#「visage」white crown with white feathers.

[darkdemeter]

The day Death would fall for Child S/O like the others is the day S/O calls him Daddy. Like their relationship is different compared to the others bc he’s both a big brother/father figure to S/O! 🥰And Dust would force Death to accept because that meant spending more time with his favorite human and getting cuddles and brushes from S/O! And wouldn’t that make the Crowfather Grandpa from S/O? Her bright aura and innocence might dull a bit of his insanity.

Okay okay, I had to write a little something for this because uh--- *pauses to cry* is so adorable and beautiful. And Jer check it out! more Crowfather content though he's more granddad in this. I'm sorry gimmie a sec just the thought of Death being a dad/big brother to child reader just--- AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The day it happened his whole world shifted. He froze. Something he swore he'd never allow himself to do and yet you managed to make him.

From the moment you first met the pale rider, you saw him not as just your oldest brother. He exuded a different kind of protectiveness, an overwhelming sort of strength. With your older siblings around, you knew you were safe from danger but when in the company of Death...

You knew that you were truly safe. Evil could not even look your way out of risk of upsetting the rider's temper. Incurring his wrath. Out of out the Horsemen, Death was the one none wished to test; not even in jest.

When Death announced to his fellow brethren that he must continue this mission by himself, an unsettling nature of panic set in. You're not sure as to why exactly you feel this, but you do.

Watching the hunched saunter of his gate leave you behind, your small feet chase after him a few steps before you stop. Your bottom lip wobbles with a puckered jut, a tiny whimper caught in your throat as a tightly bound ball.

You reach out to him with both hands, pushing yourself that bit higher in hopes he will sweep you up into an assuring, comforting embrace only a father can provide as you cry out, "Daddy!"

The Horsemen find the stillness in their souls cause their very bones to ache. Aware of your attachment to Death, they ended up paying little heed to it, figuring it was just a stronger relationship due to him being the oldest. For any one of them he would do the same he's done for you ten times over. For any one of you he would bend over backwards, face the mad tyrants of the White City, destroy every pillar in hell that held the proclaimed dominions up.

All this and more.

Their bonds are strong but this is something new.

The pale, crackled visage of his mask is placid, but the dangerous burn in his eyes beats with rekindled surprise as he turns his head to face you. He's seen much in his lifetime, many horrors and strange phenomena. So many beautiful things that have come to wither and die.

But he finds that he's no longer numbed to it. Not in your presence.

"Daddy," you cry out again, "Pwease don't go!"

You run the rest of the way to him and almost trip over the loosened lacings of your fur trimmed boots because of it. Your arms grab hold and he envelops you in his protective embrace. His masked nose pushes to rest against the crown of your head, as if to leave a kiss there. With a flutter of feathers, Dust settles back atop the perch of Death's shoulder, having grown quite comfortable on his post there.

You sniffle softly in his arms and he feels your body quiver against him. Dust's beak moves forward and pinches a stream of hair that fell over your brow and with a cooing warble, the Corvus pushes it behind your ear only to then nestle his beak against the apple of your cheek. You hum, softly and delighted by the crow's affection as he gives a low, chattering purr.

Death was never granted the opportunity to sire his own children. The occasion either a premeditated decision or a opportunity robbed, all he had were his brothers and his sister.

And from that moment on you held the reaper's heart in the palm of your gentle hands.

Now, he has you. His baby. His daughter.

Furthermore, when you meet the Crowfather, you hide behind Death with an abashed smile.

"And who is this little one? A human child," he huffs with a cocked raise of his brushy brows. "I presume adopted?"

"In truth, Crowfather, yes. But never the less, she is my own." You lift your eyes to meet Death's and grin a tiny row of teeth up at him. His hand nurses the back of your head, tenderly running his fingers through your hair. The act a faint comfort to you that assures he is near.

When you finally step out from behind the pale rider and meet the Keeper of Secrets face to face, he feels the raging storm of insanity seep from him. Touched by the cure of a glowing aura that surrounds you like a golden beacon of light.

The Crowfather's wrinkles lips purse into a smile, perhaps the warmest he's ever shown in eons. "Then I consider her also. I've always enviously wondered what it would be like to have a dynasty - a grandchild."

"Grwandpa?"

The Crowfather's chuckle sounds more like a rattling cough, but he's endeared by you. "You may call me whatever you wish, my dear one."

[the-bed-gremlins-reading-list]

Ravens

Characters: Auberon, Viria Laetoria, Octavia, Lux, Marcus TW: Corpses and rot An excerpt of the first canonical appearance of Duke Auberon during the main series.

"Was this...display truly necessary?"

The General of the West is younger than most her counterparts. Less orthodox than the others as well, except perhaps her Northern comrade now that the Emperor's eldest child has been given the title.

Unlike many of those representing the Imperial party she has managed to avoid taking on a sickly green hue. She had far more familiarity with the after-effects of battle and death than the others sent by their Emperor to leash this troublesome province once more. 

She glances to the side to check on her charges. The royal children are young - this is the first time the younger two have ever seen death on this scale. The younger prince's dark skin has taken a sickly hue. The middle child watches with an icy impassivity. The Crown Princess has drawn her expression into a grim line.

There's a low chuckle from the figure who stands alone before the gates. His eyes casting up towards the walls and the enemies whose corpses rot around them. Crimson stains run down the white rock walls of Ausones that rise up from their harbor and shield the city from the sea. Their hearts had still had the strength to push blood through cut veins as they were suspended and fear and pain remains twisted into the visages of many, despair in others. There's at least fifty corpses hung along the walls.

Sea birds, crows, and ravens line the walls and perch on bloated bodies but all are still - watching the Imperials.

The figure pulls his gaze from the crowned corpse - the one that carries a ghastly resemblance to the man before them - and gives a slight bow, "My apologies for the smell, my teacher, but yes: I do believe it was."

The Crown Princess scowls and strides forward - "Who are you to murder subjects of the Nassenii throne?"

The soft golden glow in the man's gaze fades and the birds rise in a flurry of noise and feathers - those that do not take flight fall on the meals provided by the corpses.

Young Prince Marcus turns aside to vomit. His elder sibling moving closer to guard him, a hand resting uneasily upon their sword's hilt as pale violet eyes watch their sister's actions.

"I am Auberon Medulloi, Duke of Ausones," the man bows with all the correct manners of an Imperial nobleman. "I am surprised you would wish to claim traitors to your father as subjects, your Highness. It is hardly fitting that I put down my Uncle's rebellion and you accuse me of the opposite."

"Auberon," the General's tone is a warning.

He glances at her and gives a faint nod. Raising his hand he dismisses the archers on the walls. "If the corpses of traitors who have been justly punished truly upsets you so greatly I will have them burned, Your Imperial Highness."

"What proof do you have of your claims? That these people were traitors?"

"My Uncle's ledgers, a written confession by Rolant Medulloi himself regarding his theft from Ausones for his private coffers and his plans to betray the empire, correspondence with his seal recovered from the body of a resistence spy, the testimonies of Imperial Commander Ietius and the Mage Ashkeru, both fidelium of House Laetoria - I have prepared them for your examination at the ducal palace. Ausones does not stand in rebellion, I assure you, we remain your loyal subjects."

The Crown Princess narrows her eyes at the man.

He smirks at her, "I have done nothing more or less than is expected of a nobleman sworn to the Sun Throne, Your Imperial Highness."

"And yet I cannot feel as if your ravens circle for more than corpses, Medulloi."

"If my intentions were not made clear by the manner in which your ship entered the harbor unscathed then..." he hums before sighing and moving forward, taking a knee before her. "I, Auberon Medulloi, Son of Piers, the rightful Duke of Ausones do hearby give my oath of fealty to Crown Princess Octavia Nassenia. If I break this bond let the Lady of Waters drag down what I love to the depths, and the Lady of Winds strike my name from the lips of all."

"In the sight of the Sun and by the blessings of its King, I will accept your oath, Auberon Medulloi."

He rises to his feet and gestures towards his city, "Then I have my innocence to prove and pyres to have built. Allow my men and I to escort you to the palace."

[mistresslrigtar]

Forbidden for @zelinkcommunity Zelink Week 2023 July 11

I mentioned this yesterday, but thank you again to fioreofthemarch who betaed this entire story. So much appreciation for the support of the Zelink Community!

Rated M - for blood, implied consensual sex - but this is a sweet chapter, my favorite and nothing M-rated within

Chapter Two - Forbidden

Five years ago:

Hylia’s silvery white loftwing, Keehar, greets her as she appears above the cloud cover that separates the celestial kingdom from the surface below. Swooping low, he soars beneath her, wings outspread. She settles on his back, tucking her knees in the hollow spot where his wings meet his powerful shoulders. One hand holds the precious crown of flowers that adorns her head, while the other wraps around Keehar’s neck. Burying her face in his feathers, Hylia weeps. She has observed the Earth revolve around the sun, seen civilizations rise and fall, and species thrive only to become extinct. But she has never been moved to tears in all those instances until today. Sentiment has no place in the heart of a goddess. It is folly.

Hylia presses her fingertips to her cheeks, where tears linger still. The foreign feel of moisture leaking from the corners of her eyes is unsettling. Her thoughts whirl as her loftwing carries her toward the celestial palace. He gracefully lands on the balcony of her chambers, and she slides from his back. Keehar quietly squawks in her ear, brushing his long bill against her shoulder.

Moving to the gilded vanity opposite the large canopy bed in the center of her room, Hylia observes her visage in the mirror. Reaching up, she touches the crown of flowers on her head, and visions of the nimble fingers that wove them into their intricate pattern flash before her eyes. Fingers that belong to the most beautiful mortal boy she has ever seen in the entirety of her existence. Closing her eyes, she replays their blissful afternoon together until her impulsiveness ruins it….

[Crouching in the brush of the forest, Link grips his bow firmly in his right hand, nocks an arrow, and pulls back the string. The back of his hand and knuckles brush his smooth cheek as he steadies his aim, keeping his eyes on the deer grazing in the clearing before him. Biting his bottom lip as he concentrates, he waits for the perfect moment to let the arrow fly home. He wants to take the deer with one shot and give it a quick and, hopefully, painless death. The buck noses the ground, and Link has a clear view of the space between its eyes. 

“Why do you hold the arrow in such a manner?” Hylia’s dulcet voice startles him, and he jerks just as he releases the arrow, missing his mark. Spooked by the projectile whooshing past his antlers, the buck raises its head and bolts out of the clearing.

Link sighs, lowering his head and allowing his long, thick hair to fall into his eyes. He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. The buck would have given his family enough food to last a fortnight. After another slow breath, he tosses his hair out of his eyes to look sideways at Hylia. She stares back at him with impossibly bright eyes, waiting for his answer. They have known each other for a few years now, but it never ceases to amaze Link that she can be an all-knowing celestial being and yet be so obtuse at times.

Sitting back on his haunches, Link rests the bow between his knees. Hylia mimics his action, dangling her golden alder bow before her, keeping her gaze fixed on Link as he speaks. “I hold the arrow that way because it allows better control and aim, so it flies true.”

She nods in understanding. “The sound of my voice startled you like your arrow startled the deer. I caused your aim not to be true.”

“Yes, but it is all right. There will be other deer.” It is impossible to stay disappointed or angry with her for longer than a moment. Her curiosity is boundless, and Link is grateful she still chooses to learn from him. “Hunting is different from fishing. Both require patience and focus, but hunting also relies upon stealth.” 

She cocks her head, looking at him quizzically, biting her lower lip like always when pondering something she doesn’t quite understand. “Quiet, careful,” he clarifies.

“Ah, yes.” She places a delicate finger on her lips, her eyes seeking his approval. Link smiles back and nods. “I can call the deer back. You can try again!” She raises her hand to summon her power, and Link reaches out to stop her.

“No. That isn’t necessary.” He stands and offers her his hand, and she takes it, rising gracefully beside him. “I can teach you something else. We will track it.”

He follows the trail the buck left when it bolted. Along the way, he points out trampled brush and broken tree limbs that mark the deer's course through the forest. Hylia remains silent, vigilant behind him. For today’s adventure, she has donned garb similar to Link’s - soft, buckskin boots and a modest white linen one-shoulder tunic that falls just past mid-thigh and highlights her toned shoulders, arms, and legs, nearly to a distraction. He is glad she trails behind him and happy to have the focus of the much-needed hunt to keep him from dwelling on Hylia’s beauty.

The trail runs cold when they reach a babbling brook, and Link breaks for lunch. The deer is on the other side, and they can cross after being fortified. Sunlight through the dense tree canopy dapples the ground, and Hylia wanders along the bank, picking wildflowers while Link pulls a few bundles from his pack. Unwrapping them reveals bread, jerky, and an assortment of roasted mushrooms. 

He looks over the meager lunch he has to offer Hylia and wonders what she thinks of his simple life. She has regaled him with fantastical stories of her palace in the heavens. Floating islands connected by bridges, or if there isn’t a bridge, the goddesses use large, wild birds called loftwings to soar through the sky. Hylia’s winged emblem, carved on her statues in the temples on the surface, represents the fantastic creatures Link can only imagine. 

The second time she met him, she gifted him an exquisite crimson pendant that depicts one of the birds in flight. He strung it on a leather lanyard long enough for the bird to rest near his heart. She told him he could use the charm to call upon her if he needed her. He has yet to take advantage of that offer, afraid to overstep his bounds. The only time he almost called to her was after monster hordes attacked a nearby village, and many men, including Link’s father, were called to arms. It is now up to Link to provide for his mother and sister while his father is away, but Link worries that his time is coming soon. He is still too young, but only just. 

Hylia rarely speaks of her sisters or the holy war being waged, but if the battles being fought on the surface are any indication, it is not going well. He does not want to bother her with his trivial mortal concerns.

Tapping on his forehead draws him back to the moment. Hylia is kneeling before him, her nose inches from his own. Pulling back her hand, she stares into his eyes, her brow furrowed, the wildflowers in her other hand forgotten.

“Are you reading my mind, Hylia?” Link holds her gaze, no longer fearful or shy, and thankful he is comfortable with her now and the early blushing days are past them.

“You asked me not to long ago.” Hylia pulls back to study his face thoroughly. “Your mind is far away today.”

Link shrugs, helping himself to a piece of jerky and mushrooms. “Just thinking. I’m sorry.” Hylia likes to try new foods, and, hoping to change the subject, he pushes the bread toward her. “My mother made this sunny wheat bread fresh this morning.”

Hylia picks up a piece of bread and takes a bite. She closes her eyes as she chews, savoring the flavors. “Mmmmm, it tastes….. warm. It makes my heart feel full.”

She is so lovely, sitting by a murmuring brook, long eyelashes feathering against her elegant cheeks, and blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight. And it is not just her beauty but her strength of spirit, insatiable curiosity, and sweet generosity that combine to make a perfect being. She truly is a goddess. Does she have any idea what she does to him? With each visit, the ache in his chest grows, and one day soon, it may be more than LInk can bear. 

Looking away, he takes a bite of jerky and chews furiously, washing it down with water from his waterskin. “That’s the sundelion effect. My mother insists it mends broken hearts.” 

Hylia finishes her bread and opens her eyes. She blinks and nibbles her bottom lip as she contemplates his explanation. “Is your heart broken?”

Sometimes it feels that way when Link looks at her, and his heart feels like it wants to burst from his chest. But that isn’t a broken heart, not really. Just an unrequited one.

“Not so much. It’s just an old wives’ tale.” Link picks up one of the flowers from Hylia's bouquet and twirls it between his fingertips. Maybe it is time to screw up his courage and tell her how he feels. What is the worst that could happen? She can say no, and never see him again. He’d get over the heartbreak eventually…. maybe. “Here’s another. Girls in my village weave flowers into crowns to signify they are ready to find true love. It is said the first boy they see is the one they are destined to marry.”

“A crown of flowers?” Hylia’s sea-green eyes light up, and she smiles at him. “I would like that. Will you show me how to make one?”

It doesn’t seem like she took the bait. Link wishes he could be as indifferent as her. He supposes that is a perk of being immortal. Regardless of the meaning to him, the vibrantly colored flowers Hylia has gathered will look beautiful in her hair, and Link cannot resist her request. Plucking a few more from her bouquet, he twines the stems with his adept fingers.

She keenly watches him, following the movement of his fingers as he adds more flowers to his wreath before she attempts to weave one of her own. Link continues to add flowers, twisting the stems so tightly none are visible, and soon he holds a completed wreath up for her inspection. 

Setting her half-finished work aside, Hylia takes the wreath from him. “It is beautiful, Link.” Her fingers brush over the soft petals before kneeling by the brook. She places the crown on her head and studies her reflection in the water. “Do I look like the girls in your village?”

Gazing at her in her simple white tunic, wearing a crown of wildflowers, she is the most beautiful girl Link has ever seen. The rarest of gems, so exquisitely cut, her radiance shines like a beacon on the darkest night. “They are no comparison to you.”

She looks over her shoulder at him, a faint blush on her cheeks, and a tender smile graces her lips. “You are the first boy I see.”

Link swallows, holding her glittering gaze, with one he feels is burning with the intensity of a thousand suns. He will do something foolish if he gazes at her for a moment longer. Like, try to kiss her. 

He tears his eyes away from hers. No. He cannot think about kissing Hylia. She is a goddess and only wishes to be his friend. She has never given him any indication that she wants anything more than what they have. It is foolish for him even to entertain the notion. He is a mortal; what could he offer her aside from trivial lessons in fishing and hunting?

She leans over, her nose inches from his, blonde hair falling about her shoulders. He feels her warm breath for a fraction of a second before her lips lightly press against his. Lips that are as soft and sweet as he imagined, causing his heart to somersault and his head to swim.

Why is she kissing him? She’s immortal, eons older than his sixteen years. But he is only a young teenager who has dreamed countless times of kissing her, which she is doing now. Link gives in to his desire and returns her kiss. He wants to touch her but reigns in the impulse, clenching his knees instead. Hylia has no such inhibition and caresses his cheek. The touch sends a shiver down Link’s spine, but trepidation drops into his belly like a stone. 

She has told him before that her sisters would never understand their friendship. It is forbidden to associate with a mortal. And a kiss? That takes their relationship to a level he is sure will reign fire down upon them if they are ever found out. Link pushes her away, gulping for air, feeling like he may hyperventilate.

Hylia pulls back, eyes downcast, lips that had just been seeking his frowning. “You do not wish to kiss me? Did I do it incorrectly?”

“No, I did…. I do. It was perfect.” Link shakes his head, cheeks still flushed from embarrassment and desire, wishing he could make his mind stop whirling. Why had he not simply enjoyed the moment? She is sincere. Hylia has always been truthful. He is not sure she is even capable of lying. “You just surprised me.”

“Oh.” Hylia considers his answer. “I thought you would like it.”

He was making a mess of things. There was little if anything, he had left to teach Hylia…. Link mentally kicks himself. He opened the door to this, talking about the girls in his village. She probably thought it was another lesson.  “I did. It’s just…. Why did you kiss me?”

“You looked sad; your thoughts betrayed your….” Hylia trails off, blinking several times, averting her eyes to stare at the ground between them. 

“So you did read my mind.” Link feels disappointment bubbling, and he swallows the lump in his throat. She still wants to learn the workings of the mortal world. But, unfortunately, he is the one she chose to be her mentor, and he is a foolish one. “Was the kiss another lesson, Hylia?”

Hylia’s brow furrows as she clasps her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers. “You are gentle and kind. Patient with me and my curiosity when my sisters are always cross. They do not understand me like you do. You allow me to question and explore this wondrous world.”

“Just a kiss, then.” Link sighs. Ultimately, he is just one of her subjects, nothing more. He should never have thought there could be anything between them. She saw kindness in him and didn’t exploit it. Not really. She is too naive for those mind games. She didn’t think what her friendship would mean to him, a lonely boy, almost a man everyone uses but never gets to know. 

He’s been naive, too. He hadn’t understood his feelings when he first met Hylia; now, it is too late. Even if it had been one-sided, he knows what it is like to kiss her. How could any girl or woman ever compare to Hylia? He can never love anyone else now.

“Your head voice is loud today, Link. It is difficult to ignore.” Hylia presses her hands together as if in prayer, searching his face, eyes beseeching for his forgiveness.

Link nods. He can’t understand what it must be like to hear the thoughts of everyone in the world, let alone try to tune the cacophony out. He has been lost in his musings today, thinking of her beauty and how much she has come to mean to him. But he doesn’t want a kiss because she has read his mind. 

“Hylia, as much as I have dreamed of kissing you…. you should not do so unless that is what you want, too.” Taking a deep breath, he looks to see her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“I did not mean to betray your trust in me,” Hylia whispers, placing her fingertips below her bottom lashes. Her mouth drops open in a silent ‘O’ when she draws her hands back and sees the moisture of her tears on her fingers. Running her thumbs over her glistening fingertips, her brow furrows as she blinks away her remaining tears. “I am sorry, Link. I must go.” She glances briefly at him before starting to fade.

“Hylia! Wait!” Link surges forward, reaching out to stop her, but she is gone, his hands passing through the empty space where she had been kneeling.]

Hylia does not understand or know what to do with these newfound stirrings in her chest. She only knows Link is as lovely on the inside as the outside, and the more time she spends indulging in his companionship, the foreign feeling of wanting more grows. Link’s thoughts today had danced around his desire for her to the point of distraction. She kissed him because she thought that was what he wanted. But, instead, when her lips had gently touched his, summerwing butterflies had erupted within her belly, revealing a hidden yearning so intense she had trembled. 

If her sisters see her in this state, they will interrogate her until the truth emerges. And that cannot happen. It is forbidden to intermingle with mortals. Goddesses are supposed to observe from a distance and not interfere. And while, up to this moment, Hylia has never done anything other than spend many wondrous hours enjoying Link’s friendship and learning the workings of his everyday life, after today, she cannot be sure she can return to those carefree days. 

Hylia's eyes widen as a thrilling realization takes root in her mind. This experience, exploring a budding relationship, is something new for both of them. Finally, they will be on equal footing, learning something new together instead of teaching each other. But she left him without any explanation! He must think she does not love him as he loves her, which means his heart is breaking now. She must make amends and apologize for her indecisiveness.

Hylia is preparing to leave when the evening bell tolls the hour of reflection. Her sisters expect her presence in the garden and will know something is amiss if she fails to attend. Her apology to Link will have to wait, and she can only hope his kindness endures and he offers her forgiveness when she can slip away to see him again.

How Hylia wishes she had the wisdom of Nayru to know what she should do regarding Link. Or the courage of Farore to tell him how she truly feels without trembling. And Din’s power of resolve to weather whatever the future may bring - a joyous heart filled with love or the heartache of refusal.

Removing the crown from her head, Hylia places it on the vanity and waves her hand over the flowers, preserving their perfection. With another wave of her hand, the simple tunic and boots she wore to hunt earlier with Link transfigure into a pristine white gown and sandals. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she smooths her long blonde hair and ensures she looks presentable. 

Rushing through the marble hallways, the soles of her sandals echo in the corridor with every step. The cavernous halls vastly differ from the peaceful wood she had spent that afternoon with Link. 

“You seem distracted, dear sister.” From her central seat in the garden, Nayru studies Hylia as she enters. 

Hylia’s heart pounds as she meets her sisters’ concerned gazes. They have already taken their places in the meditation circle. Nayru sits on a central dais, flanked by Din and Farore. Nayru’s piercing icy blue gaze seems to see right through her as Hylia takes her place opposite her.

Summoning her inner strength, Hylia takes a deep breath before speaking. She cannot reveal the reason for her disquietude. If Nayru, who set all the rules the goddesses and the earth's creatures live by, finds out Hylia has broken their cardinal rule and has sought companionship with a mortal, the consequences would be dire. Not just for herself but for Link, too.

“I apologize for my tardiness. Observing the mortal plain, my concern grows for our subjects. Monsters are infiltrating villages, forcing the men to leave their families and fight in the war.”

Hylia feels confident that her story, which bears truth, will deflect her sisters from further interrogating her to find the root cause of her distraction.

“This is not the first time our subjects have been embroiled in a holy war, nor shall it be the last, I am sure.” Nayru narrows her eyes as she leans forward. “However, you have never voiced concern before.”

Tossing her flaming vermilion hair over her shoulder, Din crosses her bare, sinewy arms as she turns to Hylia. “We are bound, as goddesses of Hyrule. Do not keep secrets from us. If there is an imbalance, it must be addressed.”

Hylia bows her head. She should have known that her sisters’ suspicions would not be so quickly allayed. Keeping her friendship with Link a secret has weighed heavily upon her conscience for years, and with this new development, she fears her sisters’ wrath. 

“I assure you, dear sisters, there is no imbalance.” Except for the one in Hylia’s heart. She is torn between her duty as a goddess and her desire to immerse herself in sharing a life with Link.

While Din and Nayru exchange glances, contemplating her answer, Hylia glances at Farore, who has remained silent. Farore offers Hylia an accepting smile, her verdant green eyes beneath a brow glistening with dew, softening. Of all her sisters, Farore is Hylia’s favorite. She created all of Hyrule's wondrous flora and fauna that Hylia has grown to love from seeing them anew through Link’s eyes. Perhaps Farore would understand and can become a confidante. Hylia gives her an appreciative nod before returning her attention to her more suspicious sisters.

Nayru leans back on her bench and folds her delicate, pale hands in her lap. “Very well. You are our sister, and we trust you will share anything that could affect the realm’s stability.” She pauses, looking around the circle. “As a reminder for all of us…. It is our duty to observe and guide but not interfere. To do so could prove catastrophic.”

“Yes, dear sister.” They murmur in response. 

“Hylia has touched upon what has been troubling me, however.” Nayru takes another moment to look at each of them before continuing. “The monsters are more organized this time. I fear Demise and his quest to obtain the Triforce is escalating.”

Hylia casts her eyes on the sacred relic that spins at the garden's center. With its power, long ago, Nayru, Din, and Farore created the heavens and the earth. It now holds the realms in perfect balance, and their job is to guard it from falling into the wrong hands. 

“Let us focus our meditation today on this troubling news and reflect upon our duty as goddesses and what that means.” Nayru bows her head, expecting the others to follow suit without instruction.

Bowing her head, Hylia forces thoughts of Link to the back of her mind and focuses on finding her inner peace again. The path she needs to take may be revealed. The reflection session stretches on, and Hylia finds solace in reciting the ancient texts, allowing her mind to drift as she utters the chants by rote. She glides in a void of swirling mist before the ground drops from beneath her feet, and she falls into an ocean of the deepest sapphire blue. Floating in its calm, warm waters, Hylia feels serenity wash over her. She does not know how long she drifts in this safe place before an invisible tug from her belly calls her back to reality.

Slowly opening her eyes, Hylia sees her sisters awakening from their own trances. Nayru rises gracefully from her seat, her brow furrowed with unmasked concern. “My reflection has revealed that Demise and his minions indeed grow stronger. We must convene and devise a plan of action to counteract the rising threat.”

Hylia nods her agreement along with Din and Farore, as the persistent pull has not lessened. Link calls her from the loftwing pendant she gave him long ago. He has never used it until this moment. She wonders how soon she can slip away when she feels a gentle touch upon her arm.

“Walk with me, sister?” Farore asks, a tender smile playing on her lips as she slides her arm through Hylia’s and guides her away from Nayru and Din. The other two goddesses seem not to notice as they begin discussing their next step to ensure victory against the demons.

“Your meditation does not appear to have borne fruit,” Farore observes once they walk down a secluded path and can no longer hear their sisters’ voices. Hylia bites her bottom lip as she contemplates Farore’s statement, and the gesture elicits laughter from Farore. Her smile widens when Hylia’s brow furrows. “My dear Hylia. Did you know you always bite your lip when thinking over a problem? It is a very human trait of yours.”

“But we are not mortal.” Hylia looks over at her sister. Does Farore sense her secret? Nayru is the most perceptive of the four, but Farore is more in tune with the spirits and nature. Perhaps her meditation has led her to suspect Hylia has not been entirely truthful.

Farore reaches over and strokes Hylia’s hair gently. “Indeed, we are not, but we have all noted you have been spending more time outside our celestial home. Is there something you would like to divulge away from our more judgemental sisters?”

Hylia begins to bite her lip again but refrains and instead clasps her hands together. She twists her fingers until Farore places her hand over Hylia’s to still them. “I am afraid. I have done something we were taught never to do.”

“I know you have indulged in the beauty of the world we created.” Farore guides them to a balcony and gazes at the dusk light. “Din is especially proud of the sun.” She laughs softly before looking over at Hylia. “But that can be seen from here. What draws you down to the earth time and time again?”

Hylia takes a deep breath through her nose, carefully avoiding Farore’s gaze to study how the setting sun makes the sky look like the inside of a conch shell. The pastel pinks and yellows bleed into the fiery red and orange that burst from the golden orb settling below the horizon. Din has every reason to be proud. 

“Many moons ago, I met a mortal boy. I know it is forbidden to mingle with mortals, but I was drawn to him.” Once she begins to confess, Hylia’s heart feels lighter, and her shoulders relax. “I left him today when we had a misunderstanding, and he calls to me. I must return and make things right between us.”

Farore raises an eyebrow, squeezing Hylia’s hand tightly. “You must do what you think is best.” Farore counsels, tilting her head to look Hylia directly in the eyes. “But are you prepared for the consequences of consorting with a mortal? Their lives are fragile and fleeting, over in the blink of an eye or the snap of one’s fingers.”

And this, more than likely, is why Nayru forbade it. But the thought of never seeing Link again is far more unthinkable than the idea that their time together may be brief. All the more reason to live in the moments they are being given now.

“I am aware of the brevity of mortal life, but Link has opened my eyes to a world I thought I had known but did not. He makes me feel.”

“Ah. Indeed.” Farore reaches over and rubs a thumb over Hylia’s cheeks. “There is a glow about you I have not seen before.”

Releasing a small sigh, Farore steps back, contemplating Hylia with a look of understanding and concern. When she finally speaks again, her voice is low and gentle. “Then you must go to him. But remember, your duty to the Triforce remains and cannot be ignored. Balancing the two may prove challenging.”

Hylia crosses her hands over her breast, her eyes glowing as she smiles at her favorite sister. “Thank you for your understanding, Farore. I shall return soon.”

__

Clang! Hylia follows the sound through the otherwise quiet village. Clang! It is late afternoon, and the sun is setting here, too, painting the sky in broad strokes of color. Clang! She is probably reading too much into the jarring noise. But the bang of metal striking metal sounds angry. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Her duty as a goddess has kept her from returning to Link as quickly as she desires; a whole day has passed on the surface and Hylia fears he will be cross with her.

As she approaches the blacksmith shed, Hylia raises her hands to cover her ears. Link stands before a forge filled with burning hot coals, holding a steel rod up for inspection. His skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, and Hylia’s eyes are drawn to how the corded muscles of his back and arms ripple as he swings the weapon, testing its weight. Frowning, he thrusts the blade into the coals, sending embers flying. They drift in the air around him, some landing on his exposed skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He wipes his sweaty brow and tucks an errant strand of hair that has fallen into his eyes behind his ear. 

He had previously explained his work as a blacksmith’s apprentice, but he had not wanted her to visit, stating it was too dirty and base an environment for someone as beautiful as her. Seeing him now, she begs to differ. Hylia would like to learn to forge a sword, but amends must be made first. 

She ran away yesterday instead of telling him how he made her heart sing when she was with him. Even now, with him unaware she is watching him, her heart pounds beneath her breast, and the alien feeling of nervousness fills her. She is afraid. So many new emotions are surging within her. Confusion overwhelms her once again. 

Waving a hand over her being, Hylia takes a step back, invisible to the naked eye. She cannot tell him here today. She needs more time to collect her thoughts. Tomorrow. She will say to him all that is in her heart tomorrow in their special place. Conjuring a quill and a piece of parchment, Hylia writes a short note to leave by the water barrel where recently forged weapons cool.

“Meet me at dawn in our special place.”

[rom-e-o]

The Sun and Her Star (Constance/Ebenezer)

@quill-pen I got to thinking more about Starry's birth, and oof.

Trigger warning for birth-related descriptions and semi-graphic imagery. Nothing tooo intense though.

A nurse stood in the doorway to the master bedroom, hands splayed outward defensively to fill the doorframe as best she could. “Sir, please, it’s not customary for you to—”

“To hell with your bloody customs!” the man beyond the threshold said, his voice deep yet string with panic. “My wife is giving birth! I hear her screaming!"

"I understand you're upset, but Mr. Scrooge-"

"'Upset'? You think I'm ONLY upset?"

Constance felt searing pain down her midsection. Pain surged like fire behind her eyes, and whenever she opened them to try and find her husband, blinding whiteness made her whimper. The pain she felt was worse than when both of her femurs had snapped in half after being pushed down the stairs years before.

The pain was blinding. Every passing second felt like a thousand-year war to stay awake. Then, worst of all, there was the smell of blood. Blood and bile. All hers.

“E-Ebenezer…” she whispered as another incredible flood of pressure tore through her. She tried to extend a hand in the direction of his voice.

She heard frantic footsteps. Seconds later, a familiar hand gripped hers like a vice.

“Connie, my sunflower…” Scrooge whispered. His voice was feather-soft but frayed at the edges with a terror she shared. He placed a kiss atop her knuckles, pressing his lips hard into her skin. “I’m right here.”

She turned her head in the direction of the voice. This time, when she opened her eyes, she saw his visage over her.

As expected, he looked about as swell as she did. He was still handsome – she’d always find him handsome, but he looked haggard. The labor had gone on for hours, and neither of them had slept. The birth had started shortly after midnight, and now, the rays of dawn were starting to warm the room and fill it with the telltale, rosy glow of early springtime.

The once serene bedroom was now filled with nurses and medical professionals bustling about. Magda, who would have normally been preparing breakfast, now sprinted back and forth bringing the midwife with all the hot water and towels she could possibly need.

“Constance, you need to push again,” one nurse said, her face buried beneath a bloodied swatch of cloth that was draped over the woman’s knees. “Nothing’s happening.”

Push again? She could barely stay awake.

“I…I…” Constance stammered, the ability to make words leaving her. “Y-Yes, I’ll push.”

Bracing herself, she rose to her elbows. Filling her lungs with air, she ground her teeth and tightened her muscles with all her might.

Seconds later, the midwife chirped up merrily. “Good! The baby is crowning! We’re head-first – good.”

Despite the excellent news, Ebenezer remained focused on his wife and trying to comfort her through the very obvious pain she felt.

He dabbed her forehead with a cold cloth, knowing she hated the feeling of being sweaty. She gave him an appreciative smile that, while beautiful, he knew was forced. Her strength was waning, and she was trying to be strong.

The only panacea was Ebenezer at her side, squeezing her hand and stroking her sweat-drenched hair.

As she gazed into his slate-blue eyes, she felt tears well up in hers. With no voice left to speak, she hoped he could read her mind.

I don’t want to leave you yet. I want to meet our baby. I’m not ready. I love you. Can you hear me? I love you. I love you. I love you I love you love you love you so much.

All other sights and sounds faded into white noise around her. The pain she felt deafened her and made her vision cloudy. It felt like the world was drifting away from her, or perhaps that she was drifting away from the world.

“Connie, can you hear me?” he asked, his voice breaking as she gently shook her. When she didn’t respond, fear gripped his chest. “Connie? Constance? Constance!”

“Sir,” a nurse piped up, her voice measured despite the situation, “Keep your voice down—”  

“Help me get her upright!” Ebenezer pleaded. He jumped up and slid his arms down Constance’s back, lifting her torso off the mattress so it could rest on his chest. Gravity would help, right? Why the hell did women give birth laying down, anyway?

When he felt how cold her skin was, he let out an inadvertent sob.

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not to her.

“Sir, she—”

“She’s unconscious!” he cried. Tears poured down his face now. The man was white as a ghost, his eyes red and hands trembling. He looked like an embodiment of fear itself. “Please, please help me!”

Her body moved on its own. Unable to voice her confusion, she could only focus on her breathing as she felt her body lift from the mattress and slip into a kneeling position on the bed. He felt weightless and lead-like all at the same time.

Almost immediately, a wave of relief washed over her. Ragged breaths escaped her, and her choked sobs of pain turned choppy and frantic.

The baby was coming. It was coming, and she didn’t have to push as hard.

Letting gravity aid her, the surges of agony shifted into a sensation more akin to cramps. Strong aches radiated from her abdomen and all the way to her thighs, sides and buttocks. There was pressure on her bladder, and a stretch in her vagina that rendered her speechless with pain.

Watery voices around her pleaded for her to stay awake. Not to push, not to fight, just to stay awake. To stay alive.

Then, minutes later … euphoria.

A loud gasp escaped her as the pressure evaporated, her knees went slack and … she heard the sound of crying. A baby crying.

Two strong, familiar arms embraced her and kept her from toppling over and off the bed. Constance felt she familiar shape of Ebenezer’s chest, his aftershave and soft pajamas sensations she pinpointed as unequivocally his despite being on the brink of sleep.

“It’s a girl!” one bystander cried merrily.

“Red hair, just like her mama.”

“Hurry, bring me a clamp!”

Magda let out a sob of relief, and Prudence whimpered from beyond the door.

While joy radiated around the room, Constance felt weak. Empty. Achy.

Thankfully, the person holding her sensed her discomfort, and immediately laid her down. She lay supine, breathing steadily, her cheeks streaking with silver trails from her tears. She felt dizzy and too warm all at once, and all the noise in the room made her nauseous.

Then, she felt him.

His hands cupped her ears, helping to shield out some noise, as she felt his forehead press to hers. The brush of his muttonchops was undeniable, and she felt his nose press into her cheek.

“Constance. You did it. My brilliant, beautiful girl…thank you.”

He repeated her name like a mantra, arms holding her close despite the blood and bodily fluids that soaked her and the bedspread.

“Are you with me?” he asked, his voice soft and afraid. “I’m sorry I moved you. I-I…are you hurting? What can I do?”

The redheaded woman stared up at him in a daze. Then, her dry lips formed a smile. She kissed his cheek gently, which took more strength than any feat of strength she’d ever had to accomplish before.

“T-Thank you…” she croaked. "I-I'm here."

At hearing her speak, it was as if a spell of terror was broken. With a cry of elation, all the emotion he felt poured forth. He squeezed her tightly and kissed every inch of her face.

The onslaught of affection went on for half a minute until he realized she probably needed space. He stepped away briefly to dry his eyes and collect himself. Magda went to the man’s side, rubbing his back and whispering sweet words to him.

While they talked, another nurse began to help her change out of her soiled bedclothes and into a fresh nightgown. The gown was long and white; a little austere for her tastes, but so comfortable that she actually moaned as she was tucked in. Ebenezer laughed from the other side of the room, still shaking with relief.

Once she was cleaned up, the nurse came around the bed carrying a bundle in her arms. When she saw tiny hands stretch out from the bundle, the skin as pink and wrinkly as the belly of a newborn kitten, all the pain from before was forgotten. She found the strength to lean forward, but to the nurse’s chagrin, and opened her arms. “I-Is that…?”

“Yes, this is her,” the nurse said. Her professional medical decorum from before had melted into something more gentle as she stared down at the recovering woman. “Congratulations, dear. You’re a mother.”

A mother.

A small, swaddled baby with reddish-brown hair was deposited into Constance’s arms. She reflexively tucked the baby close to her chest, patting her protectively.

Now beaming from excitement, she mouthed for Ebenezer to join her, as well as Magda. The two edged closer, Ebenezer taking the lead.

When he drew close enough to gaze into his daughter’s eyes, he shivered and drew in a steady breath. “Gods, she’s so beautiful.”

The small baby was barely a minute old, and already looked entranced by the world around her. Wide, crystal-clear eyes glanced around the room with evident curiosity.

“She’s gorgeous, love,” Magda said while using the corner of her apron to dab her tears. “Just like you.”

The newborn's cheeks were flushed bright red, and her tiny nose had an owlish shape that Constance knew would give her a Roman profile as stunning as her father’s.

“Welcome, you amazing girl…” Constance whispered. The redheaded baby, her eyes large and crystal-blue, stared back at her mother like a mortal glimpsing a goddess.

“My beautiful star.”

[almacambiondaughterofsaleos]

Chaos (Blitzø) and Asherah (Darcy) in my fic/the main couple INSTEAD of Stoliz:

Blitzo emerges as a nightmarish vision of uncontrolled chaos, a direct embodiment of the void in mythology. Cloaked in a dark, off-the-shoulder cassock that flows elegantly to the ground, the fabric is ink-black, saturated with a glossy sheen that absorbs light. The cassock features wide sleeves, eerily devoid of any patterns except for an array of pulsating white stars that embellish the hem and lower portions, their shapes unnaturally twisting and resizing themselves as if alive. His torso is a disturbing tableau of multiple red eyes with slit black pupils and blinding white irises, each one blinking asynchronously, creating a disorienting, hallucinogenic effect. Blitzo's arms, encased in obsidian armor, end in sharply elongated claws, dripping with an otherworldly substance that sizzles upon contact with the ground. His boots are jet black with violent splashes of red-pink, the colors so intensely vivid they nearly radiate off the material. Above his head, a glowing white halo shaped like a twisted crown pulsates with chaotic energy, its center marked by a red-pink star, radiating an oppressive light that seems to warp reality around it. From his back sprouted three pairs of massive, black angel wings, each feather fluttering with eerie autonomy. The feathers are studded with red-pink eyes, each blinking independently, adding to his terrifying visage. His neck is clasped by a skull charm that throbs with a ghostly light, while his own eyes, now pitch black with stark white irises and blood-red slits which can shift to broken hearts or a starry-eyed effect, give nothing away of his thoughts but scream malevolence.

Surrounding Blitzo is an aura of black fire, a darkness so profound it appears to swallow light, punctuated by flashes of chaotic energy that distort the air around him. His voice, a cacophony of whispers, screams, and the unsettling chitter of insects, shifts unpredictably, sometimes overlapping in a symphony of madness. Accompanying him are the mythical horses Skinfaxi, Hrímfaxi, and Spindle, each exuding their eerie glow of dawn, dusk, and the spectral unknown. Blitzo wields a staff topped with an obsidian Mustang, its mane, and tail a morass of flames and liquid lava, eyes glowing red, horns branching out like twisted trees. His previously yellowed teeth are now an unnerving angelic white, his tail longer and spiked, ending in a swirling orb of indigo and violet flames. The once innocuous heart-shaped mark has been replaced by a glowing red pentagram, shifting unpredictably between symbols of ancient chaos. Engulfed in flames of red, black, and white, his every movement leaves trails of these colors, blending into a dizzying display of otherworldly power.

Drool of black blood trickles from his mouth, a dark liquid substance seeping from his form, granting him the terrifying ability to restore life to the dead and mend injuries. This same substance, when it touches the fallen, causes their eyes to reform and fuse, restoring them to a semblance of life. His scars seem to be completely healed. 

In the swirling chaos that is Blitzo's aura, shadows seem to move of their own accord, forming faces of torment that whisper secrets of despair into the ears of the brave souls who dare approach. His cassock, while appearing solid from afar, up close reveals a shifting, almost liquid texture, like a black hole fabric consuming the light around it, making it difficult for one's eyes to find a place to rest without feeling pulled into the abyss. The stars on his garment, rather than providing a respite from the darkness, flicker erratically, their light sharp and piercing, like needles to the eye, overwhelming the senses with their intense glare.

The chains that Blitzo wields writhe like serpents, each link crying red blood that steams upon hitting the ground, filling the air with the metallic scent of iron and fear. The glowing red roots that entangle these chains pulse with a life of their own, occasionally tightening suddenly as if attempting to strangle the unseen. His halo, rather than a divine symbol, functions as a beacon of madness, casting disturbing shadows that dance mockingly around him, warping and elongating into grotesque figures that seem to mock the very idea of sanity.

The sound accompanying Blitzo's presence is no less disturbing—a discordant symphony of the cries of the damned, the wailing of the winds of oblivion, and the unsettling silence of the void interspersed suddenly and without warning. This acoustic chaos ensures that no one can acclimate, each moment with him a test of one's mental endurance. Even the air around Blitzo is tainted; breathing it in feels like inhaling a mist of despair that slowly fills the lungs with a heaviness that is not just physical but existential. The ground where he steps crackles with the energy of a storm, the very earth blackening as if scorched by the depths of hell, leaving behind a trail of decay in his wake. Instead of a forked and lengthy red tongue, his tongue can change into a variety of disturbingly clownish patterns, Asherah (Darcy), finding it "hot". The main pattern(s) he chooses is either half black and red, black with red stripes, or red with black stripes.

Darcy's form is a masterpiece of cosmic artistry, her skin has two hues that for different patterns (black or white), showcasing an intense duality of existence that borders on the divine, but she can change this pattern to anything she wants, or just have one color dominate the other which changes the rest of her traits to fit the change. Most of the time, she has the pattern of half-white and half-black split down the middle.

The vantablack portion(s) of her skin transcends mere darkness; it embodies an unfathomable abyss, a void so profound and all-consuming that it seems to stretch into infinity itself. This is no ordinary shade but an engulfing singularity, where light doesn't just fade—it's voraciously devoured, annihilated on contact. Each speck of white scattered across this incomprehensible darkness explodes with the intensity of an entire universe, not just a star, but a boundless cosmos brimming with tales untold, epochs unfurling in the blink of an eye. These pinpricks of light are so fiercely brilliant, so saturated with stories and life, that they pierce the veil of the abyss with an overwhelming fervor, challenging the very nature of perception. The stark, absolute blackness of her skin clashes with the incandescent specks in a spectacle of contrast so severe, that it threatens the sanity of the beholder. The light does not simply shine; it blazes with a ferocity that feels almost tangible, a beacon of infinity calling from the depths of an endless night. This collision of light and darkness creates an experience so intense, that it can destabilize the senses, inducing a vertiginous awe that makes the observer feel inconceivably minute, standing on the precipice of the vast, unfathomable expanse of existence. The encounter with such a sight, where the darkness is so saturated it becomes a physical presence, and the light so bright it sears the very essence of being, is an encounter with the sublime, leaving one dizzy with profound reverence and an acute awareness of one's insignificance in the face of such transcendent beauty. These stars are not static; they pulse, twinkle, and burn with vibrant life, moving in an ethereal dance choreographed by the forces of an invisible universe. Their luminosity is so potent, that it threatens to breach the boundary of reality, transforming her skin into a living nebula where stories of distant worlds unfold in real time.

Contrastingly, her light-infused portion(s) erupts in a brilliance that transcends mere dazzle, emitting an ethereal luminance from an immaculate, stark white surface. This white isn't just radiant; it's an explosion of purity, a blinding beacon of light so overpowering it seems to tear through the fabric of reality itself. The brightness emanating from her skin is not of this world, surpassing the core of a supernova in its intensity. It is a white so saturated, so utterly devoid of blemish, that its mere presence assaults the senses, compelling the beholder's pupils to shrink to mere pinpricks. The glow radiates a spectrum of whites so vivid and potent, that it threatens to consume all that falls within its gaze, challenging the very essence of perception and leaving an afterimage that lingers, burned into the vision of all who dare to look upon it. This hemisphere does not simply shine; it pulsates with a force that feels almost alive, an unyielding torrent of light that promises no shelter or reprieve, turning its observation into an act of defiance against the overwhelming tide of its luminosity. Against this surreal backdrop, patterns of vantablack weave constellations, nebulae, and celestial events so detailed, that they could only mirror the universe's splendor in its entirety. These formations challenge the very essence of light, presenting a twisted mirror to the cosmos that not only replicates but subverts the starry sky, suggesting an alternate reality where shadows craft the light. The white of her skin blazes with an intensity that borders on the unbearable, each ray of light seeming to carry the weight of a thousand suns. The vantablack designs on this incandescent field are not mere shadows but portals to infinity, each one a swirling maelstrom of possibilities, evolving and rotating with a hypnotic allure that dares the onlooker to dive into the void. The brilliance of this site is such that it transcends mere visual spectacle, becoming a visceral experience that engraves its memory onto the soul. In this breathtaking duality, shooting stars trace her limbs, leaving trails of cosmic fire that tattoo the skin with ephemeral tales of celestial wanderlust. This sensory barrage is not just seen but felt, a symphony of light and darkness that plays upon the senses with a cacophony of beauty so intense, that it verges on the traumatic, leaving an indelible mark of overwhelming awe. 

She has glowing white star-like freckles on either side of Her face, with three on each cheek, along with two glowing cartoonish faces (on her black-skinned side one face is white, on the white side the other face is black): a black cat with sharp fangs and piercing scarlet eyes, and a serpent with even longer fangs. These faces are capable of reacting to what She says and can speak and sing along with Her, as well as speak on their own and add on to anything Darcy says. 

Her hair, stark white on the vantablack side and pitch-black on the white side is fluffy, and changes in volume, sometimes wavy, sometimes curly, and sometimes sleek, straight strands that shimmer under the light. Occasionally, it adopts a crimped style, adding a playful, zigzag pattern that complements her bold look. Darcy occasionally swaps haircuts almost daily.

Her hair also possesses an elemental quality, swaying independently as if composed of living flames and a lava lamp, as well as undulating as if having a life of its own, as if she is constantly underwater. Upon closer inspection, the underside reveals a canvas of vantablack, a cosmic void punctuated by the twinkle of entire galaxies, nebulae, and star systems.

She has stylized white eyebrows. Her teeth are pearly white, and perfectly healthy-looking, even if she gorges on the greaseiest of foods. Her physique is sharply drawn, pencil-thin, scrawny, almost emaciated, and androgynous. She is capable of shapeshifting into a more male-like form, female form, or both, or even neither as the situation demands. She has a pointed upright nose.

Her eyes are a dizzying mosaic of unearthly visual wonder, the sclerae inked in an absorbing vantablack, so deep it swallows light whole. In stark contrast, her irises gleam with piercing white, shaped like stars with edges so sharp they could slice through the very fabric of reality. These celestial star-shaped pupils fluctuate wildly in size and form, morphing to mirror her volatile emotions. Surrounding these are sinister, crimson-colored concentric rings that glow with an ominous intensity, pulsing rhythmically when she wields her power of hypnosis. Above the typical placement, on her forehead, lie three additional eyes, meticulously arranged to form a triangle of mystical surveillance. The largest pair, her primary eyes, command attention, their gaze piercing and calculating. Subtly interspersed among her freckles are myriad tiny eyes, each barely visible unless caught by the right light, blinking open to reveal hints of the same dark sclerae and luminescent irises. More eyes tend to appear when she's angry.

She possesses lanky and slightly digitigrade limbs that culminate in what seem to be split black hooves, resembling those of artiodactyls—or more precisely, deer.

A large, stark white halo floated above her head, and crystal spires formed seven vertical white lines, resembling the seven spires of a tiara, specifically the Kokoshnik tiara. Each spire is topped with a sparkling, twinkling, and flaming star that can vary in its number of points (from four to sixteen), and the central spire is flanked by two smaller spires. This halo floats above her head, outlined in a white glow, with a central onyx black obsidian circular cut gemstones below the central spire and three smaller opals of the same color on each side of the halo's rim, she also has a pair of glowing branch-like axolotl gill-antlers extend from her hair, and branch out when she's angry or when she examines people but don't usually appear.

She possesses a deer tail, distinguished by its black and white hues, notable for its silk-like smoothness and gentleness upon touch. Additionally, her tail boasts the remarkable ability to transform into various forms, with a preference often alternating between her natural deer tail and a unique, vantablack devil's tail. This devil's tail is distinct, extending long with seven spikes culminating in an arrowhead tip, decorated with a white tip. Black dots embellish the corners of her mouth, complemented by black lipstick accentuating her upper lip.

She is adorned with seven pairs of wings, each marked by black eyes set against a white backdrop on their span, though these wings remain concealed and her wings are feathery and colored white. Her eyes are framed by thick black mascara and eyeliner. These wings are extremely large and gigantic compared to the other angels.

A striking feature is her elongated, sinuous, forked tongue adding to her enigmatic presence. Her forked tongue is the inverse of her skin (skin = black/white tongue half, tongue = white/black tongue half). She has two large black-tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of Her head that resemble deer ears. The ends of her arms are black with a texture of smooth obsidian rock with white veiny cracks and small embers flying from it, giving the appearance of cracked volcanic fissures that do burn when touched. All the glowing features in her body can also glow in the dark. She also has conspicuous, pulsating veins along her neck, their obsidian tendrils imbued with a sinister scarlet luminescence. A viscous ink-like venom incessantly oozes from her fingertips, dripping and generating wisps of smoke. At times, observers claim to perceive faint, anxious voices accompanying the eerie spectacle.

I know this may seem like an essay, but since I can't draw fanart of them, here it is in 10,000 word description for '^^!

Wow!

[bigegomagick]

Ch. 3

The flight was leaving in an hour so Gabe purchased tickets at a touch screen kiosk and Hazel waited for him at the gate. The travelers around them sported tidy athleisure sets and white sneakers. Many of them had preemptively donned leis and drank frothy cocktails out of tall plastic cups in a range of jewel tones. Everyone trailed a regulation-sized carry-on stacked with purses and cosmetic cases. Men clustered around charging stations slumped forward under the weight of engorged backpacks.

Gabriel returned as the plane began to board in hierarchical order and when boarding group X was finally called they sped past the checkpoints and accordion bridge through to the back of the plane, where they took their seats and unclenched for the first time.

Once the plane was coasting through thin air, gabe ordered a drink from a swaying attendant and sipped with perfunctory satisfaction.

“Sometimes I’m tortured by the idea that I’ll never be a great man. Drinking a whiskey on a plane doesn’t hold the same simplicity that it does for you, it’s layered with too much awareness and I have to watch myself do it, which is so boring,” Hazel said.

Gabe flipped through sky mall and clinked his ice cubes next to her ear.

“Shall I tell mother we’re coming?” He said with a Brit-like affect.

“No no, don’t want her to roll out the red carpet. Best to see how she’s really been living recently, I don’t think she gets many visitors out there. “

“I say, I do believe you mean to intimidate old mummy by showing up unannounced!”

Mother had refused to sell her land when the travel companies resort-ified the east coast. Her house now squatted precariously between the bulbous cheeks of two adjacent geodomes, privy to unregulated climates and exempt from travel law like a maritime zone. Occasionally, private appraisers would come and stomp through the weeds, waiting impotently outside the house and wrapping impatiently on the softened wood of the porch in hopes that Edwige would emerge and fess to her betrayal of various ordinances. Edwige had the wide front steps removed a decade earlier, so the porch dropped off suddenly, a solid 6 feet above the land, making entrance to the house a humiliating maneuver up splintery trellis. Given that the land Edwige retained between the domes was too small to colonize for their purposes, private companies had little motivation to hoist themselves up outside of a general bureaucratic interest in extirpating any niggling bodies yet unconsumed by their ever-expanding territory.

Gabriel placed a bulky wireless headset around his crown and began talking aloud to a group of online friends, his eyes glazed over as he laughed and quipped. Leaning back in her seat, Hazel inserted a pair of complementary noise-canceling headphones and selected “sound of jungle” from options on the screen set into the back of the chair in front of her. Swallowing a mild, linty sedative from her pocket, she closed her eyes and gradually drifted into sleep.

Hazel dreamed that she woke up on the wing of the plane, seated with her shins dangling over the edge. Wind blasted her in the face and her hair whipped behind her so fast it felt like it was being yanked out of her scalp. Ahead of the plane, against a rich purple cloud, a V of large grey geese pursued some southerly oasis. The nearmost of them was sucked violently into the engine and expelled in a mist of blood and feathers. Hazel gripped the sides of the wing, inched herself over to the tiny porthole and peered in at Gabriel, who had his head tipped back and eyes closed as he continued to chat with the losers on his server. Hazel banged on the window with the flat of her fist and Gabriel startled, looked up, and gasped in horror at her bloodspattered, wind-beaten visage. Through the vignette of the window a silent film played out before her – Gabe jumping up, grabbing a stewardess by the collar, dragging her to the window. The stewardess, seeing nothing, adopted a n stern, authoritative expression as she urged Gabe back into his seat. The panicked expressions of other passengers, overhearing the drama, turning to vague irritation when they saw nothing zfor themselves. Hazel banged again, this time on the window, the side of the plane, with one fist and then both, her grip of her knees slipped and she flew to the side, grabbing the edge of the wing at the last moment, holding on for dear life as her clothes were ripped away until she clung nude in the wind, tits flapping hideously. Now travelers looking out the windows could see her and they laughed but without much interest. She woke up to the chill of aggressive air conditioning blasting her in the face from the ceiling and an announcement piped over the speaker.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING.

I need to bring your attention to a change in our flight plan. We have encountered unexpected inclement weather that is preventing us from safely landing at our intended airport.

In the interest of your safety and well-being, we have made the decision to divert the aircraft to the nearest suitable airport. Our crew is well-trained to handle such situations, and please rest assured that your safety is our top priority –”

The plane bucked and the audio drowned in a collective squeal from passengers.

“-- weather conditions at our alternate airport are more favorable for a safe landing. The air is fresh and clear, the ground staff and emergency services at the alternate airport are prepared to assist us, and I can truly ensure a smooth transition upon our arrival.

We understand that this may be an inconvenience for some of you, and we sincerely apologize for any disruption to your plans. Connecting flights will be organized upon disembarkment.

Once again, we appreciate your understanding and cooperation during this unexpected turn of events. Thank you for flying with us, we’ll be landing shortly.”

Everything stuttered and Hazel lunged upwards in her seat, the stiff belt at her hip carving into flesh. Weight collected on her shoulders like bags of sand and she slammed back down. Vibration turned her vision to static. The glossy magazine pinched in the seat in front of her a ragged spray of color as the interior of the plane reduced to a wash of gray, and then they dropped, around her bodies collapsed into the ceiling, she imagined the sound of skulls knocking but all she could hear was the ovular wallop of sheet metal flailing and the dense rush of air. She reached down and unbuckled first her seatbelt, then gabriels, and they slammed up, each of them flat against the corrugated plastic facade, their arms and shoulders overlapped, she turned her face to his and he to hers, they looked at the garbled blur of their partner’s eyes and lips and breathed until the plane leveled suddenly and they dropped again, the backs of their knees cracked against headrests in aisle E19, howler monkey screeching peeled out from below, accompanied by a terrible rumbling shiver as the plane sped forth on the vast runway, lights from the airport streaked like lasers in the most beautiful lightshow Hazel had ever seen, getting closer and closer until the nose of the plane plunged into the airport, carving a perfect orifice into terminal C.

[nearen]

Prompt #1: Envoy

From the heavens fell scores of stars, blazing their paths in streaks through umber clouds and fiery skies. Rivers ran red, whether as a reflection of the calamity above, or with spilt blood.

Forests burned. Roots wrenched themselves from the earth. Trees with cruel, grasping claws and crowns of fire pursued those who had once sheltered ‘neath their boughs. Meadows were sundered, split and pulled apart as easily as the flesh of fruit. Lakes boiled, and acid rain scoured flesh from bone.

Foul beasts ran amok, preying on and picking off those fortunate enough to have survived the terrors that preceded them. And there was no end to them, no boundary to their strength, no floor to the depravity of their ferocity, no dignity in the death they dealt.

I have dreamt of this.

Where the sun touched the horizon, a grand city was devoured by ruin, illuminated by a halo of fire. Those seeking to escape the destruction poured out into the surrounding lands in droves, only to be chased and cut down by the monstrosities that followed in their wake, devoured by the very lands they twisted beyond recognition around them.

Above all, white feathers soared, observing the breadth of the devastation. Two spirits watched hope perish as one. With a dreadful screech, a terror with claws for wings dove, talons reaching for the delicate bird.

She banked sharply and descended, steering the winds to separate them. There—survivors. Her song called to them, a sweet melody that drowned out screams and cries of despair. Her flight cut through the air, leaving a shimmering trail to be followed.

In her wake, stakes of light rained, piercing the hearts of the aerial fiends that dared stray too close. Yet it wasn’t enough—where a dozen fell, two dozen more rose to take their place. All she—all they—could do was hope that it was enough to earn the survivors enough of a reprieve to reach their bastion.

Far from all else stood a tall spire, their refuge. There, they slept. There, they dreamt. And the manifestations of their fears were insulated within the boundaries of their own mind. While a nightmare unfolded in reality, they warred their own nightmares—handicapped by gambit, a sliver of their awareness sacrificed to their dearest creation, who searched from the skies around their spire. Through her eyes they sought any and all that they might yet welcome into the embrace of their protection.

In sleep, those sorry souls would not be spared from their fears’ grasp. If anything, their terrors would be magnified… yet their apparitions would be confined to their minds, and they would be there to guide and shepherd and fight alongside the rescued—the Dream’s Envoy. Together, they might prevail.

The gates of their bastion welcomed the bleeding and weary. A mother fended off the spectre of her son’s fright, and no one turned back to save her when it seized her and tore her in twain. The child watched over the shoulder of his rescuer as its grinning visage rose from his mother’s body, endless rows of fangs dripping with her blood.

Inside, a spiralling staircase invited them upward, from the summit of which a tender lullaby echoed down. The steps themselves threatened to come alive, yet here, they could only laugh menacingly—shadows and shapes on the walls formed gruesome murals and promised terrible ends for those who sought safety, yet those fierce claws and fatal fangs their foes bared could not pierce the canvas on which they were painted.

The higher they climbed, the more the song seemed to surround them, seep into their very being. At the pinnacle, they stepped out into—a blazing battlefield, a platform amidst the clouds, where terrors beyond counting battled resistance forces in the skies. All around them, burning stones carved fiery paths through the skies.

Their hearts sank… They had believed they would find sanctuary here. Yet—the valiants above them were not losing. They neither gained nor lost numbers or ground.

Before them hovered a serene apparition, their eyes closed, a mandala of prismatic colour and kaleidoscopic intricacy turning behind them like the wheels of time. Dark feathers cascaded down their shoulders, their back in the form of both mane and cloak—stormy plumage adorned with gilded armour formed the wings that folded across their figure, framing a secondary mouth centred in their chest. It ceaselessly sang the sweet lullaby that had lured them here.

They were bleeding heavily, their true form marred by deep rends and savage scars that would never heal. The asymmetry of their flagging flight suggested more than one feathered appendage had been torn away.

“My friends,” they began, remorseful, “You will find no respite here. You will face your deepest dread, and its wrath will be merciless. There will be no awakening from this nightmare. Not until fear itself is conquered.”

They cast an arm upward into the skies, and a glaive of light shimmered into existence, settling into their waiting palm. In the hands of each of the survivors, a weapon befitting their soul coalesced into substance in their grasp. The young boy too: A sword and a shield that felt like his mother’s devotion were his to claim.

A bitter truth of life is that none are too young to fight for their future if the need should arise.

They spun the glaive in their grasp, gripped it vertically before them with two (of many) hands. From above, a resplendent white bird descended, alighting softly on their shoulder as though she weighed no more than a feather.

“Thus, fear itself is our enemy, and we shall not rest until it is overcome. Take heart, though—for as we turn our battle inward, we spare the star from our strife. You are not alone, and we will persist. For those we have lost, and for those we can yet save.”

With a gentle smile, they turned, and their wings arced, then fanned, gathering the winds. They ascended, bracing and levelling their glaive to confront the horde of horrors conjured into being by their petrified charges, twisted beings so numerous that they darkened the skies.

[bloodieddove]

tags

[mcrcurial]

(( natasha liu bordizzo, cis. female, she / her. )) when the evening snow falls, you won't find lisbet pesci outside. the twenty-seven year old psychotherapist has lived in frigid for twenty years and most know her to be enigmatic and mercurial. ( kenz, 22, she / her, est. )

basics.

full name.  lisbet mihn pesci

nicknames.  liz, betty

age, d.o.b.  twenty-seven, september 18th

place of birth.  frigid, alaska

ethnicity.  italian-american & vietnamese  

occupation.  psychotherapist at frigid clinic

gender.  cis. female

sexuality.  openly bisexual

inclination.  fairly inclined toward likeminded individuals, though she happens to attract partners that aren’t exactly the best match for her.

relationship status.  single

visage.

faceclaim.  natasha liu bordizzo

height & weight.  five foot five, one hundred eighteen pounds.

body build.  fairly thin, but not overly so; physically toned from her rigid health routine.

hair desc.  feathered, dark brown hair with highlights that catch the sunlight. 

eye desc.  partially lidded, almond shaped eyes of a mahogany color.

skin desc.  somewhat fair and flecked with haphazard freckles and beauty marks.

accessories.  glasses often perched on the bridge of her nose, stud earrings, and a silver ring strung from a necklace always worn beneath clothing.

wardrobe.  rolled up sleeves. several white lab coats worn interchangeably. peter pan collars. thrifted sweaters. delicate patterns.

personality.

positive traits.  attentive, independent, meticulous, self-disciplined, solicitous, trustworthy.

negative traits.  enigmatic, despondent, dogmatic, reticent, rigid, unravelling.

likes.  people-watching. whiskey neats. eclectic music. art-patronage. soul-cycling.

dislikes.  milk in her coffee. unnecessary small talk. floral perfume. mornings. impotence.

ambitions.  her main ambition is to further herself in her career and prove herself a formidable asset to her patients━liz wants to leave an impact even after she’s long gone.

fears.  falling short of her self-expectations.

hobbies.  working out. devotion to her work outside of the clinic. reading. frequenting the frost club for a drink.

habits.  sitting in one spot for hours on end. drunk texting/confessions. lingering touches━an arm snaked along the back of a couch, head rested on your lap, hand on your shoulder. standing in a doorway, or straying from one corner of the room to the other rather than sitting down.

biography.

lisbet is the second born child to mei lin-pesci & her father, josef pesci. after about five years of trying for their second child, lisbet arrives as a catalyst with a human name. she’s a miracle, her mother whispered into her crown of hair. her father took the wailing child into his arms, and he’d sworn to love his daughter endlessly. same as he had sworn onto his first born, lisbet is fiercely doted as a child. their darling girls. 

her childhood is spent chasing her sister through the halls of their childhood home & whispering secrets in the garden. the pair were inseparable no matter the circumstance, or at least they thought so. by then, the family business had taken well to the influx of tourists in town, and profit margins were set to expand 10 fold within the next few years, as such, the aid of lisbet and her sister was enlisted where her parent’s and their small staff team fell short. 

following her sister’s leave for school, lisbet spends her teen years stocking shelves. and she couldn’t quite pinpoint when the adoration turned into loathing. the phone calls home slow, and lisbet watches the next few years of her sister’s life in pictures. she’d learn to live without her favorite person by her side. and she leads a normal routine for sometime: school, work, hang out with friends, then go home. until, she’s sitting at her mother’s bedside in the late hours of the morning. her mother had suffered an unexpected brain hemorrhage, and all the girl could do was hold her mother’s hand in her own as she passed on. 

life faces the young woman with an uncharacteristic stillness. and her sister flies home for the funeral but lisbet doesn’t know where to begin. she’d unlearned some of the resentment, but the distance remains. her sister returns home and entirely new person, and lisbet is unchanged. even a few years older, she’s still the same fragile girl that her older sister left back in frigid. and even after her mother’s burial, life goes on. her sister returns to school, and lisbet enacts her search for colleges. she chose standford━she prayed relentlessly to receive that black and white envelope. and when she did, it seemed that for once in a rather long time, things were going to be okay for her.

her summer had been spent working later shifts and packing her belongings away into boxes. the end of the summer neared, and yet again her life stilled. james, perhaps her only childhood friend aside from her sister, had gone missing. the last she’d heard from him, he had been walking home after work. lisbet was the last person to talk to him. then teenaged, she spent the latter portion of her summer searching for answers━even if it meant her unravelling. even now, she can’t help but to wonder what happened to jamie miller ?

lisbet is falling apart at the seams by the time she’s foisted upon the standford campus. hardly applying herself to her studies, the majority of her freshman year is spent partying and perhaps over-indulging in whatever toxicant she can manage to get her hands on. after catching word of her doings, her father levels with her: get her act together, or come home. refusal of the latter forces the party-girl to get her act together. over the series of months, lisbet learns to mask those undone seams. she reapplies herself to her work, and soon enough, she’s graduated and ready to enter the field. 

she manages to snag a position at a nearby psychiatric hospital. the job is gouache and it hadn’t necessarily payed well, but lisbet takes solace in her work. in helping other people, even if she couldn’t help herself. she roots herself in the field of psychotherapy for some years, but with the most recent decline of her father’s health, it seems lisbet has made her unlikely return to frigid.

[scotianostra]

And so we come to my last historical post of the day, the month, the year and the decade, and it's a meaty one, I really should have posted it in a few easily digestible segments but I left it too late in the day so here goes.....most of the post has been taken from John Gregorson Campbell’s The Gaelic Otherworld.

Hogmanay high jinks, it's all a matter of tradition in Scotland.

It has been said that Hogmanay is a Godless Christmas celebrated to excess – and Scots have long known how to celebrate the New Year with devotion.

With the old feast of Christmas generally discouraged by the Kirk following the Reformation, special focus was placed on New Year with the period running up to Hogmanay, and its aftermath, always celebrated as a holiday period in Scotland.

With the old feast of Christmas generally discouraged by the Kirk following the Reformation, special focus was placed on New Year with the period running up to Hogmanay, and its aftermath, always celebrated as a holiday period in Scotland.

This period was known in Scotland as the ‘daft days’ – a time given over to celebration, merriment and excess, with licence given for enjoyment during the often bleak midwinter.

Now anyone who follows my post on here might remember the ‘daft days’ from previous posts, it is also the title of a poem by the Edinburgh Poet who inspired Burns, Robert Ferguson.

It covers the period in the year running from Christmas (25 December), through New Year, and into the first Monday of the year, known as Handsel Monday. After the Reformation of 1560, the old feast of Christmas was generally discouraged by the church, but the period running up to New Year’s Eve, and its aftermath, was always celebrated as a holiday period in Scotland. The first Monday of the year was called Handsel Monday because it was the custom on that day for Scots to exchange a handsel, or gift, as a good luck token. The word handsel derives from Old Norse and Anglo-Saxon and means to ‘give into the hand’.

It is still the primary period of national celebration in Scotland, with stage-managed events in Edinburgh on Hogmanay (‘New Year’s Eve’) – a word believed to derive from Old French ‘aguillanneuf’ (and in Northern French ‘hoguinane’) meaning a seasonal gift. Others suggest it was first used by the Celtic Druids and could be derived from terms of the celebration for the turning year used by the Icelandics, Saxons

In the daft Days Fergusson describes the darkening, bleak weather, the stillness of the wildlife, and the shelter that Edinburgh offers. In the city people can take their fill of food and drink while enjoying conversation, dance and music. But he warns the reader not to drink too much aqua vitae (whisky) or else fall prey to the notorious city guard, whom he also mentions in the poem Hallow Fair.

The Daft Days

Now mirk December’s dowie face

Glowrs owr the rigs wi sour grimace,

While, thro’ his minimum of space,

The bleer-ey’d sun,

Wi blinkin light and stealing pace,

His race doth run.From naked groves nae birdie sings,

To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings,

The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings

From Borean cave,

And dwyning nature droops her wings,

Wi visage grave.Mankind but scanty pleasure glean

Frae snawy hill or barren plain,

Whan winter, ‘midst his nipping train,

Wi frozen spear,

Sends drift owr a’ his bleak domain,

And guides the weir.Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole,

A bield for many caldrife soul,

Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth,

While round they gar the bicker roll

To weet their mouth.When merry Yule-day comes, I trou,

You’ll scantlins find a hungry mou;

Sma are our cares, our stamacks fou

O’ gusty gear,

And kickshaws, strangers to our view,

Sin fairn-year.Ye browster wives, now busk ye braw,

And fling your sorrows far awa;

Then come and gie’s the tither blaw

Of reaming ale,

Mair precious than the well of Spa,

Our hearts to heal.Then, tho’ at odds wi a’ the warl’,

Amang oursels we’ll never quarrel;

Tho’ Discord gie a canker’d snarl

To spoil our glee,

As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel

We’ll drink and ‘gree.Fidlers, your pins in temper fix,

And roset weel your fiddle-sticks;

But banish vile Italian tricks

Frae out your quorum,

Not fortes wi pianos mix –

Gie’s Tulloch Gorum.For nought can cheer the heart sae weel

As can a canty Highland reel;

It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:

Lifeless is he wha canna feel

Its influence.Let mirth abound, let social cheer

Invest the dawning of the year;

Let blithesome innocence appear

To crown our joy;

Nor envy wi sarcastic sneer

Our bliss destroy.And thou, great god of Aqua Vitae!

Wha sways the empire of this city,

When fou we’re sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepar’d

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

The City Guard.

In the 18th century, it was recorded that children out and about on 31 December in Scotland would shout out: “Hogmanay, Trollolay/Give us your white bread and none of your grey.”

The world ‘trollolay’ from the Scots song may also come from the Icelandic word trolldir which denotes a troll or evil genii who devoured mortals who strayed into their territory.

Fantastic records exist on how Hogmanay was celebrated in Scotland over time.

In the Highlands and Islands, the seven days from Christmas to the New Year were known as Nollaig.

During the “easy-going olden times” no work was done during the period but men gave themselves up “to friendly festivities and expressions of goodwill,” according to John Gregorson Campbell’s The Gaelic Otherworld.

Another wee rhyme that was used in "olden times was ......

Get up, goodwife, and shake your feathers,

And dinna think that we are beggars;

For we are bairns come out to play,

Get up and gie's our hogmanay!'

And another I would suggest was maybe recited by first footers, chapping on the doors of their friends and neighbours to wish them a happy new year.....

My feet's cauld, my shoon's thin;

Gie's my cakes, and let me rin!'

A common saying of the festive period was often shared: “The man whom Christmas does not make cheerful/Easter will leave sad and tearful.”

Hogmanay was referred to as either ‘night of the candle’ or ‘night of blows’ given the popularity of one ritual which involved a man having a dry cow hide placed over his head before being beaten like a drum as he and his friends moved around their village.

Usually led by a bagpiper, the group would move around each house, turning anti-clockwise, striking the walls and reciting rhymes to raise the householders. As doors opened, the group would pile into each home to receive refreshments, such as oatmeal bread, cheese, flesh and of course, a wee dram of whisky.

The leader would then give the man of the house the ‘caisein uchd’ or a shinty stick wrapped in the breast stripe of a sheep or tail of a deer. This was then singed in the fire, put three times anti-clockwise around the family and then held to the noses of all in the room, Campbell said.

“In this style, the villages, men and boys, went from house to house – preceded in many cases by a piper, and drowning the animosities of the past year in hilarity and merriment,” according to Campbell.

Fancy dress and guising was a popular element of Hogmanay in Scotland through time. The rich would dress for fun, while the poor would dress up to entertain and collect food for their last feast of the year.

Holly and cheese were other elements of a traditional Hogmanay. Holly was hung in the belief it would keep the fairies away with boys whipped with a branch of the greenery.

A slice of cheese cut at this feast was considered to have a “special virtue” if the piece contained a hole. A person losing his way during the ensuing year, in a mist of otherwise, has only to look through the hole and he will see his way clearly,” according to Campbell’s account.

Sometimes the owner of the lucky cheese would place it under their pillow for good luck.

Hogmanay night was sometimes referred to as New Year’s Night with the fire in the home playing a central part in the superstitions during the countdown to midnight. It was feared that letting the fire go out would invite bad luck into the home with only householders – or a friend – allowed to tend it. Candles were usually lit as back-up to ensure a flame remained in the house with 31 December often referred to as Candle Night as a result. If the fire went out, no one was allowed to ask a neighbour for kindling to start another.

New Year’s Day, like the first of every quarter of the year, was a great ‘saining’ day across the Highlands and Islands when rituals were at their most intense to protect cattle and houses from evil.

Juniper was burnt in the byre, animals were marked with tar, the houses were decked with mountain ash and the door-posts and walls and even the cattle were sprinkled with wine.

Campbell said: “Nothing was allowed to be put out of the house this day, neither the ashes of the fire nor the sweepings of the house, nor dirty water, nor anything else, however useless or however much in the way.

“It was a very serious matter to give fire out of the house to a neighbour whose hearth had become cold, as the doing so gave power to the evil-minded to take away the produce from the cattle.

The morning of 1 January started with a dram poured by the head of the household with a spoon of half-boiled sowens given for luck. A young man entering with a armful of corn was considered a joyful omen but a “decrepit old woman asking for kindling of her fire was a most deplorable omen,” Campbell’s account said.

It was unlucky for a woman to enter the house, or anyone to come in empty handed, with a form of the superstition evolving into Scotland’s tradition of ‘first footing’.

Of course no post about the Auld Year ending and new one beginning would be complete without mentioning Auld Lang Syne.

Every year, the streets ring with the same lilting song. Sweet, nostalgic, hopeful; “Auld Lang Syne"  it has become an absolute tradition in New Year’s Eve celebrations.It is also the second most song, sung around the world, only Happy Birthday is sung more often.

Burns never intended his work to act as a farewell to the old year; it’s a piece which partially reproduces, partially originally pens an older folk tune.

He originally sent the piece to the Scots Musical Museum with a note: “The following song, an old song, of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript until I took it down from an old man.”

Don't shoot the man for it, the same was true of many of James Hogg and Walter Scott's tales of folklore and verse.

The phrase “for auld lang syne” essentially boils down to “for (the sake of) old times”. It’s a work which essentially calls for the preservation of our oldest, dearest friendships; perhaps observed in the reflective quality of New Year’s Eve itself. A time when people come together to recall past joys and sorrows, specifically those spent in each other’s company.Now, there are several variations of what’s sung on New Year’s Eve; first off, I have posted Burns’ original Scots verse if you want to keep things authentic. Below that, a simplified English translation.

BURNS’ ORIGINAL SCOTS VERSEShould auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and auld lang syne?CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my jo,

for auld lang syne,

we’lltak‘ a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup!

and surely I’ll be mine!

And we’ll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes,

and pou’d the gowans fine;

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,

sin' auld lang syne.

CHORUSWe twa hae paidl’d in the burn,

frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar’d

sin' auld lang syne.

CHORUSAnd there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!

and gie's a hand o’ thine!

And we’ll tak' a right gude-willie waught,

for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

ENGLISH TRANSLATION.Nah dinnae bother wae it, if ye cannae sing the Scottish version ye don't desrve tae ken the English yin. ;)

Happy New Year when it comes to all my followers here on Tumblr. 

John Gregorson Campbell was a Scottish folklorist and Free Church minister at the Tiree and Coll parishes in Argyll, Scotland. An avid collector of traditional stories, in he became Secretary to the Ossianic Society of Glasgow University in the mid-1850s.

[ladywindrunner]

a kiss to gain control.

angst kiss :: not accepting //

She could recall faintly—

           They’d loved each other once.

           When the sun shone on Quel’Thalas, before the cold came with the marching dead. When fields of blooming tulips formed a sea of yellow, swaying in the gentle breeze. She could not remember many details anymore, though lingering on the edge of clarity were essences of adoration.

           Stolen moments in the shade of Eversong. The tittering laughter of a sheepish, young mage who’d enraptured the Ranger-General. Kisses that were feather-light and teasing, touches that were fleeting but meaningful.

           Romance that should never have blossomed, did so despite odds stacked against it.

           An shard of ice flew towards the Banshee Queen. She hardly moved to dodge it, leaning out of the spell’s path, dead flesh sensing the burn of magic within it as it passed by. She did not fear the cold, nor the woman who wielded it.

           The arrows she loosed trailed black smoke and indigo threads. Whining as they flew through the air, striking dangerously close, malevolent incantations burning into the frozen ground of Northrend.

           The Ranger-General was slow to love. Slow to admit it, to herself and others. She told it in different ways, subtle ones. Ones only the lovely Lady Jaina knew.

           Stolen glances, looks exchanged that were unknown to outsiders. While her ears did not move, and her lips did not smile, there was a glint of something in the quel’dorei’s eyes. Spoken in a language only Proudmoore could decipher.

            Strange that such thoughts burdened the Dark Lady now. The distractions proving decisive, as the Lord Admiral continued to gain the upper hand.

           Jaina raised both hands to the sky, her eyes a flame with mana, their bright blue radiance speaking silently of unrelenting power. The churning skies of Northrend bowed to her will, they roiled with thunder, lightning crackled—

           And ice began to fall.

           The Banshee Queen glared towards the sky.

Shielding her face as hail fell, loud snaps were heard as pellets cracked off of the ranger’s armour.

Pellets became spheres, easily the size of cannon balls. They did not bounce off the frozen earth beneath their feet. They crashed into the ground without remorse.

One struck the Dark Lady’s back, eliciting a snarl of pain, while another slammed into her shoulder and knocked her aside.

Vile fury turned the withering arrows stuck in the ground into chains, they extended to Sylvanas’ open hand.

With one mighty heave, she tore the ground out from under her enemy.

She’d tried to remember life before undeath. She’d clung to the memories as best she could, but loathing corrupted her. Even when she’d found freedom, it hadn’t come with solace.

The living came, and shouted monster. Suddenly the Alliance was against them. They did not want to see the undead, not unless the corpses were to be put into shallow graves.

           There came cries from the freed dead, eyes no longer blue but yellow. They ran to her, skittered in the dark, crawling out from crypts, sewers, and sacked villages.

           We are forsaken.

           Save us.

           Chunks of earth and ice erupted, shattering the Lord Admiral’s concentration. She was thrown up and forwards, debris cascading around her.

           The ground came quickly, Jaina extended a hand and—

           Great plumes of snow and dust exploded outwards. The howling sky went quiet, the last boom of thunder dismal. The Dark Lady stood, shrugging off the ice.

           Arrogance had been the downfall of many.

           She had to be careful it wouldn’t be hers.

           A blast of freezing water and ice struck her. She hissed, stepping backwards, wiping water from her face.

           A creature of ice and water lumbered out of the fog of fine snow. Hunks of earth swirled about its vaguely humanoid form, having a faceless head and two arms, either adorned with bronze cuffs. It had no feet, its torso blending into a volatile spout of white water that gliding across the cracked ground.

           The cry it emitted was deep, a bellowing warning that announced the presence of its master.

           Jaina emerged after it, blood trailing from her scalp. Her fine robes ruined. She’d saved herself, but not before the Banshee Queen’s trick had wounded her.

           The soldiers of the Alliance fled, and a chorus unlike any other rose out of the murky dark:

           We are the Forsaken.

           There’d been a single figure who stood unafraid as the tide of undead streamed forth from the depths of Lordaeron. She hadn’t wavered when frightening their frightening Queen stepped into the light.

           Sylvanas did recall they tried to fool themselves into believing their love could endure. That somehow it could defy the hatred tearing into the dead ranger’s withered heart.

           The stolen glances became that of sorrow.

           They realized their love was wilting. For there was no joy, no warm embrace, or smiles waiting in their future.  

           Defeat is poison to what remained of the Dark Lady’s soul. She is struck with spell after spell. The elemental forcing her to expend more energy dodging its attempts, while suffering increasing blows from its master. The Banshee Queen could no longer feel mortal pain, but the incantations broke through the dulled senses of undeath.

           If she was not aching from magical bruising, her limbs felt as if they were on fire from the chilling bite of icy magics.

           Deathwhisper fell from her grasp; she stumbles as the tidesurger smashes her with a watery uppercut.

           An icy boulder forms before Jaina, gathering energy for the briefest of seconds before it flies forward.

           It strikes the banshee, exploding. She is sent careening backwards, until she slams into an icy rise and slumps.

           The burning crimson glow of the forsaken queen’s eyes diminishes until it is nearly vacant.

           The elemental moves aside.

           For once, the Dark Lady sees clearly without the hatred Arthas cursed her with. Dead eyes gaze up at the Lord Admiral, reminiscent of the woman who’d once been honourable. A fleeting glimpse that Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, still lingered.

           “Why?” Jaina’s words stung with betrayal, with pain, and horror.

           Sylvanas said nothing. She sat in silence, admiring the mage with a clarity she hadn’t possessed in a long while.

           They’re laughing, Jaina is held in the Ranger-General’s warm embrace. They sit beneath an old oak on the bank of a nameless creek. They’ve finally escaped, found a refuge under the pale moon during twilight. Jaina squirms as Sylvanas’ breath tickles her neck, only to be followed with teasing kisses.

           Jaina has moved closer, her broken heart, held together by determination and disgust by the Dark Lady’s actions – was on the verge of bursting.

The Banshee Queen was dying.

Her dead flesh was not mending. Shards of ice, as sharp as an assassin’s blade, stuck out of the woman. Wisps of smoke seeped out of the wounds.

“I love you,” the young mage whispered, fingers grazing the elf’s cheek, gliding along her jawline as they lay together.

“Why did you do it?” Jaina hastened her question. She needed to know.

She touched Sylvanas’ cheek.

           Sylvanas snatches Jaina’s wrist, pulling her close.

           Cold lips press against warm, a kiss of death meeting life unabashed. For a moment it felt as if her undead heart might beat once more. She cups Jaina’s face in her hands. She defies her failing strength, standing slowly.

           Her hands fall away as their lips part. Dead eyes gaze into fiery blues, still alight with potent magic.

           “I love you,” Sylvanas murmurs as their foreheads touch.

           She should have told Jaina long ago.

           The blade ran across the Lord Admiral’s fair neck with the deftness expected of a ranger.

           The crimson glow once again claimed the banshee’s eyes.

           Jaina staggered backwards, hand clasping over the mortal wound. Blood spilled through her fingers. It splattered onto her overcoat and corset.

           The elemental shrieked, its power evaporating. The water of its body sputtered, turning to a hot mist.

           Sylvanas hurried forward, catching Jaina as she fell backwards. Her wounds were mending. Gone were the icicles and slivers that had marred her preserved flesh.

           Jaina’s mouth opened, her eyes wide, tears running down her face as she one hand grabbed hold of the elf’ arm. No words escaped her, she could taste blood, its coppery flavour coating her tongue.

           A being manifested behind Banshee Queen, a ghostly visage of a winged woman, with a face obscured by a helm.

           A val’kyr.

           “you won’t be as the rest,” the woman whispered, tenderly laying Jaina down in the snow. “Your flesh will not wither, decay, or rot…”

           She stood tall, gazing down at the dying woman, her blackened soul screaming with fury. No longer would Proudmoore be a world apart from the banshee. Her heart would still, and then she’d rise.

           Then perhaps, she’d understand.

           She glanced to Deathwhisper, the bow flew to her, catching it in her hand, she spared once last look at Jaina.

           “Farwell My Love,” she whispered, words tenderly spoken. “When you rise, you rise a queen.”

The clouds churned. Dim grey twisting into black, then purple and finally, a sickening, frenzied green. The heavens beyond roared so loud with thunder it resonated in the air.

           Pale eyes opened, blue irises as empty of colour. They regarded the sky with melancholy.

           The dead closed in, Scourge minions drawn to the scent of blood. Skeleton soldiers, ghouls, and fiends. They snarled.

           All at once, lightning rained down. Vicious bolts, eviscerating all who dared to approach.

           Until none remained.

           Fair skin was now pastel in hue, not pallid, but akin to fresh fallen snow. Seamless, even the cut along her neck had vanished.

           The val’kyr was gone.

           Jaina Proudmoore stood alone, but in the back of her mind there was a whisper. An ethereal connection, it turned her frigid gaze to the horizon, to Ice Crown Citadel.

           Her eyes radiated a harsh white light, the blizzard whirling around her parted, leaving her in deathly stillness.

           The ground next to her quaked, bones of a lost steed rising up, assembling itself. A single icy horn sprouted from its blacked skull. Effortlessly she leapt into the saddle, the freezing stallion breaking into a gallop after that.

           She would find Sylvanas, she’d tear Ice Crown asunder to do it if she must.

           And behind her, the storm followed, chasing the its new queen.

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧ kofi 

[softzcl]

wee hours painting - huang renjun

• pairing: huang renjun x self-insert (gender neutral) • genre: light fluff • length: one-shot (1.6k words) • au: muse!renjun; painter!reader

The lack of illumination brought a serene ambiance over the room. The only light source was your bedside lamp, its yellow light very reminiscent of a tea light. A soft whirring, emitted from the air conditioning, was a welcomed white noise that served the silence in the room. The remaining jasmine tea in the teapot had long gone cold, placed on the coffee table along with two emptied porcelain teacups from your favourite tea set that was gifted to you by your crockery loving grandmother, apparently a family heirloom.

The previously heated back and forth dwindled into soft, whispered murmurs until they, too, died down to silence as a sleepy haze came over the two of you.

Now Renjun was fast asleep, the previous long talk about ghosts and aliens completely tiring him out not only mentally but also physically. You were still awake but you didn’t mind one bit that he wasn’t.

The view was something you felt was to commit to memory - the boy, completely at peace with himself and the world, was soundly asleep on the right side of the bed, next to you.

In repose, he was such a sight to behold; gone was the often cynical smile bestowed upon his lips due to his unapologetic flamboyant nature, instead replaced by his pouted lips, slightly parted as he breathed out in soft, quiet exhales. His wondrous eyes, usually glinting with thoughts of mischief, were now closed, eyebrows relaxed. His long, curled lashes fanned out like butterfly wings and cast shadows upon the tops of his cheeks, courtesy of the old lamp perched on the nightstand at your bedside.

Due to his incessant tossing and turning in bed, his usually kept hair had bundled in a curly mess. Some of his unruly locks had matted down to his forehead while tuffs of hair at the crown of his head had been ruffled, now remaining sticking up as he pressed the right side of his face to his pillow, cheek mashed into the bedding.

His appearance was reminiscent of an angel like he had just jumped out of a Raffaello painting and found his way into your bedroom. A divine deity holding such a celestial beauty that had graced you with its presence, even if it was while unconscious.

The urge to reach your hand forward and caress his cheek, pet his hair, place feather light kisses on his eyelids was almost irresistible. To savor him in all of his unfiltered, unadulterated, raw beauty. However, you certainly did not have the heart to wake him up so you kept your hands to yourself, instead choosing upon a different route.

You wouldn’t say Renjun had ever been particularly responsible for a strike of artistic inspiration in you in the form of a muse. Usually, you either collected inspiration in your surroundings, wandering around nature or in accidental compositions you stumbled upon or unintentionally created yourself; seldom did you paint portraits, a good paysage or a nature morte was much more your cup of tea.

Still, the image of Renjun in his tranquil sleep ignited a spark in your imagination and your increasing urge to paint reached a pinnacle as you emerged from the bed, praying hotly that it would spare you one of its very bothersome creaks that resulted from even a little shift of weight. Renjun, surrounded by your linen sheets and pillows as if he was an angel settled in between white clouds, was an image that a simple polaroid picture with your instant camera would just not do any justice.

You were extremely fortunate to have a few canvases that were primed and ready for painting on hand, propped against the wall, next to the dresser. Mentally, you sent out a message of gratitude to the past version of your own self for not slacking off for once and actually stretching your canvases, applying a few layers of gesso and sanding them in between so you had a smooth, cotton surface to start sketching on quickly. It would have been a great deal of work and shuffle to get out your supplies to ready your canvases for paint on the spot. Not only did the glue emit fumes you wouldn’t want to risk inhaling in the poorly ventilated room, but sanding would have created a considerable amount of noise and commotion to stir your boyfriend awake in an instant.

Grabbing your wooden palette and palette knife along with a few synthetic brushes, you settled them down on your nightstand before carefully dragging over your easel with great effort as to make as little noise as possible. After that, you rapidly dashed to the living room and brought back one of the wooden stools you purchased a few months back when the two of you first moved into the condo. You decided that with the minimal amount of sleep you’d be getting the next couple of hours and your still sleepy state of mind you’d rather paint seated.

Collecting a few elongated and sharpened pieces of charcoal, you settled onto the wooden stool, knowing that in just a short while its hard surface will become near unbearably uncomfortable for your poor bottom. Over the course of the several years you had spent majoring in fine arts your back had acquired a natural slouch to it, especially when positioned sitting down. Your boyfriend would scold you about it an awful lot and rightfully so, too; “I wouldn’t want you limping around like an old person when you’re in your mid-thirties!”

Starting off with light strokes of charcoal, you began setting down the general placement of his body on the canvas. You commenced with a broad circle that would become his head, then connecting a sweeping line that would represent the curvature of his spine as he remained still in his slumber, calmly sleeping on his stomach. Then came the slope of his neck, connecting to his shoulder in a narrow parabola, and the planes of his slightly protruding shoulder blades, rising and falling with each intake and exhale of breath as he hugged tightly the pillow which his head laid upon.

The finishing touches of the sketch were the formation of his torso and ribs, and the dip in his lower back where the hastily drawn sheets had pooled in. You pulled back, observing the foundations of the budding piece of artwork and compared it to the portrait’s subject. You then quickly went back in to draw in the pillow, thankful for the fact that half of his forearms and his hands were hidden underneath it, as you hadn’t quite mastered the structure and shading behind painting human hands; as mentioned, anatomically correct human portrait paintings weren’t exactly your forte.

Meanwhile, Renjun was as still as ever, breathing leveled and visage completely serene.

After putting away the charcoal and an essential cleaning of the black residue off your hands, you were finally ready to lay down colour. You felt as if there was an almost tangible tingle in your fingertips when you grabbed the palette and started putting down paint onto it from the cold tin tubes.

First, you put down a generous amount of white on the wood as your base colour, followed by an almost equal sized dollop of ochre, a little bit of black and some light yellow, a smear of taupe and tan along with some tawny tones, as well as some browns, beiges, and a smidgen of olive green. The rest you figured you could mix in the process.

The air conditioning was blowing gentle wafts of warm air, billowing the sheer voile curtains so some of the pleats caressed your back through the thin nightshirt you were donning. It lulled you into a state of complete ataraxia and ease, as you glided your brush over the canvas in fluid strokes to create the wrinkles of the sheets or in staccato motions when creating the ruffles of his hair and the imagery of clouds in the background. Periodically, you would pause to mull over the painting, mix in additional colours or cease your work to assimilate or reconsider your approach to a part of the painting currently in the works.

Painting Renjun was truly an experience; you got to take in his beauty in much more detail, further acknowledge how undeniably magnificent he was in such a vulnerable state, be able to understand and appreciate each nook and cranny, each delicate feature of his with much more vigor. The way muscle and bone moved underneath smooth skin with every twitch or movement, the wonderful rich shades of his freshly died honey coloured hair, the shadows that fell upon his face and the highlights the lamp produced upon his skin - it was pleasure to even try your hand at reproducing that on the canvas perched on the easel before you. And the final result of your attempt did not disappoint.

With an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, you put away the tubes of oil paint and cleaned the remains off your brushes and palette while you let your painting dry in a secluded corner of the room before you would cover with a cloth.

Your unrest eyes were heavy with the need for well-deserved sleep as you stretched out the knots in your neck and cracked your joints. The night was slowly easing into an early morning; a few hours of sleep could only do you good, you thought as you slowly crawled back to your respectful side of the shared bed. Your blankets had long gone cold but it was the last thing on your mind. At the forefront was the welcoming embrace of sleep that was slowly pulling you closer to dreamland. Just as you were about to nod off an arm slung over your midriff and pulled your clothed back closer to a warm chest. Your barely present consciousness distantly acknowledged Renjun burying his face in the joint of your neck and shoulder before the sweet embrace of sleep finally took over you.

[saintsurvivors]

the two body problem

to be lucifer’s true vessel is to be his cage

warnings: body horror, hallucinations, referenced torture 

part of the SAM WINCHESTER 2019 ZINE, which I’m so happy was a major success, and all thanks to @fivehargreevcs @leonkenncdy @sammy-cas-dean @sidykittycat <33333333333333333

It happens in stages, moments of life.

He awakes on a bathroom floor, immobile, blinded. Stench of blood and rot, peppermint and ozone, leather and gun oil. He awakes on a bathroom floor, blood in his mouth, shadows in his mind, writhing. He cannot see for the blood.

He awakes, and he’s face down on that floor, dying.

“Sam?” Someone asks, from very far away. As if he has drowned. Hands on his shoulders, digging into bone deep bruises, try to turn him over, corpse body stiff. Exhale, fetid breath, shuddering. He thinks he screams, fire in the blood, smoke in the capillaries. Blood seeps from his mouth, from his eyes, his ears. He’s lying in a pool of blood, he thinks.

“I swear to God, Sam, if you don’t fuckin’ answer me, man-” Hurricane violent, shouted, still so very far away. Has he gone deaf? The turned over wall wavers opposite him, fever dream mirage. He feels nauseous.

It hurts to be.

They - how many? He can’t tell, is anyone actually really there? - leave him there, stretched out on his belly, cheek against the bloodied floor. He can’t tell if he’s breathing still. It hurts.

Sam Winchester blinks, and the world blinks back, echoed, underwater, fever dream heat. He breathes, or at least he thinks he does.

“Sam,” Repetitive, he wants reach out, say to the voice he can hear them, that he is here, that he is alive. Is he though? Is he truly alive, shuddering in blood on a nameless bathroom floor. Smells ozone and peppermint again, smells gun oil and leather again, smells blood, smells rot, earthly and aching again. Something rattles from far away, like metal, like chains. He thinks he keens. “Samuel.”

It echos strangely, lethargic to Sam’s ears. He hurts, but that has long since been a familiar feeling, as if he was born to ache, as if he was born to be nothing but an aching body that he wishes to escape but is unable to.

He blinks, or so he thinks. Is he formless? Is there a floor beneath him, distant from touch, as if he’s numb? He isn’t sure, wishes he could bend his fingers, stretch every muscle he has outwards just to feel something.

The bloodied wall opposite him wavers, and then dissipates entirely. He tries to open his mouth, wants to form words, but his throat feels as if it’s been cut, as if it’s been scooped out. He knows that, too.

Instead of wall, instead of tile that’s been splattered with red, there is ozone wings and undying eyes, a head of a lion,maned and roaring, a great cawing eagle, stark white feathers standing on end. The head of a goat, horns spiralling towards the very heavens, unblinking, rotating, magma hot. Roaring tornado, quaking limbs. Ocean washes over Sam and he’s drowning in the distant feel of salt. It burns, ground salt in an open wound.

Sam doesn’t know where that wound is, only that he feels like an open sore himself.

“Castiel?” He asks, feels the way the very cartilage of his throat aches, stretches like rusted pulleys. The eagle caws loudly, crown of feathers rustling.

Between one long moment and the next, the beat of a heart, the image dissolves, dissipates like fog upon an ocean breeze. Castiel blinks back human, human visage but still. Still something lingers beneath the ill fitting skin, as if Castiel has tried to shrug on a too big suit. Something beyond Castiel’s head, something great and terrifying, moves. His veins are aglow, violently bright. It’s like looking into the sun.

He almost fears his eyes have been blinded, that he is nothing but an empty vessel. He always has been. Empty is sometimes the only thing he knows. He wants to exhale but can’t seem to gather the breath for it.

A ball of light somehow shoves Castiel aside, twisting, shuddering, alight with a pale grey sunlight dawn. It’s moonbright, dim enough to disappear into the shadows lingering in the very edges of Sam’s mind and sometimes bright enough to be mistaken for a star cradled into a vessel. It goes from the palest grey to the smokiest ash.

Sam chokes on it.

It aches, Sam thinks distantly. As if hurt is all he can think of. He’s choking on how it hurts, tastes blood and rot and fire at the back of his mouth, suffocates on the ash that’s being forced down his throat. It smells like hellfire and tastes like life.

“Sammy?” Like before he doesn’t know where it comes from, can’t tell what’s up, what’s down.

Exhale, inhale, exhale, he can’t get his breathe, still corpse body stiff. He wonders if this is what he’s made for, a ghost in a forgotten apartment, stacking chairs just to make sure the living know that he’s there, that he exists. But has he ever?

Something seems to snap, crackling in the air, echoing against the tile he thinks he’s lying on beneath his unfeeling stomach, his numb cheek - is it numb? Or is it simply severed from him? - and Dean seems to dissolve, coming into being, abstract, crystal shattered, strange light slowly distorting and stretching. Green eyes blink and Sam blinks back. Dean’s face looms above him, twisting shuddering, ash stains his skin.

From deep below Sam has ever known but not quite far enough, a screech like metal against metal makes him flinch, makes him want to curl up. He blinks instead, thinks he feels the soft flutter of eyelashes against his cheeks.

“Sam.” Castiel says; he’s human now, still, or maybe he never was. Maybe it’s Sam’s eyes, his mind slowly breaking. Sam isn’t sure. He’s awake, and he’s cheek down on a floor and he doesn’t know where he is.

Yet his voice sounds like Castiel, from the very reaches from what Sam has heard of his voice; like muted thunder on the cusp of breaking, a rock fall in the height of June, lightening crashing against an ashened sky, an ocean roiling beneath a mutinous storm. Sam never wants it to end as much as he wants to cower away.

“How are you feeling?” Castiel asks, and his voice is still crashing, still breaking, and Sam wants to curl up with it, feel the shudder pull of storms beneath his skin, wants to see if it can break the ice covering his eyes.

Sam blinks up at him again, or maybe he thinks he does. He feels eyelashes and aren’t quite sure if they’re his. He tries to move something, tries to curl his fingers, tries to spread out every muscle he can like wings he does not own. That he has never owned. Nothing rises up in his chest, emptiness already at home in his darkness.

Has he even got a heartbeat?

“I can’t move my fingers.” He says, hears it dimly, as if he’s underwater, far away, drowning. He knows how drowning feels. This isn’t it.

“Not entirely unexpected.” Castiel says soothingly, as if Sam needs it. As if Sam understands anything of what’s going on. He wonders where he is. He can’t feel his fingers, his toes, he can’t even feel the rise and fall of his chest, pressed as it is to a floor. Is his body even there?

Behind Castiel, from what Sam can see, cheek pressed to the floor, two great shadows move behind him, casting strange shapes upon the floors, the walls, blocking light, sound. Sam squints up at them as much as he can, something writhing in his chest.

He feels as if he knows what they should be.

He thinks he does, but the knowledge slips away as fast as he grasps it. Has he hit his head? He can’t tell.

“What are you seeing?” Castiel asks, and he’s so close. Close enough that Sam can smell ozone and peppermint and coffee, the way his hand on Sam’s shoulder, on the bare skin of his neck is almost scorching. It’s only then that Sam realizes he’s cold. So cold.

“I don’t...” He can’t seem to get the words out, mouth dry, tongue sticking to the roof of it. He can’t feel his lips, can’t feel the press of his teeth against the underside of them. His hands are just beyond his vision, and it’s as if he hasn’t got any. He still can’t feel his fingers.

Dean - is it Dean? Sam thinks so. His eyes are glassy, mind disconnected - moves closer, no longer that ball of light that hurt to think of, to look at. He looks tired, Sam thinks, older than he should be. Sam wonders how he hadn’t noticed before. Maybe he never paid attention.

“Heya, Sammy.” Yes, this is Dean. Whiskey rough voice, like the blacktop beneath the Impala’s wheels, 100 miles per hour on the road, hardrock the only sound on the breeze. He wants to move, it hurts to be still but it hurts to move too. It simply hurts to be. “Don’t try to move, kiddo, you’re-”

Dean stops, and Sam blinks at the turned over wall. It wavers. He wishes he could lie on his back. He wants too, but Dean’s hands on his shoulders stop him, never lingering beneath them. He feels weak. He’s just so cold.

“Dean,” He says. “Dean.” Like a mantra, old age ritual. He’s been saying it since birth.

“I’m here, Sammy, try and keep still, yeah?” Dean sounds calm, almost too calm. Sam knows the difference between Dean’s voices. He blinks, again and again. From the very corner of his eye, he sees great big shadows arising. Something is caught in his throat. He thinks he wants to scream. He hasn’t got the energy. Not anymore, at least. “We’re gonna fix you up as best we can, yeah? Nothing to be worried about, kiddo.”

“Dean,” He says, broken. Like it’s the only thing he can say. “Dean, it hurts.”

Is he crying? He wants to cry, he thinks. Something wet catches on his lashes, and he blinks it back. His eyes are burning, but it’s too painful for tears. Something falls from his eye, and it shatters on the bathroom floor. Ice.

Castiel makes a sound Sam can’t understand in the back of his throat, it’s like an avalanche. He thinks he should be afraid, but Dean is here, but emptiness is the only thing he feels.

“I know, little brother,” Dean says. His voice is shaking now. He sounds hurt. “I know, Sammy.”

He shuts his eyes, but he can still see; he opens them and Castiel peers down at him. He wants to clench his hands into fists, wants to see if he can still feel them.

Something against his back, hard and cold, and it rips at him, tears a scream from his breathless throat. He runs out of breathe but still he screams. Dean is shouting too, and Castiel is glowing, peppermint and ozone, and Sam’s eyes should be burning, should be gone, should be empty, but he feels only ice, only numbness.

“Please.” He says, shredded, as if even that has lost its strength. He presses his forehead to the floor, and even that now is hot, is scorching; he’s surrounded by lava, by blood and still he’s cold enough to shiver, to ache, for his teeth to clench. He wants to go home, but where is home when you’ve never had one, when you can’t even remember the feel of your fathers arms around you? “Please.”

He’s graveyard dirt and bruised bones, he wants to lie in his grave that is years old and years empty, too. He wants to lie beneath the dirt for years and feel the roots of trees wrap around him, he wants to close his eyes and feel endless darkness. He used to long for heaven, but he knew he was never made for it. Suicides, after all, never do go to heaven.

Now, now he’s spread out on a bloodied bathroom floor, and he can count the tiles in his vision, but the number keeps slipping from his brain, as if his mind is muddied, is liquid, is simply slipping out of his ears. He knows what that feels like, but something about feeling it up top is different, is sharper, harder.

He’s alive and he never wanted to be. Never wanted this existence, never wanted this aching, never wanted this pain, this blood, this horror.

He’s spread out on this bathroom floor, and he doesn’t know if he’s screaming, if he’s screaming and crying, because something deep inside, deep beneath the emptiness that he’s felt for years, for decades, since he was a child and a phantom in his own body over and over and over and- , something deeper inside of him than he’s ever had the bravery to look at rears its head.

His ribs are grating, he cannot feel flesh but he can feel bone. Bruised and grating, they’re moving as if they’re disconnected. He presses his forehead to that scorching floor again, buries the ice of his tears in the eyelashes he still can’t feel, wonders if this is even real.

Something pulls at his shoulders, sharp, rendering, and he keens. Feels his throat tear beneath the sound. Someone is screaming, and he thinks it’s him, but he doesn’t have the breath, so how could it be?

“Sam! Sammy, stay still, kiddo, you gotta stay still-” Dean’s voice, mirage waver, angelic sweet helix rituals, it’s breaking and shattering and Sam wants to try and piece it back together. But he’s never been able to fix anything, not since he drank down poison and swallowed it without even knowing what it was; these hands have ever really known breaking, porcelain shattered, crystal fractured.

But even if Sam didn’t know that it was poison, even if Eve ate the apple and didn’t know what would happen. Monster has been made synonymous with him, and he will never tell anyone that down there, down beneath the dirt where he thought he’d lie for eternity, he opened his own chest up, dug his own hand into it, scooped out the enochian etching of Lucifer against his sternum and laid it at the cage door. No longer a claim, no longer a seal; he’d broken himself apart and Lucifer broke them both; sweetly, lovingly, greedily.

He’d like to say it was a triumphant feeling, but even now; even now, breaking and shattering, shattered in new ways since the cage, he has only ever sought the good that harmed him, has only come to love everything that has ever hurt him.

“Sammy, listen, listen to me kiddo, you’re fine, yeah? You’re still with us, little brother, c’mon, come back to us, get outta that nerd head, Sammy, c’mon.” Dean’s voice is an anchor, something that wraps around him, leaves him emptier than ever before. Sam chokes on his own breath, on his cries.

“Samuel, please, you must stay still, you’re doing yourself undue harm.” Castiel’s voice is an island of calm in the storm, and two pairs of hands are touching him now, two at his shoulders, one hand at his hip, and the other snug at his knees. He’s lying on a bloodied bathroom floor and he wants to leave, wants to stretch muscles that shouldn’t stretch like they do.

But they do. They stretch and twist, and Sam can feel the unnatural shudder of bone beneath flesh he cannot feel. Wonders if he does want to feel it, or if it’ll only remind him of all the times he wanted to slip away from himself, his body; sometimes, that’s the joke. He asks to come back to his body, to feel skin that is no longer too small or too big like an ill fitting costume, and sometimes, sometimes it’s only him saying no.

His body is an open field that other people have laid claim to, that he no longer knows the feel of it. So the sweet play of fingers against ribs, against sternum, against heart is not a new thing he knows, just knows that it’s so much sweeter, so much harder than it’s ever been down below the dirt. Wonders if he could claw down to it, down to his body, to his grave; wonders if he even has a grave anymore, or has the earth swallowed it whole?

It’s been so long.

It’s been so long that he’s gravel sore, dirt deep in the ground that he’s wanted to crawl back into since Dean rose him and then left him. Know that he’s never wanted to burn but he’s always wanted to die, and sometimes burning feels like the only way it could possibly purify him.

Their hands are still touching him, and at once, they’re all too much and not enough. Keeps him anchored enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s going to simply sink down, down beneath the earth and straight into the only home he can ever really remember, but now, now they feel like hooks, searing through flesh.

He’s being punished and God is the one to do it and Sam has always been pious, but he’s never wanted this, but this is for the best. To be Lucifer’s Vessel is to be His Cage, and Sam had welcomed him with open arms and open thoughts.

Had yawned his body wide open to make room for the devil and this is what he deserves.

“Samuel, no.” A deep voice says, and it’s right in his ears, blocks the wavering wall opposite him, strange shadows strewn across ocean blue eyes. A hand touches his cheek, burning hot and it feels so good.

He’s been so cold for so long now, even before this.

Something pulls in his shoulders, somehow bone deep and deeper even than that, and it leaves him breathless, that some age old ice burn in his eyes as he tries to hold back tears, but it burns icy and it shatters on the tile floor.

“Cas, what’s he saying? What the fuck is he sayin’ man-” Dean is yelling. Rock avalanche desperate, drowning man passionate and the hands at his knees clench him tighter. It makes the things in him rattle, shudder shake with the force of Dean’s grip, but he hasn’t the breath to yell.

“Look at me, Samuel Winchester.” Two hands grip his chin, turn his face upwards, towards the sun, towards the shadows, towards the once-disgraced Winged Fallen who’d kept his body close and left his soul behind. Sam forgave, but he thinks his soul never forgot.

“God is not punishing you, Samuel.” Castiel says, and Sam’s very lungs ache, because his breath is gone, and Castiel sounds reverent, as if he believe it, even after everything he’s seen in the terrible ruin of Sam’s mind.

He blinks, and the world blinks back, fever dream heat, turned over mirage. Castiel and Dean are the only real things, but even they don’t feel real enough. Stone number one, cracked, shattered, turned over moss.

“God is not punishing you, and you do not deserve this. Listen, Samuel. This is not because of you, this is because of Lucifer.”

Sam closes his eyes, feels how the room, the world, shifts around him, tilted on an axis far below and deeper down than even that that Sam has ever known. He’s unravelling at the seams, and no one can ever stop him. Thinks he doesn’t want anyone to stop him.

This is what he deserves, after all.

Far away, an eagle caws. Metal against metal, Sam has sunk beneath the very dirt of the earth, the crust of it; the core of the earth has never been molten heat for Sam, it’s always been cold, saltwater ice dripping down the back of his tongue. He slips away, and metal, earth cradles him.

He’s both here, and far below everything he ever thought he knew.

Something unfurls from his back, electric sharp, hammering icepick hurt, shadows crossing the walls; Castiel and Dean have disappeared now. Pain imagined sculptures that Sam always used to carve from marble, from thought, from fear, from the blood he used to try and coax back into his own body before he drank it down.

He is a serial killer, but the only murder he commits is of himself, and maybe it should be suicide, but surely suicide couldn’t be this violent, this, this is everything-

Someone is screaming. Dean, Castiel, someone is screaming and Sam wants them to stop, they should stop, he cannot hear for the screams, he cannot see for the blood, he cannot feel for the ice. He is trapped, knows only ropes, only chains, only collars, shackles. He is animal-wary, instinct driven.

Unfurling, rodent-desperate, something digs through his belly, and it’s sharp, scratches, bloodies the back of his mouth. Enochian, violin high pitched, thunder rumbling; esaich. He’s ripping his own throat out but it’s Lucifer speaking through him, claw ripping, bloodied throat; he’s falling to pieces and something is clawing it’s way out of him.

Hands against tile, mouth against it too, he’s shaking, convulsing; he can’t get his breath but still someone is screaming, and he wants to help, god he wants to help so bad but his back is screaming, the world is tilting and he’s alone, he’s alone all over again, he’s so sick of being alone.

Unfurling, billowing, something cracks in his sternum, he can feel his heartbeat in his throat, his belly. He’s dizzy, doesn’t know which way is up, down; he’s so lost.

The wall wavers, shimmering in a heat that he can’t see. He’s cold, blood and ice dripping from his mouth. Bone creaks, and it makes a shriek tear from his throat, bloodied, shredded. He’s crying but he can’t.

Old age rituals, chlorine pool smell sick. He exhales as Samuel Winchester and inhales as something Other, drawn beneath the skin. In the fractured shatter of ice on the floor, something great and terrible leaps into the air, rips from his back.

Bone white, dripping with blood, with flesh, with the Sigil of the devil carved deep into it. No more hands touch upon him, only the matted feathers that he can’t feel.

He’s alone, all over again.

[sounddrive]

Reflections

Warning: Contains major spoilers for The Arcana: A Mystic Romance within. You’ve been warned.

They should’ve noticed that something was wrong.

They should’ve noticed when Death had disappeared.

They should’ve noticed when Justice disappeared.

They should’ve noticed when Temperance disappeared.

Fool didn’t know what to expect when Devil said he wanted to visit. Granted, Devil had also said he had something, in his words, ‘interesting’, to chat with them about.

For the occasion, Fool had taken most of several weeks to rearrange their realm for their guest. Settled on the edge of a cliff was a pergola, accented in their preferred floral patterns and green trim. Down below, far, far down the cliff was a sea of slow moving lava. Granted, it wasn’t hot at all. An illusion, truly, but Fool figured Devil would’ve liked something reminiscent of his own realm while he visited.

The Fool paused when a little white dog on two legs approached them, tail wagging and tongue sticking out of their mouth.

“Scout?” Fool inquired.

“It’s him!” Scout responded in kind, panting with excitement. “Can I go get him?”

Fool smiled. With their nod, the dog-headed guide raced off down the path to retrieve Fool’s guest.

***

Once Devil had started up the final bend toward the pergola, Scout dashed elsewhere, chasing some birds into the treeline behind them.

Despite the fact Fool themself had granted the Devil entry into their realm, in all the eons of both their existences, Fool couldn’t help but feel cold dread ripple through them as their friend approached.

There was a glint in his bloody pupils.

“There you are,” Devil cooed.

“Where else would I be?” Fool replied in kind. “I’m not going on another journey for another few weeks. I need my rest!”

They grabbed one of the chalices settled on a three-legged table just off to their right, using the drink to mask their expression, their rapid kaleidoscopical interchange of emotions.

There was that dangerous glint in his bloody pupils. They hadn’t seen that glint in-!

Fool picked up the remaining chalice, offering it to their companion. “Water?”

“I don’t touch the stuff, but thank you for the offer my dear,” Devil nodded. His smile was amused. Friendly, even.

Fool knew better.

With a wave of their hand, Fool summoned a pile of pillows to appear on the polished stone floor of the small pergola. They picked a few cushions and lied back on them, looking to the ceiling. A menagerie of vines and stems of flowers cross-crossed over the support of net trellises. The mess of multitudes of flowers seemed to be looking down upon the both of them.

“What flowers have you got there?” Devil approached, still standing. His gaze was centered at the messy array of flora overhead.

“I don’t remember,” Fool admitted, sparing a glance to him. “I just picked a random assortment and threw them up there."

“Evidently,” Devil teased, pulling a laugh out of the other.

For the next while, they sat together in silence. It was comfortable too, but...

“Devil, what was the something...‘interesting’ you wanted to talk to me about?” Fool finally inquired. They set down their now-empty chalice on the floor, it’s golden visage mirrored in the polished stone beneath.

For a moment, there was that cool smile on his face. His gaze turned down to the path leading away from their spot. Fool traced where his gaze went from there: towards one of the ever changing, meandering paths Fool’s realm tended to twist and turn into.

They were going to discuss this whilst on a walk, apparently.

Devil held out one of his clawed hands, pulling Fool to their feet. The latter reached over to the table, where their walking stick rested. The Devil took a few steps out from under the pergola, pausing to allow Fool to make their way toward the other Major Arcana.

Devil shorted his paces, allowing Fool to walk side by side with him. As much as Fool would rather lead in their trek with no destination, they needed to know what the Devil was up to.

***

“You can’t be serious.”

“You know I am persistent.”

“I thought you hated persistence.”

“Only when it’s not by my own accord or when mortals ceaselessly make deals with me; you know this, Fool.”

“How many times is it now?”

“Were you keeping track?”

“Should I start?”

“Tch.”

“...Devil, what makes you think it’ll work this time?”

“...”

“...”

“...fine. Keep your secrets.”

“There’s another question I need to ask.”

“Oh?”

“Two, actually.”

“...yeah?”

“Are you going to stop me?”

“...I don’t have a stake in your games, Devil. I’m not so sure about the others, though.”

“Do not worry yourself over me, Fool.”

“Who said I was?”

“May I ask the next question?”

“...Go ahead.”

“Whose face are you wearing?”

***

S h i t.

“?!” Fool’s expression was enough to draw a cruel laugh from their companion.

“I beg your pardon, Devil, but that’s fucking rude,” Fool replied, curt. They brought their walking stick closer to their person, only to firmly plant it into the ground between them.

“Temper, temper, Fool,” the Devil dared to chide, “I know you like to copy humans but...I have never seen you wear one face for long.”

Fuck you and your observant ass, you goat.

“Are you stuck on this human’s face, Fool? That would be a first; whyever for? It is not in any of our natures to get... attached .”

Fool didn’t offer him a reply, but that apparently was answer enough.

“I shall see myself out, then,” he stated with finality, that smug smile still on his face.

Fool could only nod at him, watching as the Devil turned his back to them. Smoke dispersed from the deep tracks he left in the ground. The metallic tang of blood arose with the smoke as it curled in on itself, surrounding the departing major Arcana in a great whirlwind before completely disappearing.

In the mock lava sea a ways away from Fool, it stilled.

All was quiet.

Nothing stirred.

As fast as it had stilled, great portions of it immediately exploded into jets of steam and spouts water. The glowing embers of black and red gave way to the blackest-blue of seas, trimmed in sickly white foam. The cacophony of the environment shifting violently in the realm barely covered the string of expletives Fool chose to scream at their now-absent guest.

Eventually the realm had settled back down, albeit everything was pell-mell and thrown everywhere it shouldn’t be. The pergola was destroyed, leaving only the now cracked, polished stone foundation the only thing somewhat intact.

Fool found themself sitting on their cliff. With their walking stick off to the side, and feet dangling over the edge, their gaze was off toward the hazy horizon.

A hooded figure head butted into their side, gaining Fool’s attention.

“Hi Scout,” they greeted the guide tiredly. The sight of Scout’s wagging tail peeking out from under their coat drew forth a small smile.

Fool opened up their arms, sighing in contentment when Scout softly settled into a hug with them.

“Better?” Scout inquired, eyes directed at Fool’s dour expression.

“...a little, but yeah,” Fool nodded. “Can you stay a bit, Scout?”

The other's answer was in the form of Scout bodily flattening themself over Fool’s lap, tail wagging blindingly fast as Fool petted the other’s furry head.

What to do, what to do...?

Days.

Weeks.

Months? Almost a human’s year?

Fool had found themself unable to shift out of the form they had taken on. It was disturbing; changing shapes was the easiest sort of magic! Why were they stuck!?

Fool removed the mirror from their storage locker. Removing the thin fabric of their hood that veiled their head, Fool frowned at the face that frowned back.

“You’re dead,” Fool spoke, their voice soft. “I wish it wasn't the case, but you are. You...you humans have the shortest little drops of lives. And then there’s you and so many others in Vesuvia. You all threw yourselves into that mess, wanting to find a cure. Why would you take such the risk? I could’ve kept you safe. You could’ve stayed with me; your magic would’ve been strong enough to pull that teacher of yours into here too, fear of magic be damned...”

A sigh escaped the Major Arcana. Pulling the hood over the face that wasn’t theirs again, Fool returned the mirror to it’s spot before locking it away.

***

Sometime later...

When Scout barked up a storm, far down the path from Fool’s seated spot on their cliff, the Major Arcana didn’t know who to expect. The one human that had been able to visit in any recent stretch of time was dead, after all.

Fool remained seated, but nonetheless twisted themself around to look behind them. They watched as Scout ran circles around the stranger that approached. There was a colorful feather tucked into a ribbon band around the base of the hat’s crown. The fabric of the red scarf circled around the human’s neck and over their mouth and nose was mottled and blotted. The damage on the fabric was from use and age, but evidently, it was well loved and cared for. Slung over the stranger's shoulder was a heavy leather bag, it’s contents clinking together.

The aura that exuded from this magician was powerful for one their age. Even if the magician was over 200 paces away, it was then that Fool realized exactly who the magician was.

The Fool thought it wise to pull the hood of their attire over their face, casting their visage in the darkest shadow. He had suffered enough, in their opinion.

There was no need to have the face of a ghost greet him.

Sometime much later...

I should have noticed that something was amiss.

I should have noticed when I was not the only one of us to be in attendance during the ritual.

I should’ve noticed that the magician, Asra, the very desperate, the very mortal Magician Asra would have done something as unprecedented as this. Humans’ emotions were easy to exploit, but...

Fool...

Fool, did you know what would have happened to you, after?

For what? The cost of what you have done, what you have sacrificed, just to circumvent my plans? Did you not realize the extent of what you had done? What you’ll never get back...?

No matter. No matter, in the least.

Entities of our kind are a patient sort, after all.

It’s only a matter of time.

It’s only a matter of time...

A/N: The fic was a labor of love and determination in 5 hours to get all this down (not including the editing). I've been wanting to work on something like this, especially with the big reveal about MC's nature during Nadia's route at the end of The Star and the beginning of the Moon chapter.

I hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I had writing it.

[invitedeath]

he was there, at the end of the world.

roars and shouts drowned out the silence which normally swept the world, each kingdom swarming onto the scene as chaos spread like wildfire along the streets and within the heavens. spirale was but a memory for the time being, but the war was incredibly real. amongst the madness, sephiroth wandered without concern, sword unsheathed and fantastical attire forgone. sometime during the booming sounds of the dark lord’s calls to war, sephiroth had lost the grassy scales and the antler crown had fallen. silver sparkled once more and leather squeaked as he walked. returned to his once noble uniform he stood out amongst the sea of robe-covered anons, their magic still inferior to the might he possessed.

“ sephiroth?!... “ a voice shouted. only a few turned their heads to see. the majority were pre-occupied, there being far more important things than the arrival of an angel. he ignored it also, choosing instead to stride on towards the depth of the violence, following the bloodied trails to the deepest pit of the dramatics. indeed, one of the dark lord’s minions lunged for him. although he was, as ever, quick to withdraw his blade and pierce the place their heart should be, it seemed to be an act in vain. for soon after, another sprouted in its place and ambled towards a nearby mage. an endless battle waged on, it seemed.

glancing around he saw few faces he recognised flickered amongst the ebbing and flowing tide of war. blood smeared across their cheeks, spines pressed against one another, there stood two he had met some time before, swords raised with apparent glee etched into their faces. whether it was the joy of combat, or the fact they fought together, sephiroth could not make out quick enough before they darted away. 

some distance from himself atop a steep incline, a girl with books tumbling at her feet looked out across the sea of soldiers before turning and giving him a wave. her friendly gesture only paused once a fox-eared woman he had met prior to the battle aided her in climbing down, her many tails fanning behind her before she spun, sending several blue orbs in the direction of the incoming swarm.

another young woman with feline ears atop her head, this one clad in rose, hercat tail curling behind her as brandished a whip and sent several minions stumbling back in defeat. with the sun as his aid, the deity-like stranger he had encountered only a few hours prior shone like a beacon amongst the dirt of battle. though he spoke not a word, the deafening presence he held sent many creatures cowering in fear of the light. 

a creature with blood dripping from its maw swiped suddenly at sephiroth, causing him to spring back into action; sword slashing before tearing through its open mouth. up through the lid of its jaw, the sword plunged deep and blood soaked the entirety of his arm before he ripped the blade free. once again, the death was only replaced with more. more and more. out they poured, those servants of the dark lord. sephiroth was almost impressed.

a calming voice broke out amongst the chaos and as he turned, sephiroth spied a winged nurse tending to the wounds of a fallen elf, his veins seemingly pulsating a bright ethereal glow. but the woman did not hesitate to pull the gun from her side and blast away a crawling, squirming creature as it made for them in their moment of peace. 

but something familiar caused him to pause. a feeling of... intense power drew his gaze back, over his shoulder. he turned only to witness that charming and handsome elezen he had once invited home, his sword at his side as he seemingly hurried towards the centre of some mass of growing aether. he could not make much out from such a distance, but the curve of a grounded crescent moon caught his eye if only for a second. the feeling was reminiscent of something he had felt a few months ago, a power he had wanted to indulge in for himself. another time, perhaps, once the battle was won.

but it didn’t seem like enough. none of it did. 

a horn sounded and something huge flew overhead, a creature with wings sprouting from its back emerging from the dark lord’s side of the field. 

“ no. i have plans for this planet. you must wait your turn. “

if the world was destroyed, all of the lives upon it drained without purpose, what would happen to him? his goals... ruined, tatters of a right he had been promised and owed. no. he knew they would all have to be eliminated first, every creature in the dark lord’s army. lifting from the ground, sephiroth rose up into the sky as his single wing unfolded. a mass of black feathers spiralled off into the dust before he soared to meet with that dragon-like monster, its face a mimicking visage of the dark lord but its body a sea of scales and scorched flesh. 

with a wave of his blade, several more copies appeared alongside the original and one by one they pierced into the belly of the creature, its wailing deafening across the skyline. several others had joined him in the aerial assault, one stranger punching the beast square in the jaw before another blew water magic across its spine. but it all in vain. the monster reared back, claws reeling back before it took to batting its attackers clean from the heavens. one two. three. sephiroth was caught in one of the heavy-weighted attacks and spiralled from the sky, swords falling parallel to their master.

but he would not be beaten. before he came close to the earth once more, he twisted and flew back up to meet the monster, masamune held tight within his grip as he lunged forth and sent forth a torrent of bright beams of pure, powerful energy. that small corner of the sky, seemingly unimportant in the grand scale of the massive ongoing siege, turned white for a moment, until returning to its dismal darkness one again.

[starcrossedswan-blog]

tag dump. i