therefore she would never understand and she would feel abandoned by you. It was the price you had to pay.

It was an excuse, of course. Choosing to follow Mairon to Middle-earth to make sure he would not go back to his evil ways and that he would use the position Galadriel was giving him to do good instead… It was nothing but a noble excuse to simply explain the fact you wanted to follow him.

It was different now, though. It was not one of those times when he had begged you to come with him, straight to Morgoth. No, this time there was a string of hope that he would truly redeem himself. And of course he would have a bigger chance to do so with you by his side.

“It seems so important… Everything happening in Middle-earth. More important than I suspected. But if even you are willing to leave my side to go back there, it means there are things happening there that are much bigger than me,” Míriel said. “I must rethink Lady Galadriel’s words now then,” she informed you and walked past you to walk away. “Just like you must rethink Halbrand’s proposal.”

“Yes, I must,” you nodded at her and looked outside the window yourself. The sun was slowly setting and the view was beautiful – you wished it would forever be like this; so peaceful and calm with pink and orange hues.

Like back in the day when you had been sitting in the flower fields with Mairon, staring at the skies, your bodies filled with no malice – only pure yearning for one another.

The orange skies of the evening sky always reminded you of his ginger hair from back then and how you would brush it with your fingers, staring in awe at how the sunlight seemed to sparkle upon it.

You were standing by the guards’ side as you watched them open Halbrand’s cell. They nodded at him and he nodded back. The guards left you with him alone and an awkward silence occurred between you two.

“There, you have it your way,” you finally said, quietly.

“You must have missed me terribly,” he crossed his arms and chuckled but you did not want to laugh.

Your eyes filled with tears immediately at the mention of all those centuries you had spent thinking he was gone forever. You lifted your wet, glistening eyes to lay them on his and he clenched his jaw as he moved slightly while all playfulness left his expression.

“Do you know why I could not be killed?” Halbrand approached you to cup your chin and you shook your head. “Because of the part of me still living inside of you. As long as you are alive, I cannot be slain,” he explained. “However, the part of you that lives within me had to suffer for all those centuries alongside me and there is not a day passing when I do not regret causing you such pain.”

“Oh, Mairon…” You gasped and threw your arms around his neck to pull him closer and hug him.

However, he had something else on his mind. He blinked slowly a few times and cupped your cheeks now with his rough hands as he leaned in to join your lips together.

For the first time in your immortal life, you finally found out how sweet his lips were. And gods, how good they felt… How right. Your souls intertwined at that moment, every missing piece finding its place as if you were forged into one body.

“Before we were created, we had been a piece of stardust in the abyss and we had been one flesh then, of that I am sure,” Mairon whispered after breaking the kiss. “I should have kissed you much earlier, my love, for I have never felt so whole before.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I am glad you are kissing me only now,” you added and he raised an eyebrow at you. “For if you had kissed me like that back in the day, I would have followed you into corruption straight away. I would have worn black armour forged out of iron and I would have become Morgoth’s most zealous Lieutenant by your side – only to feel your lips on mine again,” you confessed.

Just when you finished voicing out your blasphemous feelings, Halbrand’s lips kissed you once more. This time he lowered his hands to intertwine your fingers with his. You felt him smirking when he felt the ring on your finger brushing his skin.

“Let us get married. Straight away,” he breathed out. “You are wearing my ring already. You have worn it for all eternity.”

“It would be only fair if you wore something from me as well. Something to mark you as my own like I am yours,” you pointed out.

“What would it be, my sweet?” Mairon caressed your cheek and you smirked at him a little before you reached out to the back of your neck.

You had prepared your gift for him this very morning when you already knew he would be released. There was a pendant around your neck, hidden under your dress. You took it off now and handed it to him as he slightly moved away at the sight of it.

It was a beautiful pendant surely although you made sure it would not look too feminine, so he would wear it at all times. However, what it contained inside was what truly intimidated him – it was a small portion of your light that you had sacrificed to lock in there. Wearing it could save his soul, of that you were sure. But in his eyes it surely was a form of imprisonment.

“Have you not sacrificed enough of your light for me already?” Mairon asked.

“Never enough. I shall sacrifice as much of it as I can to save you, my love,” you insisted and pushed the necklace into his open hand as you closed it around the pendant.

Mairon forced a smile as he swallowed thickly and opened his hand again to stare at the necklace before slowly putting it around his neck and hiding it under his tunic.

“Thank you,” he whispered in Quenya and you smiled back at him, encouragingly.

It had been ages since you last wore armour. Lately, the Valar had been using you more as a politician than a warrior but you still remembered the wars you had taken part of. Back then you had been on the opposite side of the field from Mairon but now you were by his side, riding your horse next to his as people of Númenor were throwing flowers at you. 

You took a deep breath in when it was time for you to jump off of your mare. What you were about to do would be equal to making a final decision about your fate – leaving Númenor meant forsaking the task that had been given to you by the Valar. However, you wanted to believe that they would value your new task even more; the one you had given to yourself. To watch over Mairon and make sure no one would know him as Sauron ever again.

He helped you to get on the ship and when you held his hand tight and he grinned at you, your heart filled with love and warmth. There was, however, a hint of worry because you knew what a skilled deceiver he could be. 

To become the King and Queen of The Southlands and to erase the darkness from that long-forsaken land was your shared goal now. Or so he had been promising you. To unite the tribes of that realm and to make sure they had a bright future. And once your mortal forms would become old enough, you would abandon or transform them to start a new life somewhere else. To heal more and more lands, more kins. 

You wanted to believe the healing would be done in the right and proper way this time because now he had you by his side.

Your new husband and an old companion smirked at you and squeezed your cheek playfully before turning around to join Captain Elendil to speak to him as the ships sailed out of the harbour. Lady Galadriel stood next to you instead and she glanced at you from the corner of her eye.

“I know it is not my right to ask about the ways of the Valar and the Maiar but why would a spirit like you marry a human and abandon the task originally given to her?” She raised an eyebrow at you.

“The road goes ever winding,” you answered her. “Not even the Valar or the Maiar can see all its paths.”

“Your devotion to this cause makes me believe I was right to fight so eagerly for this to happen,” she said and you smiled to yourself. She was so desperate.

“You are right, Artanis. It is not your right to know about the ways of my kind,” you patted her shoulder and gave her a faint smile as she nodded, staring into the horizon.

You looked there, too, but your mind was absent. You were scared and unsure – some part of you nearly wanted to be as blind as Lady Galadriel because she seemed to be so certain and fearless.

You turned around and realised that he was looking at you already. And at that moment, he looked like the Maia he had been created as – so pure with that wide smile and the sun shining behind him, creating a halo around his form. He looked handsome as ever in Númenorian armour, so different from the one he had been wearing as Morgoth’s Lieutenant. 

You gave him a wide smile back, so full of love and devotion. Perhaps his star would begin to shine in the night sky once more.

MASTERLIST

[dycefic]

The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

---

Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

[faeriichaii]

Hi! I was wondering if you could please write a legolas fix where he has a crush on f!reader!. But here's the thing, she's arwen sister and both arwen and aragorn try to match them both together and at the end they get to confess and all! I had this idea tysm<33

Sunkissed ~ Legolas x F!Elf!Reader

A/N: oh how I missed Legolas <3 I haven’t written anything for him in such a long time that I am so so happy to do a request for him again <3 tbh I think it is so easy for me to write him? Cause idk I picture him like the perfect romance guy?? And idk I always get so soft writing for him haha but omg I hope you enjoy the story!! <33

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Warnings: Fluff ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Words: 2.0k ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Request: Yes (Thank you <33) ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Le I velethril e-guil nîn ~ You are the Love of my Life ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Le Melin ~ I love you ࿐ྂ

Summary: You have been in love with the elven prince since quite a time, but never told him about it. Your sister Arwen however, is determined to change the course of your relationship with Legolas.

The light of the setting sun enveloped the room in a warm orange hue, a perfect start for the upcoming celebration of the night. Aragorn, as well as the rest of the company, arrived in Rivendell a few days ago. However, due to their immense exhaustion, the festivities had to be postponed until today. Sitting in front of your vanity, you listened to Arwen hum while her hands brushed through your hair. You have asked for her help earlier and being your sister, she of course, did not decline your request of braiding your hair. “Are you excited for todays festivities?” You suddenly asked her. Watching her reflection through the mirror, you saw a gentle smile gracing her face. “Of course I am sister. They have finally returned from their long journey and deserve to be celebrated.” “You are especially keen on celebrating Aragorn, aren’t you?” You teased her. A blush dusted her cheeks, as she gave you a light slap on the shoulder.

“Stop it. Don’t try to deny that you aren’t keen on celebrating a special someone yourself.” Arwen uttered while gathering a few strands of your hair. Looking down at your lap, you tried to hide your broad smile from her. Even the thought of Legolas alone made your heart skip a beat. And now he finally returned to Rivendell. “We are just very close friends, sister.” “Yes. Very very close friends indeed.” You scoffed at her. It was a known fact that Legolas and you have been friends since your early childhood days. You remember playing with him in the gardens of Mirkwood and dancing together at celebrations in Rivendell. You also remember how your heart shattered as you watched him chase after Tauriel. And of course you remember, putting Legolas heart back together once more.

One could say you went through a lifetime already, however you still only remained friends. “Yes, friends. Nothing more and nothing less.” Slight bitterness filled your voice at the prospect of never being more than that with the elven prince. Arwen, noticing the tone, gave your shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “You say it like it is a curse to be his friend.” “Well, you do know how I feel towards him, don’t you?” “And you know that you can change the course of your relationship anytime, don’t you?” Her arms wrapped around your shoulders in a gentle hug. “Stop worrying about a rejection that will never happen. Even our father can tell that Legolas harbours more than just friendly feelings for you, sister.” Smiling at her, you squeezed her arms, that were still encircling you. “Arwen, the sun is already setting and you still haven’t even begun to separate the strands.” She let out a huff at your change of topic and let go of you, continuing to brush through your hair. “Dear sister, would you prefer a half up half down braid with pearls?”

After finally finishing up and heading to the festivities with your sister, you quickly looked around the room. “Searching for someone specific (Y/N)?” Aragorn asked, while holding an arm out for Arwen to take. “No, not particularly.” “She is, but she just is too shy to admit it.” You glared at your sister. “Don’t worry, he will be here soon.” “Thank you, Aragorn but I am not worrying about anything or searching for someone or something. Now excuse me, I need to get a cup of wine.” And with that you left the couple alone.

“When are the both of them finally admitting their feelings for each other?” Arwen asked her lover, while he guided her towards the dance floor. “Legolas once openly admitted to me that he does love her, but he is so unsure about what to do. Especially after he got rejected by Tauriel.” A knowing hum left her lips, as she let Aragorns words sink in. “I think we should help them out. Find the right course for their future.” She said, as she twirled in her lovers arms.

Hours passed by and you found yourself staring up at the stars above. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” You spun around at the familiar voice. Your heart skipping a beat as you watched Legolas approach you slowly. His golden hair was perfectly partly braided behind his pointy ears. You remember that he once let you braid it when you were children and how soft it felt. Averting your eyes, you looked back up at the night sky. “It indeed is.” Standing beside you, he let his hands rest on top of the railing. Your fingers almost brushed against each other, sending tingles through your body. “(Y/N) I actually have a little present for you.” Tilting your head, you turned toward him curiously. His warm hand grabbed yours, turned it around and placed something small inside it. Looking down, you saw an iridescent pearl. Taking it between two fingers you examined it carefully. A small was drilled through the small sphere and small delicate details were carved into the surface.

“Legolas, this is so beautiful. Did you make this?” You looked up at the elven prince, who bashfully looked away. “Yes, a dwarven friend showed me how to make one of the- of the beads.” He stumbled upon his words. “Thank you so much, I love it!” Wrapping your arms around his torso, you gave him a hug. His scent filled your nose. Like a fresh spring breeze with a hint of lavender. His arms gently wrapped around you, engulfing you in his warmth. You could have stayed like this forever. In his arms, in his warmth. Pulling away, you smiled up at him, a soft red hue dusting your cheeks. “Would you like to braid the bead into my hair?” You asked him, still holding onto his hands while the bead is nestled between both of your palms. “It would be an honour.” His smile made your heart flutter and fill your body with a comfortable warmth. Turning around, you let the elven prince gather a strand of your hair, braid it and finish it off with the beautiful bead he just gifted you. “It looks beautiful in your hair. Like a star encased in a soft blanket.” You smiled at his words, as you turned back around. Oh, how you wish this night would never end.

The next day you were walking through the gardens alone. You were thinking about the celebrations yesterday. Especially how Legolas treated you and even gifted you a handmade bead. You also vividly remember how the pair of you glided over the dance floor to various melodies. And how his touch ignited your body. You could still even feel the imprints of his fingers on your waist. Do normal friends even act like we do? “You seem quite in thought today (Y/N)” Aragorns voice rung in your ears, ripping you away from your daydream. “Hello Aragorn, how come you are spending time without my sister? I thought the both of you would be inseparable after your return.” The man let out a soft chuckle at your joke. “She found company in someone else today.” You raised an eyebrow at that. With whom was she spending time?

“And to be completely honest with you, I was seeking you out for today.” “How come?” “Let’s take a walk around the gardens, shall we?” He smiled at you, deflecting your question. Nodding at his request, the both of you started to walk along the stone path. “Do you know how Legolas came up with the idea of making this bead?” “He just told me that a friend helped him. So, I guess Gimli shared some of his wisdom with him.” “That is partly the truth.” You looked at Aragorn curiously. “What do you mean by that?” A sigh left the man at your question. “I can’t exactly tell you, because it is not my place to. However, I really wish he would just finally admit to his feelings and confess. The same also goes to you.” You suddenly stopped walking and stared at him; mouth slightly ajar. Never would you have ever guessed that Aragorn would call you out for your feelings towards the elven prince.

“I- I have my reasons Aragorn.” “And so does he. But would you rather constantly long for him than actually courting him?” Embarrassment flooded your system, as you looked at the ground. “I just- I am scared of losing him.” A hand on your shoulder made you look up. Aragorn smiled gently at you. “You won’t lose him (Y/N). I think he might actually be on his way by now to change something about your… situation.” Aragorns eyes focused on something behind you, which made you turn around confused. Arwen was descending the few stone steps with Legolas beside her. “Well, what a pleasant surprise, isn’t it?” She said, weaving her arm through Aragorns. You looked at Legolas, who gave you a smile as a greeting. Returning his gesture, the four of you continued your walk through the garden.

“I am happy to see you are still wearing the bead in your hair.” The elven prince broke the silence between you. “Of course I am. You put so much effort into this lovely gift, I will cherish it for the rest of my life.” “I am glad to hear that.” He slowed his pace down, to create some distance between the both of you and the pair in front of you. “(Y/N) there is something I want to talk about with you.” A shiver went down your spine at his words. Did he find out about my feelings? Will he reject me now? Dread flooded your system, as you stared at him waiting for him to continue talking. “Do you know how I came up with the idea of gifting you this bead?” Legolas asked you. You shook your head no. “It is quite simple. Gimli talked about his customs and how similar they were to ours in some aspects. He also mentioned that they normally craft courting beads for their significant other.” Warmth spread over your face and dusted your cheeks in a rosy colour.

“After that I asked him if he could show me how to craft one. Because I wanted to give one to you.” Suddenly he stopped walking and turned toward you. Grabbing your hand gently into his, he let his thumb stroke soft circles over your skin. Your heart beat quickened, as you looked up into his warm eyes. “I want to court you (Y/N). I want to spend my lifetime with yours. I want to be beside you during cold nights as well as warm days. I want to be with you and I want to be yours (Y/N).” Gasping at his words, you squeezed his hands reassuringly. “I never would have expected to hear such beautiful words from you Legolas. My heart has always longed to be with yours and I would love to enter this courtship with you. I want to spend my lifetime with you. I want to be yours and I would love you to be mine.”

Smiling brightly at you, Legolas let go of your hands and placed his gently on your face. His thumb stroked along your reddened cheek, before he leaned in slightly. Your heartbeat quickened as his face got closer to yours. But before your lips could touch, he stopped. “Le I velethril e-guil nîn.” And with those words he closed the gap between you. His rich taste filled your system, as you tilted your head more to the side and let his lips engulf more of you. He was addicting, like a drug. A sweet drug. He tasted like a sunny spring morning. Like the comfort and warmth of sunrays on your skin. Separating, the both of you looked at each other lovingly. “Le melin.” You said, smiling brightly at him before indulging once more in his lips and his embrace, making sure to treasure every single second of it.

[elisabethdeep-blog]

Gotta make a post about my best DunMeshi neurospicy boi

Lotta content out there about Laios' autistic traits but where o where is the Senshi rep?

Senshi's dedication to Dungeon trophic systems makes Laios' special interest look like a well-thumbed pamphlet. (Granted Senshi has had significantly longer to cook; Laios is a baby).

Senshi's limited emoting is baked-in to his character model- that thousand yard stare, most of his face occluded by his habitual helmet (masked, even...... How many folks pine for covid masks obviating the need to manage their faces constantly?)

He overheard someone mention his special interest and Walked Right Up to a Group of Strangers to brazenly asplain them a thing. Marcille makes a bridge-mending bid regarding the mosses in the scorpion hotpot (after her previous truculent outbursts) and he totally deadpans her, because he didn't even notice.

He is VERY COMMITED to his ethical position on dungeon ecology. More than once he's disrupted Marcille Right at the point of release of a spell, after she's been chanting for like a paragraph, because she's going to contravene some principle of his.

Also

Speaking of Marcille, he demonstrates some pretty rigid, black-and-white thinking around magic, that doesn't seem internally consistent. He's repeatedly reanimating magical constructs (golems), an explicitly controlled magical act, but is Very Very reluctant to submit to being charmed with WaterWalk; his spoken reasoning about this just doesn't hold water.

Oh and he's totally neglected his personal hygiene for basically ever. He's averse to cleaning up for the sake of being bespelled, but other than magic, seems fine with getting the salon treatment. This isn't a Toph Beifong 'protective layer of earth', he's just forgotten to care about not being covered with monster gore.

PDA? The fellow has one (1) social skill, namely, he exercises any discretion on opening his mouth to argue. But that holds him back exactly NONE when he decides he's done listening. The first time we see this is gathering Mandrakes, when he doesn't SAY he's done with Marcille's opinions, but he Does just go ahead and exercise his damn autonomy. a MUCH stronger example is when Chilchuck is guiding them through the trap rooms. Senshi gets roundly (and rightly!) chewed out by Chilchuck, and his response isn't the sensible 'sorry Chilchuck, maybe I could walk more directly behind you so I can more closely match your steps', but to BRAZENLY DANCE ALL OVER THE TRAP FLOOR! the only reason that doesn't kill the whole party is The Plot. It's not even that he doesn't appreciate Chilchuck's skill- he just don't like getting chastised! Same with Anne the Kelpie! Senshi's gonna do what Senshi's gonna do! He WILL not be rushed, he WILL not be chastised, he WILL not be directed! How do we think he came to be living in a dungeon all by himself in the first place!!

AND THE BREAD!

THIS IS NOT THE DEMAND OF A NEUROTYPICAL DWARF

Look there's more. After Chilchuck's impassioned and heartfelt plea, Senshi suggests they should return to the surface because they're 'low on seasoning'.

He's a dwarf who turned his adamantium shield into a cookpot.

He can meticulously maintain his mithril cooking knife but not his axe.

He responds well to other characters meeting him halfway but initiates few (no?) such bids himself. There's rarely any guile in Senshi, and when he is being shifty, he's Bad At It- and again, usually its in service of demand avoidance, like when he capitalises on Marcille's toilet break to reanimate his golems.

Senshi is the monomaniac that society has spent Decades trying to iron out of my wrinkly brain.

I hope to see him also find a place in the neurosparkly constellations.

[colorfulwastelandvoid]

I’m just gonna post this now cause I saw something that irritated me and I’m about to spiral. Mel thee Medarda😍.

What this fandom has done to her… Is the exact reason why existing as a black fem in a predominantly white ( including white gay) fanbase should come with reparations. This woman is a child of war and pilgrimage. It doesn’t matter that she was a Medarda. she was still a child! That ish will change you and it’s clear in her interactions with her mother she at the very least saw the endings of wars and campaigns, I can’t imagine those being pretty. Mel being the black sheep and lowkey scapegoat child of her family is not talked about either. As a teen she is sent away from the only support system she knows doesn’t matter if it was toxic, it was still familiar, to a brand new land where she had to build herself up again as a TEEN (probably since they never stated when she was casted out)! She spent her formative years in Noxus, where the strong survive. It is not surprising that while she detest violence and aggression, she uses her guile/ persuasion aggressively. By the time Arcane season 1 starts Mel is a young woman in her 20s on the council (the youngest council member too) and like Tok’s said Mel is a young woman who is extremely sure of herself… as a front. Mel is a woman who actually hates herself or at the very least is an extremely aware of how little all this means to the people that matter to her. We see this in the first scene of Mel in the show, where Elora reminds her of the fact she is the richest person in Piltover and Mel quickly remarked saying “And yet I remained the poorest Medarda”. The fandom quickly took that as Mel being power/money hungry when in reality that self depreciation was coming from a real place of insecurity. She knows how the Medardas’ are and how little they care for the fox and it bothers her. She’s not doing this for power in the way that it is presented. She’s doing this to prove a point. That her mother is wrong and the fox can be powerful. She is also trying to convince herself of that too.

From what we can gather in the show through her flashback and interactions with Ambessa, it’s clear that Mel definitely was considered to weak willed and soft spined for Noxus. I mean Ambessa says that to her before she casted her out. The fact that Mel apparently can still say the quote verbatim shows how scarring it was.

Mel is a woman caught in the extremes. She wants to uplift Piltover to prove herself to her family but also knowing what that means she also wants to protect Piltover from Noxus.She is a woman who has a love overflowing but has nowhere to pour into until she meets Jayce ( I’ll save that for a MelJay post though). I think because of how reserved Mel is,due to her upbringing and Ambessa literally discouraging, it’s not really discussed how Mel is probably emotionally stunted.

I have a lot more I can say about Mel as a character, she is literally my number 1 since season 1 but this post is already long and all over the place but this is a tip of an iceberg of how I digested her as a character.

Ps someone on TikTok said Mel was the Arcane version of Apollo and it makes so much sense(she is the beautiful child of an affair but is also the light bringer and a patron of the arts). Her and Ambessa was definitely a Greek Tragedy, at least to me.

[dekariosclan]

BIG question for the defacto lore keeper of Gale, so feel free to disregard if too big but do you know all the qualities Gale compliments people on?

I know in his letter and in the 'Dekarios' dialog and first item giving he mentions one of the following: strength, generosity, and perfection

I am curious what else he says.

‘Defacto Lore Keeper’ has such a lovely ring to it, but ‘Unhinged Superfan’ is probably a more accurate description 😂 Regardless, thank you for the compliment Anon!

Happy to help with your request—I’m guessing that I missed some along the way, but here’s what I gathered!

When Gale trusts Tav enough to tell them about his condition, he comments on their ‘kindness, guile and courage’

He bows to Tav’s ‘boundless kindness’ after they give him a magical artifact

He says Tav is ‘a soul that steels my own’ after they agree to let him stay in the party

He compliments Tav’s ‘confidence��� at the Tiefling party

During his romance conversation at the party, he compares Tav to Tara. Fun fact: the compliment(s) he gives here can vary! He can remark on Tav’s ‘steeliness and unwavering tenacity,’ or their ‘fierceness and passion,’ or say that they have ‘an expression similar to Tara’s when a mouse is trapped under her paw’. Then, depending on what remaining dialogue is chosen, he can call Tav ‘wonderful’

In the Shadowlands flirting scene he can call Tav ‘quite irresistible’ or ‘beautiful and impressive’

In the Act 2 romance he compliments Tav’s ‘beauty and wonder’ and can tell Tav they are a ‘God/Goddess/Deity’ to him

If Tav defeats Yugir via words alone, Gale can say he’s ‘awed, impressed, and a little bit scared’ of Tav

In Act 3 he says Tav’s eyes are ‘capable of tenderness and feeling. No God could ever compare.’

He says the celestial canvas is an (almost) fitting backdrop for Tav’s ‘beauty’

And of course, if Tav becomes an Illithid and they marry, Gale will tell them in the epilogue that ‘no finer Illithid ever walked the face of Faerun.’

[uselessbard1031]

Every Rose Has Its Thorns (Ambessa X Black Rose Spy! Reader C1)

Trying a new thing where I cross post on Tumblr and Ao3. (Ao3 link at end)

C1:

Everyone is sleeping with someone and beds can bury many secrets under the covers. Secrets like the Demacian lover of a famed Noxian assassin. Secrets like the Trifarix takeover of Grand General Darkwill. Secrets like the Crimson Circle’s leader planning another coup. These secrets stick to the thorns of those special redolent rose colored lovers tangled up in the sheets with generals, captains, and house heads. Those lovers whose special magics put the guile in beguiling. 

Your job is a florist -- a host handing out roses and collecting the pricked off secrets those roses gathered. A job you do well. Not every flower at your shop is a rose. No. There are delusional daisies and desperate daffodils. There are illusions of irises and professional pansies. But those are all a cover for the sweet pollen of your roses. Rose roots, as most know, are everywhere once they're planted. They sap the nutrients from every other flower nearby -- they have the power to consume. To consume secrets of the rest of the garden. 

One day about a month ago a daisy had earned the affections of a general so much so that she had begun buzzing about her life like a little pollinator. The rumors stuck to the rose roots within your brothel and thus came to you. You saw to it that the general’s lover was upgraded to a rose still suiting of her tastes. The daisy, you had said, was bought by someone looking for a bouquet in their home. The general had not minded in the slightest which was no surprise. If she'd have genuinely cared about losing the flower, you would have simply spliced the daisy in with a rose, given it thorns, and kept it pricking. Instead, your mother has taken it and all of its intel too. 

So now, for a month, a rose has been sticking into those secret filled covers. A rose who is very good at his job. A rose who is…marching towards you with a bruise beneath his gold-lidded eye and a fuming gaze?

“What's happened?” You ask, quirking a brow.

“I'm done,” he snaps, his voice as pretty as his feminine face. 

“No you're not. Where's the client?”

“In my room. Wants someone else.” He looks down the hall of doors and rooms before leaning in to you. “I pressed about the son, like you said. She wants nothing to do with me now. I'm burned.”

“And bruised. Go get some ice.”

He storms off to nurse his wound and you bite your lip, scanning through your mental inventory. All of your research says he's her perfect type. Skinny. Benign. Docile. Pretty. Your other effeminate male rose is currently assigned elsewhere. Though if she comes another day, he may do. You know she likes women as well. Ones with strength. No. Power. Weapons of women and flowers of men. But muscles alone won't do. You have many talented mages, sure. Perhaps one of them could peak her interest. But none of them have what she truly craves in a female lover -- someone with superiority -- someone chosen -- someone capable, with control and, well, power. Someone like…

You glance back at her room. It's an idea, but is it one you're willing to dedicate to? You grin, imagining how your mother will react to the news. She'll be amused more than anything. Impressed, you think. Proud. Guile means more to her than pride so to sell yourself as a flower, as a rose, someone so unobtainable that the general will feel oh so special to have you. Yes. You'll earn your mother's pride for this clever little play. 

You switch the sign on the front door to closed and head back to the retired rose’s room. With a breath of confidence, you knock, a smile glazing over your lips already. 

“Enter,” a voice like broken glass on a gravel path orders from the other side.

You open the door, heading inside but paying her no mind. Not yet. Something small first, a show of your magical power to aid your social power. You twist your hand absentmindedly around a healthy pothos hanging from a ceiling hook. A shadow creeps down its long vines, blazing a trail of withered brown and fallen crinkled leaves behind it until it slithers all the way to the new growth at the tip. 

“You've given one of my top earners a black eye,” you say, still not facing her.

“Your whore ,” she growls the word, “was testing my patience and good nature. I pay for pleasure, not for interrogation.”

“He's chatty.”

“I don't care for chatty.”

“Your last lover was chatty.” You toss her a look over your shoulder. Then sigh and go back to the pothos, killing another vine with darkness so deep it drains all the stored sunlight away with ease. “You liked him. I assumed this would be a good match for you.”

“I have been employing your brothel’s services for near a decade now. Yet, I don't believe we've ever spoken.”

You turn to her now. Your eyes trace the hem of red cotton that drapes over her muscled thighs. They slip up to her red painted lips on her glass of posca. They twist through curls of grey hair leaning against a headboard, twirling a strand by her scarred umber face. She really is attractive, now isn't she?

You glide up to the bed, taking your time. “We may have never spoken, but that doesn't mean I haven't kept tabs on you.” 

As you reach her, you sit on the mattress, just out of reach, teasing the edges of her aura with your own. You bring shadows from the corners of the room closer. Snakes of black curtain around the bedframe and lurk on the floorboards. One tickles across her leg and she shudders, though she hides it. Her gaze falls on you, curious, interest piqued, but wary and ready for battle. 

“You are strong,” you say. “Stronger than most. In will. In might. Ah, but you already know this. It makes you difficult to please. You've been unhappy with my business twice now. I do not wish to leave you dissatisfied a third time.” You lean just a bit closer, fingers tracing lightly around a scar by her knee. “So perhaps something off menu would better suit your unique tastes?”

Her gold flecked eyes darken a shade and she smirks. Humming amusedly, she asks,”Mm and what may you be offering, off menu, exactly?

A shadow follows your hand, reaching forward with you to brush hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. “I've always preferred female lovers, and I've heard rumors that you enjoy both sexes.”

“The rumors are true”

“Please then, allow me to apologize for the chatty whore. Have a night on the house. With me.” You lean closer still, your lips ghosting her own. You think for a moment to leave the choice to her, to allow her to seize you, claim you. But then you think about how attracted she is to women in control so you seize her instead -- kissing her before she kisses you. 

And boy does she kiss you.

A calloused hand finds its way to the back of your head, fingers knotting in your hair. She chuckles, hungry mouth against your own, her tongue rolling along your bottom lip. It's not a fight for dominance. No. It's a test to see if you will yield it. You don't. Which spurs her to smile more. She pulls away from you, eyes finding yours with a bit of a glimmer. 

“You are curious, little flower,” she says. 

“As are you, general. Tell me, how does a wolf stalk its prey?”

She chuckles again, a low rumbling noise. “Deliberately.”

“And how does it attack?”

“Without mercy.”

Her claims prove valid when she attacks, mercilessly, your lips again. Your neck. Your shoulder. You allow her to guide you to your back, pulling the darkness around you entirely so that the only light in the room is the halos you allow around her and around you. You keep the spell the entire night you spend together. With every talented curl of your finger or quivering shake of your orgasm she grows more and more intrigued by you. By your focus and your abilities. Good. Your roots are being planted. In time, your thorns will prick those secrets from her.

In time, turns out to be a patient six months. You've uncovered much of her story but only the outer shell. Her loyalty to family. Her desire for legacy. And just now, a few days after the six month mark, she finally gifts you the information your mother has so wanted.

“Daughter,” the voice greets you in the pale red darkness of her illusion. How can it be pale and dark? Well, how can anything be mutually exclusive when it comes to her? A woman with a million faces yet not known for a single one. The Faceless.

You take a knee before her, her silhouette shifting between heavy and light, brawny and slender, masculine and feminine. “Mother,” you greet, “I come with the information you sought from Ambessa Medarda.”

“The one whose love child is of our own kind? Now that is interesting.”

You stand. “The son, Kino, he is in Nava on a diplomatic mission for their house.”

“Are you certain?”

“Would I lie?” You smirk.

She steps forth from her illusion, a pale face with a bob of blue hair and dark purple lips that smirk right back at you. 

“You've done well, daughter,” she says, thin white fingers tilting up your chin. “I knew there was a reason I took you in that century ago. Just a bawling little infant then. Look at you now. All grown up and covered in thorns. Our agents in Nava will capture the wolf pup. He will be tested and, if potent, used. The Black Rose will bloom again.”

“What about the alpha wolf? Have we any further use for her?”

“Perhaps. The future is all smoke and mirrors. So play your part. Keep her leashed. Remember that there is still a second child we may require if this one proves to be the wrong one.”

“Understood.”

She sighs, releasing you and turning to the warping edges of the nothingness around you. Turning to some door in some far off room. With a wave of her hand a magician’s staff appears between jeweled rings on her thumb and index finger. Without looking back at you she says, “I’ve got to go. The assassin’s are due at Swain’s doorstep any minute now.” She glances over her shoulder, a purr and a grin, “it's how he knows I care.”

With that, the void disappears and so does she. You're left alone in your bedroom with its stone walls and silk sheets. 

You gaze out over the city through your window. Noxus Prime. All these years and it hasn't changed much at all. Then again, neither have you. Your looks are still that of your youth. Easier, then, with bright eyes and a light face, to manipulate the shadows behind Noxus’s big red curtains. All these banners and blood and war. How trivial. Those two men your mother works alongside on the Trifarix are nothing more than puppets in a big show. One day, they'll be gone -- bone and ashes -- just like the man before them and there will be another puppet and another. All marionettes, dancing by the pull of their strings. Dancing, by your mother's hand. Dancing, for the Black Rose.

[homers-filing-cabinet]

“Watch where the birds fly, they will lead us to land, there we’ll hunt for food my second in command”

Says that tactful and guileful man, gentle, royal, rugged, Odysseus, MASTER MARINER, and King of Ithaca.

Ody…my guy…

The birds will lead you to food.

Seagulls gather in flocks above water when there are fish near the surface.

FISH YOU CAN EAT.

BUDDY.

RAMSHACKLE A FISHING ROD. FOOD IS RIGHT THERE. USE SPEARS IF SO DESIRED.

I adore Odysseus, but I’m losing it actively, I do believe.

[mortalityplays]

Hi! I really liked and agreed with your post on purple prose, and I was curious what books if any you'd describe as having purple prose. Not even necessarily as shorthand for calling it bad! just examples of it, especially from non-classic literature. Unless the term is entirely subjective lol. Feel free to reply to this ask publicly or privately; I don't mind either way

Have some Conan the Barbarian (sorry about! the racism):

TORCHES flared murkily on the revels in the Maul, where the thieves of the east held carnival by night. In the Maul they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest people shunned the quarters, and watchmen, well paid with stained coins, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of refuse and sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows where wolf preyed on wolf, and from the darkness rose the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scufflings and strugglings. Torchlight licked luridly from broken windows and wide-thrown doors, and out of those doors, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, clamor of drinking-jacks and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face. In one of these dens merriment thundered to the low smoke- stained roof, where rascals gathered in every stage of rags and tatters—furtive cut-purses, leering kidnappers, quick- fingered thieves, swaggering bravoes with their wenches, strident-voiced women clad in tawdry finery. Native rogues were the dominant element—dark-skinned, dark-eyed Zamorians, with daggers at their girdles and guile in their hearts. But there were wolves of half a dozen outland nations there as well. There was a giant Hyperborean renegade, taciturn, dangerous, with a broadsword strapped to his great gaunt frame—for men wore steel openly in the Maul. There was a Shemitish counterfeiter, with his hook nose and curled blue-black beard. There was a bold- eyed Brythunian wench, sitting on the knee of a tawny-haired Gunderman—a wandering mercenary soldier, a deserter from some defeated army. And the fat gross rogue whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional kidnapper come up from distant Koth to teach woman-stealing to Zamorians who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain.

Conan is an interesting example imo because it displays a lot of the highs and lows of pulp. Robert E. Howard could also write very punchy, straightforward action, and often did - but part of the selling point for the emerging genre fiction of the era was that it was lurid and lascivious. While the extract above is. Well. Bad. It is worth recognising that within its context it was also kind of experimental.

Howard wrote these drooling, sort of bewildering, sensory passages for the same reason Marvel movies punch you in the face with saturated colours and rapid cuts and a billion VFX. You see it in the work of H.P. Lovecraft too, and I will grudgingly acknowledge that that's something worth recognising about his literary impact. I also think Lovecraft was a pretty bad technical writer, personally, but that's a whole other soapbox.

My point is that a lot of truly purple prose today (in the sense that it is extraneous, distracting, undermines its own function) traces its legacy to this era of pulp where there was a distinct secondary purpose to overwhelming the reader with ornamentation. It was self-consciously indulgent, and strikingly distinct from the more genteel floridity of equally bad literary novelists. For instance, compare the above with the even purpler prose of the famously awful Irene Iddesleigh:

On being introduced to all those outside his present circle of acquaintance on this evening, and viewing the dazzling glow of splendour which shone, through spectacles of wonder, in all its glory, Sir John felt his past life but a dismal dream, brightened here and there with a crystal speck of sunshine that had partly hidden its gladdening rays of bright futurity until compelled to glitter with the daring effect they soon should produce. But there awaited his view another beam of life’s bright rays, who, on entering, last of all, commanded the minute attention of every one present—this was the beautiful Irene Iddesleigh. How the look of jealousy, combined with sarcasm, substituted those of love and bashfulness! How the titter of tainted mockery rang throughout the entire apartment, and could hardly fail to catch the ear of her whose queenly appearance occasioned it! These looks and taunts serving to convince Sir John of Nature’s fragile cloak which covers too often the image of indignation and false show, and seals within the breasts of honour and equality resolutions of an iron mould. On being introduced to Irene, Sir John concluded instantly, without instituting further inquiry, that this must be the original of the portrait so warmly admired by him. There she stood, an image of perfection and divine beauty, attired in a robe of richest snowy tint, relieved here and there by a few tiny sprigs of the most dainty maidenhair fern, without any ornaments whatever, save a diamond necklet of famous sparkling lustre and priceless value.

Christ. Hopefully you can see the depth of the scale here - the Conan extract is muddy and difficult to read, but this is near incomprehensible. Part of the reason this passage is so much worse is that there is even less intent behind the author's use of language. Here, she is working overtime to evoke a kind of dramatic-intellectual style borrowed from writers like the Brontë sisters (imo at least - not an expert, that's just the sense I get as a reader). The further these flourishes get from lending purpose to the meaning of the prose, the harder they are to parse.

BUT my other point is: far fewer writers these days set out to emulate Irene Iddesleigh's arch, roundabout, society conscious voice than they do the hallmarks of classic pulp. We're inured to sex and violence, sin and debauchery in fiction today, so extracts like the Conan example feel even more bloated than they did in their time. And that creates a real pitfall for amateur genre writers: the instinct to pay homage to the stylistic choices of the classics can lead them right into Irene Iddesleigh territory.

Too often, the purpose of these overwrought, leering descriptions isn't calculated to thrill the audience, but to establish a piece in the company of older works the writer admires. And that's what leads to truly purple prose in contemporary genre writing, which makes readers scoff and laugh, which makes authors self-conscious and timid, which leads us here to a point where wordy description is inaccurately identified as the problem. It's not. The problem is excess - and when something has purpose, by definition, it's not excessive.

[goshdangronpa]

Where to begin in sharing my thoughts on Class of '09: The Flip Side ...

Well, how about the positives? Everything I've seen is so negative, and trust me, I have thoughts. But I enjoyed quite a lot of it, and I wanna do my part to balance out the discourse. So, here's a list.

Jecka makes for an interesting protagonist compared to Nicole. She's far more emotional - I swear, she breaks down crying in every route, which is genuinely disconcerting. She's also way less savvy. I'm not fond of how overwhelmingly negative these endings are (more on that in another post), but it at least makes sense. Nicole gets the upper hand in several endings from the previous two games because she's usually cunning enough to avoid potential problems, manipulate her way out of them, and/or get people in serious trouble. Jecka may be a bit of a bitch (and I love her for it!), but as she says in one ending, she kinda needs Nicole. Putting her in the protag role isn't just subbing her in for Nicole. Flip Side explores how things would go for someone with slightly more conscience and way less guile.

Jecka's so goddamn gay, oh my god. Wanting to look for a "goth work girlfriend" at Hot Topic. "I can afford holes, Imma buy me some hoes!" Kissing Ari! She says she only did the latter for attention, but girl ... girl. Someday she'll ask someone "Doesn't every girl think about sleeping with their gal pals?" and be shocked when that someone says no. (Tbh when I heard that one route would explore a previous game's route from Jecka's perspective, and when I saw the CG of the jeckari kiss on Tumblr, I created an entire plotline in my head that didn't come to fruition. Pity - it'd at least make for a good fanfic.)

"It's been seven seconds." The scenes based on this bit are some of the funniest in the whole series ("Why don't you magically gather some friends?"). Like something straight out of South Park. If the Co09 anime Kickstarter had reached the stretch goal of a full 25-minute episode, would this have been the script? I've heard people say that Flip Side doesn't feel like Class of '09, or that the dialogue isn't as good in this one, but this part, among others, works for me. "Can anyone do the math?" "... I thought this was health."

I'm a lifelong FYE patron who will drive 40-odd minutes to visit the only remaining store in my entire region. So for me especially, the entire FYE storyline was a ride. It reminded me of American Dad, where every episode turns something mundane into an elaborate conspiracy or wild adventure into its secret underbelly. It's awesome from beginning to ... well, not the end, but it's mostly awesome. And we get to hang out with Kelly! That's neat!

This is apparently my hottest take: the "foot whore" routes are not that bad. For starters, they're not presented in a way that fetishizes Jecka herself. You never see her feet, or see what she does with them. Yall can still find the suggestion of it gross if you want, but comparisons to Quentin Tarantino seem unwarranted! More importantly, the foot services enable the writers to explore topics of sex work while keeping the game light on actual sexual activity. It's rare to see such subject matter broached in a thing like this, yet we get to see how circumstances can pull desperate people into selling their bodies, and how swiftly and easily they can have their boundaries violated and their safety compromised by the customers they depend on. The increasing disruption of normal conversations by the text notifications of Jeffery's donations is a genuinely despairing plot device. Both endings are troubling for different reasons (again, that's for another post), but the game's got something to say in a way that, to me, is fairly mature yet distinctly Class of '09. (Credit to my partner for this observation, I'm so grateful I could play this with them.)

... Uh ... the music sting from the opening monologue bumps ... It sounds more Class of '17 than Class of '09, but it's still cool ...

Okay so I can't think of more, at least not right now. (EDIT: How did I forget the Hatman? That was cute!) Flip Side may be the most flawed game in the series, but it's still pretty good. At the very least, I don't think it's the shitshow other people are making it out to be ... though there is a smell. I'll go deeper on the negatives in other posts.

[whitherwanderer]

- N I N E T Y -

💎💥 - 🗡️🏹 🌸⛏️ - 💀🥀

[aliciavance4228]

As much as I'm willing everyday everytime to roast Nonnus for writing some really effed up shit in the Dionysiaca, there are also moments and details inside it which I genuinely appreciate. One of them is this one, where Nike gives a pep talk to Zeus and the first deity she mentions when she starts talking about the other gods is Athena:

Nonnus, Dionysiaca 2. 205 ff (trans. Rouse) (Greek epic C5th A.D.) : "[When the monster Typhoeus besieged Olympos (Olympus), all the gods fled except for Zeus and Nike :] Zeus was alone, when Nike (Victory) came to comfort him, scoring the high paths of the air with her shoe. She had the form of Leto; and while she armed her father, she made him a speech full of reproaches with guileful lips : ‘Lord Zeus! Stand up as champion of your own children! Let me never see Athene mingled with Typhon [Typhoeus], she who knows not the way of a man with a maid! Make not a mother of the unmothered! Fight, brandish your lightning, the fiery spear of Olympos! Gather once more your clouds, lord of the rain! For the foundations of the steadfast universe are already shaking under Typhon's hands: the four blended elements are melted! Deo [Demeter] has renounced her harvests. Hebe has left her cup, Ares has thrown down his spear, Hermes has dropped his staff, Apollon has cast away his harp, and taken a swan's form, and flown off on the wing, leaving his winged arrows behind! Aphrodite, the goddess who brings wedlock to pass, has gone a wandering, and the universe is without seed. The bonds indissoluble of harmony are dissolved, leaving behind his generative arrows, the adorner of brides, he the all-mastering, the unmastered! And your fiery Hephaistos (Hephaestus) has left his favourite Lemnos, and dragging unruly knees, look how slowly he keeps his unsteady course! See a great miracle--I pity your Hera, though she hates me sure enough! What--is your begetter [Kronos (Cronus)] to come back into the assembly of the stars? May that never be, I pray! Even if I am called a Titenis, I wish to see no Titan lords of Olympos, but you and your children. Take your lordly thunderbolt and champion chaste Artemis.’"

Furthermore, she doesn’t say "let us never see" but "let me never see" which sounds more personal and shows how the idea of having Athena forcibly married off to someone is a lovecraftian horror idea to her.

[soufcakmistress]

Temptress

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Thick Black OC

The intricate oil painting hanging on the wall threatened to fall by the incessant pounding of the bed frame. “I wonder what they’re serving at the pub tonight…” Sybil Freeman pondered as this sad soul rutted away between her legs. The Viscount Peters was one of her frequent visitors, and always tipped well. A lackluster lover, but always super sweet. The viscount shuddered and finally expelled into the sheepskin condom, with sighs of much awaited relief. Her corset has her abundant breasts grazing her chin, which have now spilled out from the romp that just ensued.

This is the part that the men come for. “Ooooh, the Viscount is feeling very frisky this evening. I’ll be sure to put those juniper berries in your wine every time we meet, sugar.” The short and dumpy nobleman always moseyed down her street for a bit of loving. Black and white men alike patronized the house—a house of nothing but Black bawds and whores.

~

London is a long way from colonial Charleston. Sybil Ravenel was one of eleven children to an enslaved couple working the indigo crop on Edisto Island. Keen on her surroundings and fierce about her family, one particular overseer would always harass her. She was very shapely and purposely wore baggier clothes to conceal her body. She’d managed to make it this far without getting whipped or separated from her family. The overseer was tired of Sybil spurning him. Easter Day came and the slaves were able to take the day off for once. While everyone was congregated by the fire, Sybil was caught off guard and gagged and pulled around the tobacco barn. Little did that overseer know that Sybil had been preparing for that day.

She sharpened this stick every day and hid it in the waistline of her skirt. Today, she made good on her intentions and shoved the stick into his neck. “I the last Negro woman you try to push up on. Bastard.” Blood drenched her apron and bonnet, and she wrenched them off and hid them under her skirt. Scrambling to the slave quarters, she gathered up the few clothes she had, tied them up and ran towards the harbor with all of her might in the dead of night.

Sybil understood sex and how easy men were guiled once it entered a dynamic. Men had few motivations and if it didn’t involve money, food or sex, Sybil found they didn’t have much use past that. She wasn’t entirely sure of her age, but she was a woman full grown. She had no education but she had the will to live and extremely limited means to do so. Offering what she had between her legs was how she was able to convince the captain of a nearby merchant ship not to ring the alarm for a fugitive slave on the run. She sucked his pecker so good as a matter of fact, he gave her her own cabin, left to be undisturbed until the ship docked.

The manifest was set for London Harbor, with a large store of indigo posed for shipping to the British Isles. England outlawed slavery years ago and all Sybil can remember being in awe of how Black folks roamed so freely. London was expansive, a different feeling versus Charleston. Attempting to navigate the streets, she bumped into a striking woman, with incredible cheek bones and dwarfed almost every man. “Careful, darling. Yuh ‘ave to actually look where yuh walk in this city. Before yuh get trampled.”

Needless to say, her life was changed from then on out. Bellemere Almodovar. Born in Jamaica, she was purchased by Spanish spice traders in exchange for bushels of saffron. She was so beautiful that she was whisked away from the auction block to accompany a lord in the Spanish court in the Spanish royal seat in Madrid.

Bellemere took Sybil under her wing. Showed her the ropes, how to keep herself safe, how to articulate herself, and recognize what the means to the end was. Fuck the frogs until you find the prince. A marquis or a lord having you for his mistress meant security and stability. A binding contract between the two of you kept the relationship mutually beneficial at all times. You provide the cunny and ego stroking, he provides the lifestyle. It’s plain and simple as that.

Until then, Sybil would stack her money. Her and Bellemere have expanded their stable, with an extremely diverse group of Black women with various treasures to offer. Lola and Liza Ibeji, the Sierra Leonan twin Amazons liked to play with the kinky politicians on Downing street on every bank holiday who liked to be tied up and degraded. Sarah Macenroe was a biracial beauty from Ireland, looking for a new home since her last bawd kicked her out. She was a contortionist, and petite like a nymph who loved to stick her finger up a John’s bum. And Sybil’s best friend Janie Smith from Trinidad, always quick to cuss her in patois. She was plump and shaped like you and that brought you both closer. Janie learned that she did not have a gag reflex, allowing any man to aim his prick down her endless throat with no resistance.

And Sybil. Sybil’s prized possession was between her legs. It was wetter and tighter than anyone around, and was guaranteed to make any man lose his pride before he wanted to. Her blue fingertips were a marvel to gaze upon and added to the fantasy. These English nobles ached for the chance of sleeping with a liberated Negro woman from the colonies. Her life was easy now. Fuck her regulars, and live good. She was free. Free to eat in any cafe of her choosing. Led her girls into any social gathering with their heads high and guaranteed to garner whispers and gasps. Music to her ears.

As of late, Sybil had been bored to tears of the social scene. Janie had just snagged her keeper, and she’d been whisked to the northern countryside for the next month. On this particular occasion, Sybil’s carob skin emitted radiance unknown to this world with the midnight blue gown hugging her body close. Her scalp itched under the powdered wig, and she daintily threw back her 6th drink of the night. Her girls worked the room as always, prowling for the next kill, and yet Sybil couldn’t give a fuck about any of these men.

She grabbed her sachet, picked up the ends of her dress and sashayed to the terrace. Some fresh air was needed. A cigarette she already rolled was pulled out and heavy footsteps lurked behind her. “Is this seat taken?”

A puff of tobacco smoke billowed in front of her cherubic face. A pleasant surprise that a Black man with a familiar accent met her. “Do as you like.”

The strange man quietly observes Sybil’s appearance. Their eyes finally meet and she’s enraptured and forgets to mask her intent. He’s very handsome, with a sterling smile and dashing garments. And an American accent. Interesting. “What’s a southern Belle doing mingling with English society?”

“I could ask the same of you. You’re like a fly in a glass of milk with this crowd. American?”

The gentleman wore his own hair out, a beautiful tangle of curls, and an emerald green suit that was immaculately crafted. His scent was alluring, and made Sybil want to know how deep his pockets went. “Yes. I was formerly enslaved, just like you. My father was African however and fell in love with my mother on a trip to the colonies. He bought us and we went back to his country to live. I grew up and wanted to explore this world. So for the moment, here I am..”

He took her cigarette out of her hand and began to puff on it himself. “And how would you know that I was enslaved? I could have been born free for all you know.”

The gentleman blew out the tobacco smoke, and gently placed her hand in his. The indigo dye. Permanently marking her as a piece of chattel. A former piece of chattel, for that matter. He kissed every fingertip on her left hand, and Sybil gulped. Her eyes became glassy, and she pulled away. She adjusted her dress, and stabilized her towering wig. “I didn’t catch your name, miss.”

Sybil took the cigarette back from him, taking a harsh pull. Why did this man make her feel like this? “Sybil. Sybil Freeman.” She had to get out of there. As seemingly progressive as London purported itself to be, Black men were almost never gentlemen and of the ton. He exuded high levels of breeding and class. His skin was gorgeous and he had piercing eyes that never left her….and roamed all over her body. He was clearly different.

“Good evening, sir.” Sybil gave the stiffest curtsy and zoomed away, flustered and confused. Something told her that that wouldn’t be the last she saw of him..

A/N: I totally forgot that I had most of this written up already LMAO. Please let me know if you want me to continue this story. Pleaseeee reblog and comment, love yall!!!

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[thefivecrowns]

“Swiveling her ears, Adderstep’s goading was interrupted by the sound of Bramblestar’s booming voice atop the Maple Ridge, reminding SkyClan a tradition would take place soon; the Coldest Night. Did she want Foxsnare to be a part of that? They were Clanmates. ‘I think your tantrum has lasted long enough…’ She murmured a little softer, though her phrasing still prickly, ‘It’s an important day for SkyClan. Join me, we’ll fetch some nest material.’    Foxsnare's mind raced, already planning out the best places to gather the best moss and most downy feathers. It wasn’t a competition, but Foxsnare had always enjoyed winning. His attention refocused at Adderstep’s offer, a questioning look dawned on his face. He blinked curiously at her, before in a second, his expression shifted and he wore a guileful grin. ‘Another challenge or just a simple excursion between Clanmates? My heart leans towards the first option,’ he mused, standing to his paws as his eyes scanned the camp. ‘You said it yourself: ‘There’ll be plenty of time for rematches, Foxy.’’    Although tension still bubbled in Adderstep’s chest, she was glad to see a shimmer of mischief return in Foxsnare’s eyes. That irritated, standoffish demeanour he’d exuded before, vanished before her caramel gaze. She couldn’t hold back her chuckle at the abrupt switch, eyes glittering with reignited passion—who was she to pass up on a competition? It looked like their rivalry was back in full swing. ‘I think you’re biting off more than you can chew!’ The tan-black molly grinned cockily. ‘Don’t tell me you’ll cry if it doesn’t go your way again,’ she teased, whipping her tail over Foxsnare’s ears.   ‘You’ll eat those words Addy,’ Foxsnare mewed in a sing-song tone, words turning to fog in the air, though he was already scheming his road to victory. He stood to his paws quickly, only narrowly avoiding a cuff to his ears. In his own observations, Adderstep was blunt and very serious, the opposite of himself. But they did share one commonality: their competitiveness.”

Check out this snippet from a member interaction in SkyClan, one of the five Clans in the River Territory! They inhabit the Maple Forest northeast of the grand Gathering Island, and are led by Bramblestar, a dutiful yet childish leader.

SkyClan is the eldest of the River Territory Clans, and as such, is the most traditional, valuing and defending their history no matter how outdated their practices are. Though they no longer reside in them, they are devoted to the trees; dendrology is a significant part of apprentice training, and warriors incorporate the tall maples into every aspect of their lives, including using them as their primary hunting and fighting tool. They’ve honed the unique skill of cloudhopping, a method of transportation that requires warriors to hop from branch to branch in the treetops, through which they scout out their territory to compose maps and identify landmarks. SkyClan is proud of their tree-centric lifestyle, believing it also signifies their connection to StarClan.

After their leader Finchstar “betrayed” Hawkstar by letting ThunderClan stay in the River Territory, SkyClan was disbanded by DuskClan, with only a few felines able to flee the conflict. The rest became DuskClan warriors, forced to abide by Hawkstar’s rules and support his attacks against the opposing Clans; when it came to the final fight, though, most rallied against him and helped drive DuskClan out. Thanks to Bramblestar, SkyClan has been reinstated as the fifth River Territory Clan, and is currently undergoing restoration as its members settle back into the Maple Forest.

Interested in reading more about SkyClan? Learn more here! You can also read up on more of their history within the roleplay by viewing our Past Plots doc found in the Main Doc.

Character & Snippet Text Credits: Adderstep [left; @/Kiteru], Foxsnare [right; @faeriegrove]

Art Credit: Ranger [@ranger2304]