#'and all of them have followed in the footsteps of their forebearers'

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

god they just. rebooted the show during s5 huh

[busterswritehand]

You're Timeless To Me

-

Roughly 180 years after the events of ACOSF, Lucien looks up to find that he is surrounded by strangers. Meanwhile, Nesta realizes she has stayed still while the world around her keeps moving. Misery loves company, but these two can hardly make small talk.

-

Part 13

-

The stairs leading to Tarquin's summer palace were a work of art all on their own. The railings had intricate spiral carvings that made it seem like the steps themselves could have been made of seashells. Pillars in the shape of the Summer Court's forebearers held up the roof of the entrance that Lucien stood under.

He shifted in his place, impatience crawling on his skin. Between the ambient sounds of the tides, the distant chatter of servants, and whatever Varian was going on about, Lucien could barely think. It had been nearly a month since he was at the Spring Court. Admittedly, it was more emotionally taxing than he thought it would be. There was no breathing room between Calanmai, him and Nesta burying the hatchet, and her being unceremoniously whisked back to the Night Court. They had not written to each other outside of making arrangements.

Footsteps began to ascend the stairs out of thin air. Lucien turned to see Nesta walking towards him with Feyre following close behind. He straightened his posture almost reflexively and started walking towards the pair, cutting off Varian.

Approaching the pair, Lucien could feel the tension between them. It seemed as if they had been arguing, which was not surprising in the slightest for the sisters. Lucien stopped in front of the two. His attention stayed focused on Nesta.

"Welcome to the Summer Court." He turned to Feyre, bowing his head. "High Lady."

Feyre nodded her head in response.

"I'm sure you remember Varian," Lucien gestured towards the male.

"A pleasure as always," Varian said approaching the rest of the group. "I'm sure Tarquin would be delighted to know that you're here. He'll want to say hello."

The male offered his arm to her. Feyre smiled.

"Then who am I to say no?"

Feyre slipped her hand into his arm and was led to the front of the group. Lucien fell back to walk alongside Nesta, who was following at a much slower pace. He scanned her rigid frame. Her eyes stayed on the pair in front of them with deadly focus. His brows furrowed as his confusion grew. Something was off. Lucien opened his mouth to speak.

"Not now," Nesta hissed in a low whisper. "My room, after dinner."

If Lucien had not tipped off before, then he would have been now. He could not imagine what could have Nesta so tight-lipped. Nevertheless, Lucien nodded in silent agreement and turned his focus to Feyre and Varian.

The four walked through the towering entrance doors that led to another exterior walkway. All hallways seemed exposed to the outdoors while all the rooms were walled in. There were pools of water and statues placed throughout the palace. It was refreshing and far less stuffy than most other palaces Lucien had visited. He assumed it was the same for Nesta who marveled over Tarquin's secondary home.

They came to a stop as they entered the throne room. Tarquin sat on an elevated throneroom, consumed by his duties. Once he noticed the party approaching, he jumped to his feet to meet them. Varian, Nesta. and Lucien all bowed in welcome while Feyre nodded her head at the High Lord of Summer. Tarquin returned it with a smile and a welcoming hug.

"I did not expect to be graced with your presence this evening," he said.

"I wanted to see my sister off," Feyre responded. "Varian convinced me to stop by before I left."

"I'm glad he did." Tarquin patted Varian on the back in approval. He turned back to Feyre, linking arms with her. "You must stay for dinner, I insist."

He watched the two walk past and out of the room. It was odd enough that Feyre came in the first place, but she did not even try to push back against staying. It wasn't like her. Nesta knew it as well. Lucien could see it in her hardened stare.

"I think you might have some competition for your job," Lucien whispered to Nesta.

Nesta elbowed him without so much as a glance in his direction, but he could see amusement dancing in those icey eyes. He had learned how to read her more subtle expressions. It may have taken more time and focus than he would care to admit.

Over the course of the evening, Lucien followed Nesta's lead. She stayed silent during dinner, so he did most of the talking as far as the treaty was concerned. Lucien noticed how Feyre not only kept an eye on Nesta but on him as well.

After dinner, Nesta wasted no time excusing herself. Lucien held back, however, talking with Tarquin and Feyre about nothing until she dismissed herself. Afterward, he walked through the halls toward Nesta's room, which was only a few doors down from his own.

Lucien hadn't even knocked before Nesta pulled him into the room. Before he knew what was happening, Nesta had him against the wall with her hand over his mouth. Lucien tried to object, but she shushed him. She stood there, listening - or maybe thinking. He moved her hand from his face.

"Feyre already left," he said.

Nesta looked at him. Her eyes were wilder than he had ever seen them before.

"That doesn't matter."

Puzzled, Lucien watched her stalk to the bed. Sitting on the edge, she put her head in her hands. He realized that Nesta hadn't even changed out of her clothes. She had been waiting for him.

"What's going on," Lucien asked.

"They've," Nesta paused for a moment. "They've been in my head."

"Who?"

"Who do you think," she snapped. "Feyre and Rhysand. Or maybe just her. I don't know."

He stared at her, puzzled.

"Why would they do that?"

It certainly was not out of the realm of possibility for them to do such a thing, but it did not add up. At least, not as he could understand it. He was hesitant to tell Nesta as much. Her fists clenched in her lap as if she could sense his doubt.

"They've done it to you before."

It was true, but still.

"That was a long time ago."

Nesta sighed, her shoulders slumping. Lucien could see the exhaustion in her face and frame. Nothing about what she was saying made any sense, but he knew whatever was going on was getting to her. For everything that Nesta could be, she was never irrational. And to her credit, Feyre had been acting odd all evening.

He carefully approached Nesta, sitting down beside her.

"What would they even be looking for?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Nesta crossed her arms. "I've been having dreams of our time at the Spring Court over and over again in vivid detail. Sometimes it goes further back than that."

"To when?"

Nesta looked away like she was not keen on answering. Lucien bumped his shoulder against hers.

"They might be able to read your mind," he pressed, "but I can't."

"I asked Feyre outright, but she wouldn't give me a straight answer." Nesta covered her eyes with her hands and fell onto the bed. "I don't know what is going on," she groaned. "First they have Cassian interrogate me. Now this?"

He studied her for a moment. She was a mix of frustration and defeat - something that went beyond an invasion of privacy. He knew what she was feeling. He never really had their trust either.

Lucien fell back onto the bed beside her.

"Maybe they think you're switching sides like your sister," he teased.

"I'd rather die," Nesta scoffed.

"Too many allergies?"

"Oh yes," she nodded. "Chiffon, gossamer, and pastels make me break out in terrible hives."

"And they wash you out," he agreed.

Nesta shot him a death glare causing Lucien to burst into laughter. She rolled her eyes and pushed his face away with her hand.

"They do not," she chuckled.

He smiled at her for a brief moment, studying her faint smile, before catching himself. Nesta noticed a second too late.

Lucien held out his pinky finger, "I'll help you figure out what's going on with Feyre and Rhysand."

Nesta stared at him in surprise.

"If they are messing around in your head, we'll find out why. You'll be their emissary so they need to trust you."

Nesta let a small smile slip from her lips. She locked pinkies with him, sending shivers down Lucien's back.

"Thank you, Lucien."

[rarepairnation]

elrond and elros and earendil [hamilton voice] and faramir! i must know about this!!!!!

oh man a concept that puts my brain cells in a claw machine… (@sweetshire asked about this one too so ria this is 4 u as well<3) i knew i was gonna be building to this scene the whole time from the moment faramir crossed the borders of rivendell and i hope i executed it well. i locked onto eldritch numenoreans as a concept so intensely and it’s just so important to me that not only are they obviously strange but they LOOK weird as fuck. like no that isn’t quite an elf but they’re DEFINITELY not some normal guy. so faramir sees elrond for the first time and he sees elros, preserved through time. and elrond sees faramir and he sees elros in his face and it breaks his fucking heart! :). and also faramir has dreamt of numenor all his life right. and elros was the first king of numenor...who followed the light of gil-estel the north star to find his promised land...and who carries that star...earendil his father.......YOU KNOW??? it makes me feel crazy. like that is a literal real connection that they all have.

the air seems to shimmer about him as he turns, the light radiating from his very skin, star-like even in the bright sunlight. faramir raises his head, prepares to meet the lord with all the reverence he knows. and then he sees his face, and all his breath leaves him in an instant. he knows this face. has known it all his life, as close to his as any kin. its carven gaze stares down from a hundred statues in minas tirith, and chief of them all the face of the steward, as it had been in faramir’s youth, now so distant of a memory. dark-haired, grey-eyed, noble and kind and true. the echo of a choice made thousands of years ago. elros tar-minyatur brought to life. “my lord elrond,” he says, through a mouth dry as the desert. drops to a knee, overcome. ever since he had stepped past the borders of this land he has walked through his most beloved legends, and yet his mind now cannot believe what he sees. here now is the scion of gil-estel, the one son of that star who will endure past the breaking of the world. and faramir is only the most distant of relations but in this moment he is as númenórean as he has ever been. time and space and the changing of the world separate him from the sons of eärendil, yet all this time he has followed in the footsteps of his greatest forebear, seeking starwards.

this is also very like…dont worry professor tolkien i saw that everyone you think is hot looks exactly like your wife. dont worry i ALSO think they’re hot. u can rest now.gif.

“we remember the first king of númenor, in gondor,” says faramir softly. “there are fewer, now, who know the old tales. but elros tar-minyatur will be last to be forgotten, ere the white city fall and the world end.” a gentle smile blooms across the lord elrond’s face. he does not weep, but in the lines of his face lies a sorrow so large and ancient that faramir can hardly conceive of it. “i do you no more honour than you deserve. i did not think to look to the stewards of gondor, to steward my brother’s memory. now i see that i have long been mistaken. the memory of númenor yet lives on in the men of the south.” “my lord,” is all faramir can think to say. he had not thought he would find so many reminders of home, so far from it, in this land where there truly are none like him. or so he had believed. he will never know tar-minyatur and yet something of that lord of legend lives on in him. when he looks far enough into the grey horizon, into times and futures that have not yet come to pass, there is a part of him that looks through those ancient eyes. the first king of númenor lives on in the streets of gondor, in the quiet of the standing silence, in the tales of the West passed first from his father to himself, and then from him to his men, weaving stories late into the night in the glow of the fire. yet of his brother he knows little, and he is nothing like he had imagined. he had expected distant, remote lordship, not untouchable like a statue but untouchable like a star. gil-estel, after all, shines cold and bright each night over ithilien. to be the immortal scion of the north star - it is a burden that could freeze any heart. yet in the scant time they have stood here, around the lord elrond’s feet, flowers have begun to grow.

its also like an Elrond Learning Moment. the blood of numenor is spent situation at the council in the book versus what i, PERSONALLY, know about the blood of numenor being alive and fucking well is always soooo....elrond i Love You but that was a pretty crazy thing to say. and now here he is realizing and acknowledging and reevaluating his biases. yeah this is my i am fixing something about canon moment. i just think elrond and faramir should Understand Each Other.

[songsofbloodandwater]

Gm! How’re you?

9 and 20?

Hello! I'm well, thank you, hope you're too! i'm sorry for the wait, took me a bit to be able to organize my thoughts and life got a little in the way of me writing them. But here they are:

9. What’s something you wish more people understood about the craft?

For the longest time, I wished more people would see how ancestral veneration (or at the very least, acknowledgement) is, in my opinion, essential to a well matured craft, and to a well matured person in general. In a way, my prayers were heard. Recently I've been seeing more people show interest in ancestral veneration and at least mention working with ancestors in their witching endeavours, but I think there's still an important aspect of ancestral work missing: unlearning and decolonizing. Acknowledging one's ancestry without actively working on healing any wounds it may come with (white guilt and how many run from their family's history and baggage, colonization, assimilation, all the internalized sexism, racism, etc, the list is endless) is honestly not only incomplete work but most times, actively harmful to others, as it perpetuates structures of genocide and cruelty.

We don't only inherit magic from our forebearers, we inherit our understanding and our ways, the good and the bad, and that makes a big part of the whole society we live in. It's our job to do our part to learn from Our Ancestors' errors and merits, better ourselves, and make the world better for those to come. That is as central to ancestral work and veneration, as a strong ancestral foundation is central to magic.

20. What’s something you’re currently interested in and/or learning about?

I've been working on deepening my understanding of our deep ancestors, to strengthen a relationship with them. I say our and not just my, because it's Ancestors who would've lived thousands of years ago and there's a good chance we share more than a few.

I've always worked with my ancestors very closely, but this is more like following the Ancestors of those Ancestors. Ancestors shared across the family tree and across societies, who've shaped much of what we know and do in the present in much of the modern world. I showed interest a while back, and after being consistent in my efforts and proving an honest heart, a certain someone answered back. I've been following their footsteps backwards, through the different eras and regions, letting the Ancestors' hands hold me and guide me on where I should make my next step like a blind man, while following the voice of an Entity or God I call The Father of Wilderness.

It's... interesting, to say the least. Not only because it puts our entire history as a species into perspective (which was the reason for my initial interest as an ecologist, how changes in our cultural and spiritual understandings over thousands of years have reflected in the respective changes in our behavior as a society, how we relate to other humans, but also in how we relate to nature and the ecosystem around us) but also because they have so much to teach about what truly makes us human. Regardless of all differences you can find between the lifestyle of someone in the modern day and someone who lived 20.000+ years ago, or even 200.000+ years ago, we're all human. It's the things that we can find in common across the ages, the things we can learn from Them about our own humanity, that fill my heart. Again, learning from Them across time and space, recognizing their errors and their merits.

I also have fun finding parallels between how the Father of Wilderness, Patron of this work, revealed himself to me, how he wishes to be honored, and with other people's deities or cults of similar figures. There's very specific details, differences, in our views and approaches, that are fascinating to see and keep my mind busy trying to untangle the why's of it all. I've been trying to put all my findings and thoughts into a written little something but it's long and it may take a while before I'm satisfied with it. If you're interested, eventually it'll see the light here as a blog post.

(You see a little bit of it hinted at here already, when I mentioned the value of an honest heart. It's not just words. In my experience, it's a must, a prerequisite to have the attention, guidance and favour of the Father of Wilderness.)

Thank you for asking! Getting all of that out of my brain and into somewhat not totally coherent words was a very good mental exercise.

[morvantmortuary]

Maximilian “Maxi” Vincent Morvant

(The Reaper)

(Rarae Aves’s slasher/necromancer OC)

“Let’s get acquainted, shall we?”

age: Early 40s (9/9/82) (virgo, if he believed in that sort of thing)

birthplace: somewhere in calcasieu parish, louisiana (his mother’s family can trace their lineage all the way back to the Spaniards; his father’s people are of cajun stock from way back in the bayou.)

height: 5′11′’

current location: wherever you are and just out of sight. Usually found in Greymoon, Louisiana.

favorite book: other voices, other rooms - truman capote

hobbies: while running the Mortuary tends to keep him pretty busy not to mention his odd hour night work, he does tend to enjoy a few different things in his spare time. Maxi’s a connoisseur of horror movies, good and bad, and will happily talk your ear off about the accuracy of the gore/wound sfx - though he’s also a sucker for romcoms when the mood strikes. He occasionally can be caught playing video games (mostly also horror-related), collects rare books when he comes across a desired volume, and has been known to play the piano semi-passably at two or three in the morning after a few drinks. He loves going to New Orleans for concerts, live theater, and museums, and he stays the hell away from Baton Rouge on game weekends. He’s also a cheerful walking encyclopedia of death and funerary practices throughout history, including various plagues and epidemics that swept through Louisiana over the centuries. He loves animals (once having dreamed of being a vet before Death ruled his world so completely), and can often be seen leaving appropriate snacks out for the graveyard critters when he’s restoring older tombstones and mausoleums in the cemetery next door.

occupation: current acting funeral director at the family business, Morvant Mortuary

“What can I say? It grew on me, after a while.” He smiles, and it’s sweet, unassuming (but there’s still something too dark about those eyes of his - a brown so deep, it teeters nearly into burgundy). “It might not be… what I had in mind for myself, originally,” he says, and his eyes fall to his perfectly shined shoes. “But it’s fulfillin’, gettin’ to help take care of people on their worst days. Give them the rest the deserve. We don’t talk about that nearly enough in this country, honestly, and we can trace that back to when we started phasin’ out home funerals; funnily enough–” He stops himself, and laughs - a peculiar half giggle, half snort. It’s a nice sound (though there’s something under it, something that feels like it could tip into a mad cackle under the right circumstances). “But look at me, goin’ on. I’m sorry, I tend to do that about my line of work.” His eyes flicker back to you behind his glasses (and the focus is a little too keen, too watchful to be only polite interest). “Now. Tell me about your ideal funeral.”

a history, of sorts:

Maxi was always the oldest son. Dutiful, anxious, with an impeccable attention to detail even at a young age (he had to be, given the Morvant family’s notorious inherited temper). It seemed only natural he would follow in his father Vincent’s footsteps to take over the business his family built when they immigrated here, serving the town of his birth for over a hundred years now. …Vincent forgot to ask Maxi how he felt about this, however. While he went through the motions from elementary to high school, smiling through perfectly posed family photos, making perfect grades, he was planning his escape. To somewhere. Anywhere. To see the world, he hoped. The town he grew up in was enough for people like his parents and his aunt and uncle, but he would not be one of the people who ended up trapped here, living and dying within a stone’s throw of the same graveyard where everyone he’d ever known was buried (or would come to be). He was taken with art and literature, wanting to see the great treasures of history his European-Creole forebears used to speak of in rapturous tones.

Then, of course, Maxi became his parents’ only child. But that’s a story for another time.

Maxi’s mother, Mathilde, didn’t handle grief well. A hothouse flower of a woman even before the death of her youngest, she withered away within the house Maxi grew up in. (rumor had it she never left the house again after the funeral that day.) It fell to Maxi to try to take care of her, making meals carried into her room that went wholly uneaten, bringing her vases of flowers from her formerly prized garden before they all died out, trying to keep the curtains open only to have her shriek at the tiniest speck of sunlight.

Maxi learned too quickly the futility of trying to keep things alive. Especially when they didn’t want to be.

Vincent, not a man for expressing his grief, turned further into the family business and the family night business, now more determined than ever to pass the mantle in multiple senses to his oldest child and only son -- to make sure he left behind some sort of tangible legacy. (Maxi learned too quickly that he was not enough.)

For Maxi, there would be no dreamed-of going away to university, there would just be the minimum associate’s degree at the Greymoon junior college. He would apprentice under his father, pass the state exam as soon as he turned twenty-one, and take over as funeral director when Vincent was good and ready to retire.

Maxi contemplated running - one night, he even made it so far as the abandoned house on the Knox family’s property on the edge of town, where he tried to hunker down.

He doesn’t talk about what he saw there, ever. But whatever it was, it convinced him to come back. Just for a little while. (Just long enough to see this through.) He enrolled in the junior college, he got the associate’s degree in record time, and he began his training. Just as a good son would.

Mathilde died the day before Maxi’s twentieth birthday. He helped embalm his mother as part of his apprenticeship. He chose the hymns, the flowers, the photo for the portrait at the front of the chapel. It was said by everyone who attended - the neighbors, Mathilde’s former sewing circle, the Junior League, the Greymoon Historical Society, and anyone else who couldn’t resist a good snoop - to be a beautiful service. People exclaimed to one another that poor, sainted Mathilde (who had been wasting away for two years, who had made it no secret that she’d been simply waiting for her body to give out) looked to be at rest at last. Peaceful, even, after such strife at the end.

The entire time, Vincent stood at the back of the church, arms folded with a constant scowl on his face.

There was… an altercation, at the Morvant house that night. No one knows for sure what they heard. Knock on any door in town, and they’ll all tell you the same thing: someone heard yelling between the last two Morvant men, the cracking of Mathilde’s wedding china hurled across the room, a guttural scream accompanied by what sounded like howling, manic laughter, though no one would dare admit that aloud, and the slamming of a door. Then… nothing. Crickets sang away into the late summer night, and everyone went about their business.

The next day, Vincent was found dead in his own prep room of a broken heart, and poor little Maxi was left all alone in the world.

What followed the next few weeks was the most awkward standoff in the world: this sweet, polite, soft-spoken young man with perfect manners, and the parish sheriff who knew damn well Vincent Morvant didn’t die of no broken heart. He came by the house almost daily for the week after the murder, and every time, Maxi would be waiting with a plate of his great-grandmother’s famous cookies (an old German recipe) and a full pitcher of homemade lemonade. When the coroner finally declared there was no trace of anything untoward in old Vincent’s guts, not even his favored whiskey, the Sheriff about threw a fit right there on Maxi’s front porch. Maxi smiled and waved as he shut the door, but before he did, he smilingly told the old man that if he wasn’t coming by the plan a funeral, he’d need to come back with a warrant.

Given that Maxi was the only qualified person in his part of the parish, and no one wanted to send their meemaw the next town over when it was her time to go on and receive her Eternal Reward, Maxi was fast-tracked through the state exam. He passed it on his twenty-first birthday, exactly.

The next day, however, this proved all for naught: the family hearse was out of the driveway, and that boy was gone for five whole years.

The House stood empty, sheets over the furniture, with a cleaning service being wired money every so often to go in and clear away any truly troublesome cobwebs or dust bunnies. Keen-eyed neighbors noticed that it was a different crew every time, however… apparently, whatever they were being paid, it wasn’t worth it for most people to go back into that house twice. You could watch the ones that took smoke breaks stand there on the wide front porch, or near the garage door, with an uneasy shifting and a nervous glance over their shoulder every few minutes or so. If you were brave enough to walk over and ask one about it, they’d smile and laugh, insist they were being silly… but something about the house just didn’t feel right. (And not just because it was the last place lots of folks had spent their last night above ground.)

For the longest time, on windy nights, people could swear you could hear groaning coming from the loading and unloading door from the “business” half of the house in the back. It was just the wind, though. Of course. Without warning, Maxi slipped back into town one day, and opened the family mortuary right back up like nothing happened. It’s been running steady ever since, and now people from other towns bring Maxi their meemaws and other assorted family dead, having heard for miles around how dignified and magnificent all his services are — no matter who the deceased was or if their family had money.

…The only odd thing, in all of this, is that sometimes - just sometimes, mind you - people who attend the funerals tend to go missing not long after. Usually adult male relatives of the deceased: a troublesome cousin, a cantankerous father, a boorish brother. (Not to mention the unfortunate spate of pretty girls that have up and disappeared across multiple parishes during what would come to be called his “Bad Spell”  - but no one can prove they’re connected, of course.) It’s become a bit of a rumor that the Morvant business, for all Maxi’s empathy and efficiency, might just be cursed.

If you ask Maxi about this, he’ll give you a smile - a slightly pained one - and suggest perhaps it’s the same curse that took his dear Père, saints rest him, all those years ago. And how could you argue with someone whose own family wasn’t immune to… whatever this was?

But he’s such a sweet man, everyone in the town will tell you so. He hosts every funeral and wake himself, and he takes such care of the grieving families, it’s like the deceased is one of his own. He’s not one for the church, and for being so handsome, he’s most usually found in the company of a book or a stray critter in the cemetery.

But there’s nothing to say that couldn’t change, though, if he met another lonely soul...

[sayruq]

"A folly,” sighed Tyrion. “When you tear out a man's tongue, you are not proving him a liar, you’re only telling the world that you fear what he might say.” I don't think it implies that Tyrion will loose tongue. It indeed showing that Tyrion could cut someone tongue to speak out truth with Tyrion didn't wanted to out. Also it was mentioned that Tyrion tongue would lead him to some trouble which could be about the words he spoke to create problems for others. Thoughts?

jaime lost his hand, cersei lost her hair and she was paraded naked in front king's landing, and tyrion lost his nose. the mutilations and hair cuts sort of track the lannister's decline but now that all three siblings have gone through something like that, i don't think tyrion is going to lose his tongue. i think tyrion is going to cut someone's tongue like aerys and joffrey but then again, he already had symone silver tongue killed so it's possible that this passage isn't foreshadowing anything that tyrion himself is going to do. maybe someone else will cut tongues.

as for the second part of your ask i feel like this passage

"You have a certain cunning, Tyrion, but the plain truth is you talk too much. That loose tongue of yours will be your undoing."

and this passage are connected

"Perhaps I overstated. She may take pity on you when you come begging for her hand." The dwarf shrugged. "Do you want to wager your throne upon a woman's whim? Go to Westeros, though … ah, then you are a rebel, not a beggar. Bold, reckless, a true scion of House Targaryen, walking in the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror. A dragon.

as well as

That night Tyrion Lannister dreamed of a battle that turned the hills of Westeros as red as blood. He was in the midst of it, dealing death with an axe as big as he was, fighting side by side with Barristan the Bold and Bittersteel as dragons wheeled across the sky above them. In the dream he had two heads, both noseless. His father led the enemy, so he slew him once again. Then he killed his brother, Jaime, hacking at his face until it was a red ruin, laughing every time he struck a blow. Only when the fight was finished did he realize that his second head was weeping.

rather than his tongue leading to his death or mutilation, it will lead to his ruin. tyrion told aegon to go to westeros and aegon followed that advice to great success. when tyrion heard about this, he was surprised. he had only been playing mind games with aegon, he didn't expect to get taken seriously but nonetheless he was taken seriously. now he is in meereen waiting for daenerys and when she returns, she'll learn of aegon and she'll make the choice to go to war with him rather than this happening

"I told you, I know our little queen. Let her hear that her brother Rhaegar's murdered son is still alive, that this brave boy has raised the dragon standard of her forebears in Westeros once more, that he is fighting a desperate war to avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne for House Targaryen, hard-pressed on every side … and she will fly to your side as fast as wind and water can carry her.

i don't know if tyrion will egg her on. after all, he is rather fond of his time on the shy maid and he doesn't carry the same hatred for its inhabitants the way he does his family. in fact aegon and his crew will take care of tyrion's family... which might be a big problem but something i don't think tyrion will know about until he and dany (and victarion) sail to westeros.

as for his ruin, tyrion and aegon had an infamous cyvasse game where tyrion ran circles around aegon which led to aegon's gamer moment when he flip the board in anger. since then a lot of fans have been under the impression that aegon isn't good at battles or politics because the cyvasse is obviously an acceptable substitute for both 🙄. however, aegon has been growing since that moment. he convinced the golden company to abandon their plan to head out to meereen, he has taken storm's end, a castle famous for being difficult to capture, dany's vision in the house of dying shows people cheering for a cloth dragon which we can all agree is aegon, dorne and other regions will soon ally with aegon. he isn't the same boy that tyrion knew and by the time he takes king's landing away from the lannisters, he'll be quite the formidable foe.

i've said before that aegon is likely to surpass tyrion in warcraft. tyrion has one battle under his belt and aegon's just getting started. when they meet again, tyrion won't find an easy victory. in fact the war between daenerys and aegon will last long and it will be catastrophic for westeros. many people will die and by the end of it, tyrion will become the most reviled man in westeros. being hated is something that eats at tyrion, it's actually quite traumatic for him but nothing he has endured at this point will match what people will feel about him after king's landing explodes.

so yeah tyrion gave one advice to aegon and it'll end up ruining him.

[seb-writess]

All That Glitters

Pairings: Noctis/Ignis

Rating: Mature (for implied sexual content)

Notes: pls take this self indulgent au :^)

Status: Complete (2,900 words)

Summary: Ignis is a regular at a strip club, and not for the reason you'd assume. He's a bodyguard for a prospective client of his family's, and if it weren't for the cute bouncer he gets to spend his time flirting with, he might have been driven half mad months ago.

Preview:

Ignis heaves a sigh, leaning back against the bar and rolling his neck either way, hoping if he keeps himself loose, he won’t go home to another migraine like last time. He just has to get through tonight. Another of his father’s employees will take over Ignis’s duties for a few days. His weekend starts as soon as this fucker is home and in his multi-million dollar penthouse, and finally someone else’s problem.

“You look stressed,” a soft voice says beside him, and Ignis wonders how he can even hear it over the booming music. He looks to his left, Noctis’ familiar face glowing under the flashing lights of the club, his high cheekbones casting shadows where the light doesn’t reach.

It only highlights his best features. Which is all his features.

“Do I now?” Ignis replies conversationally. “Not at all. Watching some morally-grey bastard with money to burn buy himself the attention of three women at once in a club that smells like the bleach I’m sure they’re forced to overuse is exactly the way I want to spend my Friday night.”

Noctis snorts. “Yeah, okay, sure bud.”

Ignis chuckles with him. “Excuse my vitriol.”

“Your vitriol is safe with me,” Noctis gives him a sly smirk, and the lights cause the shine in his eyes to dance.

READ UNDER THE CUT

Ignis Scientia has a masters degree in political science and social economics. He’s a black belt in karate, jiu jitsu and krav maga. He’s won countless tournaments, and worked his whole life to live up to the Scientia name, to his family’s reputation. He comes from a long line of bodyguards and personal retainers. The Scientia company has served dignitaries, aristocrats, celebrities, even a king many generations ago. It wasn’t a question that Ignis would follow in all his forebears’ footsteps.

His older brothers had made their way up the company ladder far before Ignis was allowed to start his first internship, and as proud as they were to serve the Scientia name, they would also come home with their fair share of incredulous stories. Stories of their clients being rude or difficult, brandies and scotches in hand as they’d try to one up one another with their day’s events. Ignis would listen quietly, silently anticipating being able to join in with his own gossip.

So it’s not like Ignis didn’t know about the other side of the coin when he was finally assigned his first client.

He just had no idea how mind-numbingly, painstakingly, condescendingly patronising the work would be most of the time.

The lights flicker across the room of the club, beautiful bodies covered in glitter draping themselves up and down the poles installed upon every platform. The bass so loud it makes the floor vibrate with every beat. Delighted screaming comes from all corners of the room. Single notes of gil fly from hands, taken between teeth, slipped into g-strings and between body parts Ignis would rather not have to name.

His client, a burly fifty-something year old with a deep, booming laugh and a beer gut is talking to another burly fifty-something year old, probably about stocks, as they throw away their (not even) week’s income on the two girls currently dancing for them. The girls smile and giggle appropriately, batting long and fake lashes while Ignis’ client eyes them seedily and offers another mash of money.

Ignis watches it all, bored as shit, from a comfortable distance. The club has strict rules and although Ignis is technically in charge of guarding the safety of a paying customer, it doesn’t make him a paying customer, so he’s not allowed anywhere ‘near the action’.

And thank Astrals for that.

When his client had first brought him here, he had been able to use his deep and long-built habit of professionalism to throw away the idea of a lap dance on the job before the idea had even left his client’s mouth. He was here under the guise of protecting said client, and couldn’t very well do that if his face was being pressed somewhere unseemly.

His client had just laughed at Ignis, slapped his back, said something along the lines of ‘that’s the Scientias for ya!’ and trotted off to stick his own face somewhere unseemly.

To each their own, Ignis reminds himself.

Fuck if he doesn’t really want a drink, not that he’s allowed one.

It’s been a long, long week. His client has been growing clumsier with his appearance in public, despite the upcoming election that has everyone in spitting distance on edge for a myriad of reasons. Getting cockier in his safety, and has stopped checking with Ignis or his team before waltzing out the door like he’s not one of the most politically important men in Insomnia. As if he doesn’t have a target (or several, Ignis’ included sometimes) on his back. It means Ignis has been chasing him all week like a dog on his heels, rather than being able to guide him amiably through schedules and appointments like he’d thought he’d be doing when he was first assigned this client.

Such is the job, he supposes.

Ignis heaves a sigh, leaning back against the bar and rolling his neck either way, hoping if he keeps himself loose, he won’t go home to another migraine like last time. He just has to get through tonight. Another of his father’s employees will take over Ignis’s duties for a few days. His weekend starts as soon as this fucker is home and in his multi-million dollar penthouse, and finally someone else’s problem.

“You look stressed,” a soft voice says beside him, and Ignis wonders how he can even hear it over the booming music. He looks to his left, Noctis’ familiar face glowing under the flashing lights of the club, his high cheekbones casting shadows where the light doesn’t reach.

It only highlights his best features. Which is all his features.

“Do I now?” Ignis replies conversationally. “Not at all. Watching some morally-grey bastard with money to burn buy himself the attention of three women at once in a club that smells like the bleach I’m sure they’re forced to overuse is exactly the way I want to spend my Friday night.”

Noctis snorts. “Yeah, okay, sure bud.”

Ignis chuckles with him. “Excuse my vitriol.”

“Your vitriol is safe with me,” Noctis gives him a sly smirk, and the lights cause the shine in his eyes to dance.

Ignis nods, silently thanking him.

Noctis turns his attention back to the dancers, keen eyes sweeping, checking all is in place before his shoulders sag ever so slightly, a small sign that yes, all is as it should be. Noctis makes a show of stretching his own neck out, and with his attention elsewhere, Ignis allows himself to watch the muscles in Noctis’ neck dance under his skin. The way his fingers rub small circles into the top of his spine, where Ignis would love to sink his teeth into. Or the flex of his arms under his skin tight, black crew neck, and how Ignis would love to watch those arms flex as they hold onto Ignis while screaming a gods name.

Noctis lifts his eyes, catches Ignis staring, and Ignis pretends to simply be adjusting his glasses.

Noctis’ smirk is still in place.

They’d been doing this little song and dance since Ignis was first introduced to the bouncer of this club. Ignis, having to look very far down to meet Noctis’ eyes, had fought back the instinct to scrutinise Noctis on sight. Who was he to judge one's ability to do their job based on their frame? While Noctis might not match his height, put under analysis, he certainly has more muscle.

Muscle Ignis would love to trace the shape of with his teeth.

There’s loud laughter, Ignis’ eyes flicking dutifully back to perform his own job. The girls are begging his client to borrow his tie, whatever for, Ignis will never guess, and he really doesn’t want to.

“Has your week been that bad then?” Noctis asks.

Ignis heaves a sigh through his nose.

“‘Bad’ is such an understatement for the emotions I felt these past days.” Ignis doesn’t mean for his voice to come out sounding so tense, except that’s all he feels. Tense.

“Substandard then,” Noctis offers.

“More like miserable.”

“Disgraceful.”

“Atrocious.”

“Lamentable.”

“Oh! Good one,” Ignis cheers, and it makes Noctis laugh. Six, he must be wound tighter than a freshly installed clothesline if wordplay is what he counts as foreplay. “And yourself?”

Noctis shrugs before answering. “Could be worse.”

“Which means, it could be better.”

Noctis turns, studying Ignis. Ignis studies right back.

“It is now.”

Ignis feels his cheeks grow warm. Noctis is still smirking at him, and by Ifrit, it’s definitely serving to heat Ignis somewhere deep.

There’s a scream that breaks them out of their bubble, and it’s not like the playful screams of the patrons and dancers they’ve been hearing thus far. Noctis’ head whips around. Some guy across the room, and Ignis can smell how drunk he is from here, has a bruising hold on some poor girl’s wrist, and looking to place his hold somewhere it’s unwelcome.

“Shit,” Noctis hisses, before he’s taking off across the room. “Dickhead! Hands off!”

Ignis watches in awe as Noctis leaps, wraps his legs around the unsuspecting drunkard’s neck, and brings him face first to the floor with his thighs. Ignis wishes he had live rewind, only so he might have the chance to watch every muscle in Noctis shift and settle as he makes the move.

The echoing crash averts everyone’s eyes to the commotion, and Noctis is calling for backup while he keeps a firm hold around his victim’s head. The dancer Noctis effectively saved is rushed off to a back room, hopefully to be helped and calmed down before being sent home, and there's a swarm of bodies in black as they surround their target and keep him down long enough for Noctis to climb off.

It all unfolds in a matter of seconds, less than a minute. Which is about how fast it takes for Ignis to grow ridiculously warm in his stomach, breathing deeply through his nose as that warmth travels down. The other two bouncers on duty take the drunken man away, while he screams profanities and threatens to sue. Noctis barely blinks, rolling his shoulder out where it had crashed into the floor, and giving him the finger as he passes.

As fast as it had come, the disruption fades and everyone returns to what they were doing as if it was a regular Friday night. The bass is just as loud, the lights just as bright, but Ignis cannot stop staring at Noctis. Dark, mussed hair and expressive blue eyes, sharp bones and soft curves where it matters most.

Ignis licks his lips.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says, almost sheepish, as if he should be embarrassed by having just taken down a man twice his height in a single movement.

Ignis isn’t sure how to respond, except with a choked, “Are you free after work?” He doesn’t even realise he’s said it until he realises Noctis is staring at him, eyes gentle and almost unbelieving.

“I’m off at two.”

Ignis nods. “I’ll be here.”

They don’t say a whole lot else to each other, and Ignis passes the time by thinking of all the ways he wants to pry those skinny jeans off Noctis’ arse. Gloriously, his own client is now standing, shaking off glitter from his suit, pink-faced drunk as he and his possy of just as pink-faced drunks hobble toward Ignis.

“See you,” Noctis says, softly, like it’s a secret.

Ignis eyes him, and tries to say with his eyes what he can’t with his mouth.

You most definitely will.

Getting his client back home isn’t as eventful as Ignis might have preconceived. He mostly nods off in the backseat of the car, but thankfully awakens long enough to climb out once they reach his building. He nods to Ignis, mumbling something about leaving him a good tip, and heads inside, leaving Ignis blissfully free for a whole weekend.

Ignis realises he has forty-five minutes to get home, shower, change and get back to Noctis’ club.

Doable. If you obey the speed limits.

Ignis does not.

The club is just as wild when he left, perhaps more so, a line out the door telling Ignis he wasn’t even present for the more tumultuous part of a Friday evening. He’s pulling up to the curb outside as Noctis is heading out the front door, saying good-bye to his bouncer buddies as he does. He has a leather jacket on now, short sleeved to allow the night to cool his skin, and perhaps give Ignis a view of those toned forearms.

He spots Ignis immediately, and climbs into the passenger seat.

“You’re punctual. Must have got him back okay.” Noctis’ cheeks are flushed and he might be avoiding Ignis’ eyes as he pulls on his seatbelt.

“I’d be here regardless,” Ignis says, which causes Noctis to finally look up. His breathtakingly sharp jaw clenches. Ignis wants to trace the shape with his fingertips.

“Where are we going then?” Noctis asks, and is that a stammer in his words Ignis notes?

“You’ll see,” is all Ignis gives before pulling away from the club.

They end up going to a quiet bar downtown. It’s much more Ignis’ scene, but still lively enough that it couldn’t be considered boring. Dim lights, private booths, live music. Good scotch. Not that Noctis nor Ignis pay much attention to any of that as soon as they’re alone.

“Pardon me, but you mean to tell me you have no prior training when it comes to martial arts yet you’re able to do…” Ignis gestures blindly at Noctis. “All that!”

Noctis laughs at this. It’s glorious watching him slowly grow comfortable enough to let himself breathe, sparks of his true self igniting in front of Ignis. Ignis has always liked Noctis’ smile, but he felt they weren’t completely genuine, and there was more there for Ignis to draw out.

“I mean, I took a week of karate lessons as a kid. Does that count?”

“You must know it does not.”

“Not my fault they didn’t teach me fast enough,” Noctis says, a slight pout on his bottom lip. It’s adorable, and Ignis wants to kiss it off. “You started when you were young, right?”

Ignis nods.

“My family strongly believes if you’re old enough to walk, you’re old enough to kick, and by proxy, old enough to learn to do it correctly.”

“As long as it lands, and the other guy is worse off than you are when it does, isn’t that correct?”

Noctis’ quips and mannerisms, concrete in place just how different he is to Ignis. How Noctis holds himself while he drinks, long, deep gulps as opposed to Ignis’ calculated sips. How he found his job by pure chance and desperation (his own and the club’s), while Ignis carefully cultivated himself around the job he was always expected to have.

Yet Ignis still finds himself ridiculously attracted to him.

Ignis always hoped, prayed, his obvious adoration for Noctis wouldn’t cause Noctis to shy away. That Noctis wanted Ignis just as badly. Ignis isn’t terrible at reading social-cues, but when he desires someone so deeply, it’s hard not to wonder if bias is playing a role.

Bias is not, as two scotches deep and Noctis’ lips are attached to his neck, and Ignis finally gets to slide his fingers under that deplorably tight shirt and feel nothing but leagues of soft skin underneath. They weren’t paying much attention to their surroundings to begin with, completely enraptured with finally having the chance to see each other outside of their respective jobs, but as soon as Ignis swallows the first of Noctis’ breathy moans, the rest of the world is lost to him.

Luckily, Ignis is still sober enough to drive them home, where he’s slammed up against a wall and Ignis gets to experience all of Noctis’ unassumed strength firsthand. Noctis’ hands under his thighs, lifting Ignis up the wall solely to be a show off. Ignis is already a head taller than Noctis; it’s not like he needs the added height.

It’s addicting.

Even more so is the way Noctis’ stomach twitches and quivers under Ignis’ wandering hands once they get to the bed. Noctis is pulling him into an incredibly dirty kiss, clawing down Ignis’ chest, and Ignis wants to bottle this heat and keep it all to himself.

Then Ignis is kissing down Noctis’ body and kneeling off the bed, head between Noctis’ thighs and enjoying very much the sensation of said thighs trembling under his trailing kisses and soft touches, boring down and licking up. Noctis doesn’t hold back as he moans into a pillow he’s pulled to his face.

Ignis sounds like a dying frog after he’s done and it’s its own kind of gratification.

When he awakens the next morning, Noctis isn’t in his bed. Ignis blinks at the empty space, rolls over, flailing for his glasses, and lets out a short breath of relief upon seeing Noctis make his way across Ignis’ apartment with two coffees in hand. Ignis’ shirt looks good on his form, the silk collar left open. Ignis pulls him in to kiss his shoulders under the collar.

Noctis settles back under the covers beside him and they sip coffee and sink into comfortable conversation, while Ignis thinks about sinking into somewhere else.

“So, I’m not inviting myself to stay or anything,” Noctis starts. He places his empty mug on Ignis’ bedside table and he’s not quite looking Ignis in the eye as he moves. “But I’m free all weekend. If you are.”

Ignis smiles.

“Well, I actually have a lot to do,” Ignis replies, but leans in close before Noctis can look too disappointed. He kisses Noctis’ neck, up the pale column of his throat, laying a soft but deep kiss on his lips and feeling thrilled at the way Noctis moans into it. He pulls back just far enough so Noctis’ can read the mischievous look in his eyes. “I was hoping you’d help me.”

Noctis huffs, and his breath smells like coffee on Ignis’ face. His lips taste like sugar.

“Am I the best man for the job?” he replies, that delicious smirk back on his lips.

“You’re the only man for the job.”

[frosteee]

"You should be scared of me" - Why Shiemi will need to break tradition to truly best Amaimon

The new chapter threw a heck of a lot of stuff at us at once, raising a hundred questions for the few it answers.

We're given a brief synopsis of Amaimon's history with Shemihaza, a relationship that has been hinted at in previous chapters, and the nature of Shiemi's final challenge: to "subjugate" Amaimon, as Shemihaza and all other 'successors' before her.

Shiemi's grandmother instructed her in such a way to make a violent battle between Shiemi and Amaimon inevitable, and Amaimon himself solidified this inevitability by deriding the strength of her abilities, implying a respect for Shemihaza's - whom he serves in a as-yet unexplained way. He may serve Shemihaza, but he is not servile to her, nor is he compelled to respect or serve her successors. Shiemi must prove herself worthy in the power department.

However, I believe that the long-term solution to her and Amaimon's respective barriers will require a change in approach to those before her. Even Shemihaza.

Amaimon's Anger

An unspecified amount of time ago, an angry Amaimon made the land. Given that he has a defined physical form, and the nature of it and his clothes, it is definitely a time in which humans are around and who nature a fear of demons.

It isn't made clear what made Amaimon so angry, but it's clear that it spurred a rage so intense that he took it out on the earth, making it inhospitable for any kind of life. This is when Shemihaza steps in, as Emperor of Creation and Amaimon's foil - she is life and creation, he is death and destruction.

Prior to this point they may have co-existed. Shemihaza may outrank him, but they share many similarities and can be seen as the two sides of the same coin, necessary to keep the world's natural order. Life and death. But Amaimon's outburst and complete annihilation of the land disrupts this order, and requires Shemihaza's intervention.

Shemihaza took pity on Amaimon, and may have also seen the practical reason for keeping him around (going back to the 'two sides of a coin' theory) and so rather than destroy him, Shemihaza sacrificed her body and crystallised herself, binding Amaimon to her in servitude.

It appears that in doing so, Shemihaza sealed parts of Amaimon - his power, or even his persona - in crystals around her frozen form. She allowed him to continue to have a 'self' - or consciousness - by becoming her servant.

Whether it was the act of sealing parts of Amaimon away, or the terms of his service, that quelled Amaimon's anger, it's clear that these measures did not really fix the issue.

Amaimon still carries intense rage within him, evident in his fits of violence and intense anger that break through his usual impassive exterior. He particularly reacts to any whiff of a suggestion that he is weak, which supports the theory that the crystallised parts of Amaimon are parts of his power. With this into consideration, Amaimon has even more reason to be angry now.

Shemihaza's Legacy

If this is the case, then it makes the problem worse in the long term. Amaimon still feels intense rage, but no longer has adequate means to express it like he did in the past. Rather than get to the root of why he feels so angry, Shemihaza has left her successors with a being that grows progressively more hateful and angry with each passing generation, despite lacking the ability to create the same destruction Shemihaza faced.

The flashback of Shemihaza and Amaimon, showing Amaimon kneeling before her, suggests that Shemihaza did not have to exert brute force in order to stop his rampage. As I mentioned earlier, in looking down on Shiemi's power he implicitly expresses respect or at least a past respect for Shemihaza's.

Kneeling before Shemihaza, who has greater power and status than his own, and with whom he may have shared a close relationship (speculation on my part), Amaimon is given a choice: serve Shemihaza and seal parts of his power/self away, through her sacrifice, or lose his sense of self.

Amaimon's options were eternal servitude and what he would probably view as castration, or death. Amaimon chose the former. As Mephisto states, once demons experience life with a body and five senses, the alternative to that, a conceptual being with no thought, senses or freedom, is the closes thing to death they can imagine and completely intolerable.

Shemihaza may have found a solution to the immediate problem of the ruination of the land, but failed to address the ongoing issue of Amaimon's anger, so her successors have continually had to 'subjugate' him into obedience, following her example. Shemihaza may not have needed to brawl with Amaimon, she likely had enough power to subdue him without fighting, but her successors command far less power than she did, especially at the stage Shiemi is at when facing Amaimon.

Pity /= Empathy

Shiemi's grandmother states that Shemihaza's pity for Amaimon's anger motivated her to give him a choice. But pity does not equal empathy, and the 'better' choice Amaimon took, as I said, does not really solve the problem with Amaimon long-term.

She felt pity enough to give him a choice at all, but a bit of empathy for why Amaimon is angry and a desire to help him could have resulted in a far better long-term solution to the problems he was causing.

When Lucifer was suffering and begging the Grigori Shemihaza to continue research into an elixir for him, he furiously pointed out her lack of compassion. Her response was that she had 'abandoned human compassion' when she took on the position.

This shows that while those connected with Shemihaza can feel pity for those around them, they are compelled or even taught to abandon feelings of empathy or compassion for others, following in Shemihaza's footsteps, for the 'greater good'.

There are positives to this way of working, and the Grigori can likely attribute their long service to this, but it also has drawbacks - shown plainly in Amaimon.

If Shemihaza had felt, or allowed herself to feel, compassion and empathise with Amaimon's plight, she may have given him a different choice that would benefit Amaimon himself also and make him a willing ally to her successors instead of a half-tamed beast who still suffers the same anger that they must forcibly take down.

Shiemi's Choice

While her grandmother stated that she must defeat Amaimon in combat in order to enlist his services, this is the will of Shemihaza and will only pass on the same issues to another generation.

If anything is to change, and if Shiemi wants to truly help 'everyone', she will need to go about her fight with Amaimon differently than her forebears.

She will need to rely on her strength, certainly, to not get killed by him, and also to prove herself worthy in the strength department, but she cannot hope to really make a difference and show her growth without showing her characteristic empathy and kindness to him as well.

Shiemi has grown stronger this past year, but her greatest strength has always been her ability to forgive and show kindness to others, especially those who are suffering, even when they hurt her.

Amaimon has hurt her, physically and mentally, but kind Shiemi will still be able to see the wounded soul behind the anger. Amaimon owes her an apology, not the other way around, but as a demon who has never known compassion he must be shown it first before he can reciprocate.

This challenge compels Shiemi to prove her worthiness to command Amaimon, to show her superiority, to order him by fear of pain or worse - as Shemihaza, Mephisto and likely every other demon he has interacted with has done.

This is not Shiemi, or who she should become. The Shiemi we know would never seek to be superior to another being, but on equal level. She would not wish to make anyone her slave, but her friend, even a demon.

When Shiemi states "You should be scared of me", she dangerously echoes the words and actions of her forebears. She cannot truly win by making Amaimon fear her wrath as she fears his, or as Amaimon feared Shemihaza's.

Shiemi needs to hold on to that compassionate side of herself, or else lose her humanity. And keep Amaimon an emotionally frustrated bomb waiting to explode for another generation.

[magicman111]

A Moth to a Flame - Chapter Two

One month later

Sasha joylessly toyed with the Music Box, opening its lid like a yawning mouth.

Who’d have thunk it? She wondered to herself. This tacky little thing could cause so much calamity?

How ludicrously out of place she looked curled up on King Andrias’ enormous throne, almost like the little girl playing pretend in the driver’s seat of her parents’ car. You’d be forgiven for not knowing she’d just led the swiftest, easiest toppling of a government in this world’s history.

Big blue dummy locked up? Check. The city’s army surrendered? Check. Their toad army less than an hour away? Check. Dimension-skipping Macguffin firmly in their position? Double Check.

Not a bad day’s work for a 13-year-old.

Marcy’s oversized sparrow was tethered to the armrest by his leg. A prize she’d taken for herself so she could cruise around her new kingdom in style. She saw to it he wasn’t under any duress, and the fact he was neck deep in an industrial sized bag of bird feed told her he was plenty comfortable.

Sasha managed a tiny smile as she reached out to run her fingers through the thickness of his coat. She dunked her hand in the bag and offered him an open palm of seeds; he eyed for a moment or two before gingerly pecking at the mound.

Thank Frog no one was around to hear the ‘d’aww’ escape her lips.

Her grandmother was the one she had to thank for her secret admiration of birds. Old lady had been a birdwatcher who ‘treated’ her to regular weekend trips into the forest when she was younger. This was long before her discovery of malls and arcades. Sasha wouldn’t dare admit it to even herself back then, but the ones they spotted together on those dewy spring mornings were beautiful to behold in their natural habitat.

Herons may now be forever ruined for her, but Joe—she thought that was his name—was a mighty impressive specimen. Poor guy somehow found the strength to carry all seven of them to Newtopia, only to nosedive into the moat at the end of the flight.

Definitely had nothing to do with her asking Marcy if she could take the reins in the last stretch. She and Anne were kind enough not to draw attention to it, same as they did the day at summer camp when they discovered her crying into her pillow. They were awesome enough to go along with her story that it was only allergies. She knew she had a true pair of girlfriends that morning.

Thinking about them only soured her mood afresh. She sprinkled the rest of the feed back into the bag and slumped against the backrest, arms petulantly crossed.

Here she was in the crowning moment of her young life and she couldn’t have been more miserable.

Maybe because her friends should have been here to share in this, but no, they had to go and act all noble. What else should she have expected? She always was the only one in the group with the guts. Anne had to be dragged kicking and screaming to ditch school and join her and Marcy in celebrating her birthday. Was it any wonder she had to keep taking control of the situation?

More likely... it was because deep down she knew she didn’t really want this. She certainly believed she did after they dropped that gloryhound newt general down a waterfall and when they successfully rallied the Toad Lords after retrieving Barrel’s Warhammer. Things only started getting complicated when they needed free tickets into Newtopia in the form of her friends.

She hadn’t counted on realising just how much she missed her clumsy, klutzy Marcy. Neither how effectively she and Anne were still able to work together as a team in spite of all the unpleasantness that had transpired between them during their time here, of which there was plenty. The fact that Anne actively encouraged her in taking down that molten toad monster was the rancid cherry atop the sludge sundae. For a while back there, it looked like they might really turn a corner and start afresh. All three of them could have gone home like none of this ever happened. Except by then it was already too late.

What recourse did she have when the Plantars invited them for the world’s most awkward dinner party or when they brought the house down at the Battle of the Bands? Tell Grime and all the toads who’d invested their manpower and futures in her that sorry, she was getting cold feet? There was only one grizzly way that would end both for her and Grime and the best scenario she could imagine involved heads on pikes.

... It didn’t matter anymore. Her friends had picked their path, she’d picked hers. As her mom always said, ‘You make your bed, you lie in it’. Funny how in her short life, she’d heard that line far too many times already.

Once she figured out how the Box worked, she’d send both Anne and Marcy on their merry way and they’d never have to see each other ever again.

Everyone would get what they want.

Good thing then she’d sent her soldiers to ransack Marcy’s room for all her research about Anne’s fateful birthday gift. Girl was a pack rat. She kept notes for every exam and project they were assigned back home. The less said about her laptop jammed with files of anime fanfiction and theories the better.

Plus, it was a good way to try and distract herself.

They came back into the throne room hauling burlap sacks full of parchments and emptied their contents at Sasha’s feet.

Daaang, girl, you've been in the zone.

She scattered them over her lap and the ample free space on the seat. They actually weren’t that hard to follow; colour coordinated with plenty of cutesy kawaii diagrams. Trademark Marbles.

Apparently, it worked a lot like those puzzle boxes Marcy got as gifts from relatives in Hong Kong. All it took was knowing the right sequence of buttons and zip! You can go wherever you want in the cosmos. Just a matter of finding the code for Earth.

‘I’m done listening to you!

I’m done trusting you!’

Sasha scowled, trying to push the thoughts to the back of her mind where they belonged. She shuffled through a couple more pages until she found the one titled in glittery green and blue lettering, ‘HOME’.

Bingo.

‘You’re a horrible person!’

Ignore. Ignore.

Now all she had to do was jot it down on her palm and—

‘AND I AM DONE. BEING. FRIENDS WITH YOU!!’

She stopped. Her shoulders drooped. Then she just threw the page down on the floor and sunk into her seat further than she thought physically possible.

She normally didn’t consider herself that thin skinned a person, but man, that one hurt.

Traces of bitter tears creeped into her eyes.

What am I even doing anymore?

The sound of footsteps on crumpling paper and someone clearing their throat snapped her out of her self-pitying torpor. She fluttered her eyes dry to see Grime standing there awkwardly among the discarded parchments.

The diminutive, one-eyed former Toad Lord was hiding something behind his back. He actually looked pretty embarrassed about it too, which for a battle hardened war vet like Grime was actually kinda adorable in Sasha’s eyes.

“I, uhh, got you something,” he said, whipping out a long rectangular present wrapped in green paper and topped with a luscious red bow. “Had it made especially for this day.”

Now if there was one thing Sasha Waybright couldn’t say no to, it was a gift, especially from a trusted friend. They were the ultimate distraction from the blues and she couldn’t have been sitting upright and tearing into this one any quicker.

“Whaaat? Grimesy, you didn’t!” What she had pulled from the ravaged packaging wielded aloft her head made her gasp. “How’d you know I wanted to duel wield?!”

It was a brand new heron sword. An exquisite green second shortsword that would compliment Ol’ Pink perfectly.

She stared proudly into the smooth steel surface, admiring the craftsmanship. When she noticed the girl staring right back at her, however, her smirk vanished in an instant. The captain of the cheerleaders, the scarred swordswoman, the conqueror of Newtopia, whatever angle she looked at it, she didn’t like what she saw. Unbelievable as it may sound, even the joy of an awesome gift like this was not enough to make everything better.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like it? Oh dang it!” Grime slammed his forehead. “I didn’t get a gift receipt!”

“No no, it’s just...” Sasha weighed the blade against her ungloved palm. Talking about these kinds of things was never easy for her. “What if Anne’s right? What if I am a horrible person?”

Grime popped up like a whack-a-mole behind the armrest. “Who cares what she thinks?” he scoffed. “You and I are in charge now, and we get to do whatever we want!”

“That’s the thing... I’m not sure what I want anymore,” she admitted wearily.

For all his years of training at the finest academies, his brutal combat in the colosseum and tactical expertise earned through a lifetime of military service as his forebears before him, this one had Grime stumped. Needless to say, talking about one’s emotions wasn't exactly encouraged during their upbringing in toad culture, so naturally it wasn’t one of his strong suits. Just one of the many things he and Sasha had in common.

“Huh.”

Still, he was a pretty fast thinker and came up with a fairly good idea on the spot.

“Why don’t you help me redecorate this place?” he suggested, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Take your mind off it. Cuz this right here...” He gestured to the cluttered mess in which she’d surrounded herself. “This is definitely not—I’m sorry, can I help you?!”

Both of them turned their heads when it became impossible to ignore Joe’s cone-shaped beak lightly nipping at Grime’s cheek.

“He probably thinks your warts are seeds.”

“For the love of—I knew he was eyeing me up on the ride here! There! Get lost!” Grime scooped up a fistful of feed and flung it over the marble floor, but the winged beast persisted with pecking his face. “Stop it! MY HEAD IS NOT A FEEDER!!”

It took an exceptional effort of willpower for Sasha not to laugh at the sight of her old man being preyed upon by the family pet.

Wow, she thought. Her old man? Was that how she saw Grimesy now? Seriously?

Perhaps up to a point. Okay, considering the options she had for parental figures back home, it wasn’t exactly the highest bar to pass, but it still meant something. Anything.

Who would have guessed this would be how they’d end up, especially given how they started off with her as his prisoner? Sure, it may have taken her helping him and the whole tower not getting turned into heron feed for her to be upgraded to his lieutenant, but they really had come a long way since then. There was a lot more honor and heart to the cranky old toad than she first thought, back when she wrote him off just as another blowhard with power. Now he genuinely considered her his equal both as a friend and comrade in arms. For Sasha, the feeling was mutual. A first for her.

When all was said and done, who else did she have left besides him and vice versa?

What the heck? Let’s tear this place up.

Untethering Joe, she whistled a tweet-tweet and gave the rope a gentle tug to encourage him to follow on their ‘indoor walkies’.

A cursory surveillance of the throne room told her there was a lot of work to be done. If this toad regime was to last a thousand years, the correct decor was an important first step. Thankfully for them, she knew a thing or two about fashion. For starters, there were way too many soft blues and purples. Rust red from top to bottom! She preferred keeping the stained glass windows, but they’d need entirely new designs. Hers truly would naturally feature in most of them, one showcasing her and Grime caving that narwhal worm’s head in with the Warhammer being an absolute must. The snakes coiling the stone pillars weren’t a bad touch, if just a bit too elegant for the whole ‘proud warrior race’ vibe they were going for, but she could still work with them. Now as for the throne, they were gonna have to replace it with something much more imposing. There was that super violent dragon show she and her parents used to watch that had the huge throne made out of swords. She was sure she had a picture somewhere on her phone to use as a reference.

“I’m sorry, what the heck is this?!”

Sasha could only denounce what they were gawking at as the single biggest affrontement to tasteful decorating known to man or amphibian. Yes, worse than inflatable furniture, carpeted bathrooms, beaded curtains, glass block bathroom windows, ‘live, laugh, love’ quotes on walls, rustic hearts, mason jars and nautical accessories all combined under the same inland roof.

Tapestries had their rightful place in a palace’s interior design, but the one sweeping across a section of wall depicting a gentle hearted Andrias sitting down by a lake, surrounded by flowers and lilypads was nothing short of vomit-inducing. Gathered at his feet and scooped up in his protective arms were his wide-eyed, childlike subjects. Even the fish and a lobster were surfacing to bask in their king’s magnanimity. Here the oversized salamander was truly the loving patriarch of everything the light touched. The mawkish display could only be topped off with a rainbow streaking across the sky.

Grime felt his stomach roile. If he ever needed an example to demonstrate the difference between kitschy and downright tacky, this was it.

“Y-y-y-yikes!” he gagged. “This thing’s gotta go!”

Sasha didn’t need a second invite. Besides, what else was Joe going to use to line his nest?

A joint effort tore the offensive piece from its place and it tumbled to the floor in a heap.

Dead silence fell over the room.

Hidden beneath the tapestry was... a mural. Including such a decoration in a throne room was hardly surprising, yet it was what it contained that shocked both the human and toad, so much so that they had to take a moment to recover.

“Woah,” they gasped at once, before starting to analyse what they saw.

The mural was a chaotic collection of nightmarish images painted on a night blue wall. Wild red flames spewing out hordes of beasts and the wreckage of buildings. Mountains of skulls and bones belonging to frogs, toads and newts alike. A flying... spaceship? A castle? Whatever it was meant to be, it firied a white beam up at what was unmistakably the Music Box. Pink, green and blue lightning bolts crackled out of the Box. Mesmerising orange gemstones or, more terrifyingly, eyes leaped off the wall and burned themselves into their minds. The frightening focal point of this one-way ticket to the school therapist’s office? Rising out of the middle of the inferno was the silhouette of a red-eyed, goliath-sized beast, its claws reaching up covetously towards the Box that hung right above its crowned head.

It may as well have been lifted straight from the tattered dream journal of a madfrog.

Any ideas of redecorating the throne room were long gone. Even the revolution they were spearheading suddenly seemed millions of miles away in the face of what they’d just stumbled upon.

Peering her eyes slightly, Sasha was the first to put a face to the shadowy leviathan, and when she did, she had to swallow her heart back down into her chest.

“Is that the king?” she asked, mystified. “With the music box?”

Sweat ran down the side of Grime’s nonplussed face. “If it is… it’s a really good thing we stopped him.”

Neither of them said it aloud, but both understood the situation at once. All this time they thought they’d been playing flipwart while the king played bog jump. Oh, how wrong they’d been. It was beyond anything that even the Toad Lords discussed. They knew that they had to reconvene with them as soon as the armies had reached the gate.

She took a couple steps closer to reexamine the mural more thoroughly, missed details emerging now that the initial shock began to wear off. Circuit board markings—the same inside her dad’s outdated computer when she foolishly dared Marcy if she could take it apart—worked their way around the images, serving as some type of frame. Odd choice for a world that didn’t even have steam engines yet. She also picked up the three small geometric figures standing atop the Box’s lid. An artist she was not, but they looked pretty human-like in design.

But humans did not exist in Amphibia. The three of them were the first of their kind to ever set foot in this dimension.

Weren’t they?

Alarm bells were ringing louder than ever before. This Andrias guy had been playing Anne and Marcy for his own ends this whole time, all to get his mitts on the Music Box! What did he plan to do with it? Right now, she still couldn’t say, but it was all bad. Outside of a kickin’ rock band, fire and skulls together were never a good thing!

Even Joe’s feathers were puffing up anxiously against her back. Not turning away from the mural, she raised her hand and patted his risen crest.

“I know, big guy. I don’t like it either.”

Grime’s voice rang urgently in her ears, “Lieutenant! Get over here, quick!!”

Sasha had spun on her heels and sprinted down the room to find Grime standing the wreckage of what used to be a display of armour. He’d evidently acted on a hunch while she’d been preoccupied. Judging by his thunderstruck expression, he’d just discovered something far worse.

“What is iooooh boy!”

This new second mural reminded Sasha a lot of Egyptian hieroglyphs. If there was any room for doubt about the technicolor stick guys, there was none here. Standing tall against an indigo backdrop in a neat row were the outlines of human beings; long gangly appendages, stumpy noses and everything. Some were wearing hooded capes, others were decked out in suits of armour. The couple in the middle looked particularly regal. No prizes for guessing the little wooden box they were holding in their hands, cementing their authority as if it were the globus cruciger.

Faded inscriptions were engraved along the bottom. They were written in a more archaic amphibian dialect, but being a toad of higher education, Grime was able to give translating them a decent shot.

These great beings of magic and might

Travelled from beyond to serve the night

Bow before these children of man

Or know the wrath of the—

“... Wu Clan?” He cocked his one good eye up at her. “Iiiii’m not getting it.”

There it was. Floodlights flashed in Sasha’s head. All colour drained from her face. A million and one thoughts were now firing across her brain at once, threatening to send her into cerebral shutdown.

It was at that moment she knew she’d been played. They all had. She didn’t know whether to be absolutely furious, betrayed or impressed.

Why that conniving, devious little—

That's when they heard the BOOM outside the window.

[wolf-and-bard]

@winter-fir: Sofia, my darling, this was written as a birthday present and with you in mind. Thank you for being such a delightful, funny, mad scientist genius friend, I love you. I wanted to give you some Arnaghad/Erland fluff and it didn’t turn out fluffy at all, it’s a rambly mess and I’m sorry. It did turn into a continuation and a prompt fill, I hope you don’t mind. 😂 I also hope you ate a lot of cake today ❤

Steal My Heart Again

Prompt: Isolation

Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik

Rating: E

Content Warnings: apocalypse-appropriate sentiments (aka hopelessness), explicit sexual content, swear words, minor character death (past)

Summary: This is a sequel to Drown With Me If You Can. Erland and Arnaghad have made it to the safety of Kaer Seren’s cellars and have to face life during the apocalypse. They cope in different ways. In which: Erland wallows some more and Arnaghad wants cuddles. 

Word Count: ~3k

AO3 Link I @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

In the latter years of the 1130s, a conflict between the Northern Realms of Redania, Kaedwen, and Kovir and Poviss sprouted up in which Kovir and Poviss petitioned to gain sovereignty.

Erland pauses to ponder his next words and in that pause, becomes aware of something stirring.

Witchers usually sniff and listen before something breeches their line of sight, but with his beloved bear, it’s even more intense. Erland can hear the giant’s footsteps pound in tune with his own heart as soon as Arnaghad rises from his meditative perch at least four rooms down the hallway. Erland can smell the endorphins that chase each other through Arnaghad’s bloodstream as soon as he calls out for Erland, still far away. They have a different scent for every person and witcher picking up on them.

For Erland, Arnaghad’s contentedness smells like toasted white bread and strawberry jam. Conversely, Arnaghad is reminded of the concoction of oils and herbs he treats his old bearskin with so that it retains its texture whenever Erland smiles. Everything about Arnaghad is intense, as is the emotional knot Erland carries tucked between his lungs, the one that is made up of strings of the past and present that have become inevitably entangled. There is no easy emotion here and so Erland shoves them all aside in favour of putting down his next lines.

It came to pass that, under the supervision of the Hierarch of Novigrad, then Walter Beda, the rulers of the three countries met to negotiate the agreement. King Radovid III of Redania and King Benda of Kaedwen sailed on the Redanian flagship Alata to Lan Exeter where Gedovius Troyden, then Earl and later King of Kovir, met them, accompanied by his wife Gemma. Thus, the First Treaty of Lan Exeter was forged, and Kovir and Poviss gained the right to call themselves a kingdom.

Erland blows on the ink and the smell intensifies so much that his mouth waters. He glances to the side to see the bear appear in the hallway.

“There you are,” Arnaghad rumbles when he arrives at Erland’s small chamber which used to be a storage for barrels in need of repair. He shoulders through the narrow doorway without knocks or ceremony, and his bare feet slap against the stone, warmed by an underground pool of water which is suffused by heat from the earth’s core. With the White Frost raging outside the keep of Kaer Seren - in whose basement they currently reside in - even that heat will fade and freeze, but it has not been touched yet. They have not been touched yet, they made it to the safety of this hidden hearth and it nearly cost them their lives. “What are you doing, birdie?”

“Writing,” Erland says absent-mindedly and growls when Arnaghad’s hulking form blots out the light of half the torches as he approaches the makeshift desk. It’s a splintered plank of wood propped up on two empty barrels, a third one – overturned – functioning as the chair. The rest of the room is bare save for the rusted grates in which the torches reside and a wicker basket full of half-rotten corks. The griffins used to collect them to fashion floormats for the baths with. The griffins that now lay buried under rubble, only a story or two above Erland’s and Arnaghad’s heads. He tries not to think about that as he writes, writes, writes.

“Why, thank you dearest beloved, I had not figured that out for myself.”

Erland shrugs and bends further over his page. He is halfway through his account and he has to keep going while the words still come easily and his hand hasn’t cramped up. It tends to do that a lot these days, whether from writing, shovelling endless masses of snow or from stroking Arnaghad’s oversized cock. The first one is a need to preserve what might otherwise get lost, the second a necessity so their one exit from Kaer Seren doesn’t get blocked completely. The third activity is all pleasure and indulgence and re-learning the body of a man he thought lost to him for so long.

Arnaghad, the obnoxious idiot, steps closer and squints over Erland’s shoulder which truly sucks up the rest of the flickering illumination. His burly hand comes to rest on Erland’s head – now freshly shaven into his preferred undercut again with his hair woven into complex patterns Arnaghad yet remembers from his home – and his chin presses against Erland’s temple.

“’Kovir’s Independence and the First Treaty of Lan Exeter’,” Arnaghad reads out loud from the top of the page. “The fuck does this have to do with you? Are you trying to write a world history?”

“You forget where we are,” Erland murmurs and finishes his sentence, placing a small asterisk with a number ten atop the last word for yet another footnote.

“I haven’t.” Arnaghad plucks the feather from Erland’s hand and rises a little, takes the bent fingers into his own and strokes along them to straighten them out, one by one. Erland sighs and sags against the bear, letting fatigue wash over him, wash away his ambition for the day. “You forget where you are. Who you are and who you are with.”

“I might have,” he admits sheepishly and closes his eyes, listens to the faint gurgle of Arnaghad’s stomach. It’s a simple, well-crafted lie. Erland never forgets and how could he?

“I understood the journal,” Arnaghad says. “Well, I wasn’t willing to give my life for it as you were, but I understood why you wrote it. The ice might melt, the beasts might return and for that, whoever is to inhabit this world may need the information you captured. But this is unfathomable.”

“Of course, it would be to you.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Are you calling me stupid?”

“No,” Erland says and melts as Arnaghad’s hands let go of his to gently massage his shoulders. It’s only when the static pain slowly ebbs away that Erland realizes just how long he’s been sitting hunched over his notes. Each word an investment with so little parchment leftover.

“Then what? Why are you doing this?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Erland sighs and ducks out of his lover’s grip to get up and pop his joints. Avoiding Arnaghad’s gaze, Erland extinguishes the torches with a flurry of precise Aards and makes to leave the room.

The bear wouldn’t understand in a million years why Erland writes the chronicle, would probably call it a waste of energy and resources. There is utility in writing a bestiary, there is only sentiment in writing a history. And perhaps a flicker of hope that whatever civilization rises from the rubble of the Ice Age will not repeat their forebearer’s mistakes. Except no. Erland may be an idealist at heart, but not enough that this hope has a chance of threading through the fabric of his motivation.

His motivation is woven in entirely selfish materials. It’s distraction, it’s occupation, it’s indulging in self-pity and nostalgia, melancholy and pride. It’s to keep himself from spiralling into depression and forgetfulness, to keep his brain from deterioration. Between fucking and eating and sleeping, Erland needs mental stimulation more than exercise.

Arnaghad, on the other hand, spends his hours in meditation and weapon-less drills, doing push-ups by the hundreds, handstands by the hours, pull-ups by the thousands. His massive body, in spite of the lethargy and sluggishness his form might suggest, needs constant movement. To prevent muscle atrophy and to keep himself alert and strong for whatever they have to face.

For now, what they have to face is endless isolation. Just the two of them, a slowly but steadily dwindling supply of dried meats and herbs, pickled vegetables and fruit, and barrels upon barrels of ale. Most of them brewed with the recipe Keldar perfected over decades of teaching young griffins to hold their alcohol alongside their swords.

Keldar.

Erland tries not to think of the old griffin master, especially tries not to think about how they found his body, a frozen statue before the crumpled gates of Kaer Seren, half-buried in snow by the time that Arnaghad and Erland fought their way to the keep. He’d survived the avalanche, had stayed at the school, and Erland had abandoned him. Him too.

Dear old Keldar, dutiful to his last moments. It was what every griffin would have done, every one except for Erland it seemed.

“Birdie,” Arnaghad says, tapping the side of Erland’s skull where his griffin tattoo decorates his shaved skin. They walk side by side, down the endless winding corridors of Kaer Seren’s basement system towards the centre where the heat is the most intense. It’s also where they set up their meagre bedroll, a heap of old linens with Erland’s quilt and Arnaghad’s bearskin on top. “You’re getting lost in your thoughts again.”

“What were you saying?” Erland asks and pushes open the door to their bedroom. Slap, slap, go Arnaghad’s feet as he enters while Erland’s follows after him. He wears both their socks, still more prone to the cold even down here.

“Nothing,” Arnaghad says. He stops in the middle of their room – all grey brick cast in flame from the torches Erland managed to keep perpetually burning. It’s a trick he perfected back when the signs where first developed where he can attach the power of a sign to an object. So, he tethered an Igni to each of the torches, and he did not tell Arnaghad that this constantly pulls on his own energy. The bear would worry and call that too a waste of resources. But Erland would rather be tired by firelight than wide-awake in perpetual darkness, calculating in his head the days that remain to them. “Come here, you look fatigued.”

Erland catches Arnaghad’s steady gaze, darkened by his heavy brow and chiselled face, a small smile tugging on his oh so stoic lips. His hair is neatly bound at the base of his skull, two ceremonial mini-braids framing his cheeks to either side. He wears naught but a simple set of beige linen clothes these days, linens that tug and pull at his bulging muscles. He’s more than a brick wall, he’s as unmoving as the very ground they stand on. Arnaghad cannot be taken apart with brute force, it takes more subtler means of attack to undo him. Erland knows them all intimately and perhaps that is exactly why Arnaghad opens his arms to him then. Erland sighs. He has the rest of Radovid III’s reign to chronicle and his stomach is still on fast-mode. The only reason he came here in the first place was… to… Erland sneezes and the torches flicker. He knows when he’s defeated.

“I am tired,” he admits and crosses the distance between them. If ever there is such a space, unbridgeable at times, invisible at others, it is because Erland put it there. Not intentionally and not always happily, but if things went Arnaghad’s way, they would be close always. The man that envelops Erland in a tight hug has a constant hunger for touch and affection, and Erland has trouble having that piece slide into the greater mosaic he has constructed of his lover over the past centuries.

‘You’re getting old and sappy,’ Erland said to him once, three orgasms into the night and Arnaghad still insisted on holding him close. ‘Sappy and cuddly. I do not recognize you.’

‘Nor I myself,’ Arnaghad replied. If they were other people they might have attributed it to love, how it had overcome everything, how, here at the end of all things, it was them against the apocalypse. How they needed to hold onto each other for there was nothing else to hold onto. But Erland is an idealist, not a romantic, and Arnaghad a pragmatist, not an intellectual, and so that was where the conversation died then.

“You should rest more,” Arnaghad says.

“What a waste of time,” Erland replies and rises to the tips of his toes, uses Arnaghad’s bull neck for purchase to pull himself up. They’re barely eye to eye, but that doesn’t matter when he can finally tilt his head and kiss the tiny frown from Arnaghad’s face. It’s a matter of last resort as well as personal pleasure. Erland is in no mood to argue about his newfound hobby and he does want. Wants so much, so deeply it aches to the core of his bones. They’re still working through their differences – and that, he suspects, will take longer than any written history might – but with each day, Erland can allow himself a little more. He can allow himself to slot their lips together and push his tongue deeply into Arnaghad’s mouth, can allow himself to melt into his bear’s arms and let his rumbling groan rattle his skeleton. Erland smiles at the zealous manner in which Arnaghad’s whole body responds to the kiss. His hands, splayed across Erland’s shoulder blades, tighten, his cock stirs when Erland licks and sucks and adds a moan of his own, his shoulders rise. He’s so passionate, has so much to give, something that Erland has trouble keeping up with.

If half of this witcher had been the one leading the bear school, where could it have climbed to? What could it have accomplished if the abysses between its members hadn’t been quite so gaping? Erland tries not to wonder, tries not to rewrite the course of time in endless thought spirals, but it’s so hard. It’s another reason why he has to focus on the actual past. Because if he doesn’t remind himself that it is set in stone, if he doesn’t capture it with his own words, he starts to trail down the paths of forgotten ‘what ifs’, of unforgettable ‘what ifs’, of the ‘what ifs’ that are neither forgotten nor unforgettable, that are too daring to even consider. Erland loses himself in thought and it is then perhaps a blessing that he can lose himself in Arnaghad’s embrace instead.

“Do you think we could have dinner tonight?” Arnaghad asks after they part, even though he knows the answer. It’s worrying, a true sign that not even Arnaghad has an endless reservoir of energy. His hunger is much more vicious than Erland’s and it’s getting harder and harder for him to wait the intervals they settled on in order to stretch the food as long as they can. Usually, he doesn’t ask. Usually, his voice doesn’t sound so small. Fuck. It’s heart-breaking.

“Not yet, big bear, I’m sorry,” Erland sighs and noses along Arnaghad’s jaw, then sinks back down to his feet and presses his face into the crook of his neck. Wraps his arms around Arnaghad’s middle. Is proud when he doesn’t do the mental math right then and there. No, he won’t torment himself and he won’t succumb to the slight growl Arnaghad gives. Whether it’s from his throat or his stomach doesn’t really matter. The sound pierces Erland’s armour, but it doesn’t shatter. He’s still strong. Can still be strong. “Do you want me to distract you?”

“Ah, birdie, didn’t we just talk about how you’re tired?”

“I’d make a joke about being hungry myself,” Erland mutters, then licks over Arnaghad’s pulse point insistently. “But last I checked, your sense of humour is still as barren as the Korath desert.”

Arnaghad chuckles and the motion slightly shakes Erland where he rests against the bear’s chest. He lets his hand slide down to gingerly palm across Arnaghad’s half-hard cock and it rises to the touch, firms up. He closes his eyes and sucks on his own bottom lip. So easy to please.

“Says the man who thinks fun is a torture device,” Arnaghad retorts on a sigh and as such, it lacks an edge. Erland deftly plucks at the fastenings of the linen trousers and slips his hand into them. Arnaghad’s flesh is hot and solid, too big to wrap his fingers around.

“Alas,” Erland murmurs against the skin of Arnaghad’s neck, cranes his own to nibble on the bear’s jawbone, tracing it with his tongue. “My hand is tried from writing all morning.”

“All day more like,” Arnaghad grumbles.

“Even worse. It’s of no use now.” And with that, he gently guides Arnaghad to the corner where their makeshift bed is, bids him to sit down and takes his own place in Arnaghad’s lap with his belly pressed to the warm floor. Propped up on his elbows, Erland peers up at Arnaghad. From this low, the man seems taller than a mountain, his eyes far away, half-lidded and hazy and Erland smiles. He is tired, yes, so very tired, and that means he is sloppy. Sloppy as he descends over the head of Arnaghad’s massive cock which tastes salty and musky and he laps it all up he goes with lazy drags of his tongue. His lips are loose and his hands looser as they fondle Arnaghad’s cock at the base, toy with his balls.

Before long, spit leaks out of the corners of his mouth and runs down Arnaghad’s length and the low moans of the bear thunder through the hall, echo off the walls, loud enough to raise the dead, Erland thinks sometimes. He wishes he could revive his brothers and sons by cock-sucking alone, but the world has never been that simple. And it won’t ever be now. But if he can give Arnaghad pleasure and himself something to get distracted by then that should be enough.

Erland gets drunk on Arnaghad’s cock, chokes on it as he ruts into the floor without shame. They come within seconds of each other and Erland drinks up what he can, lets the rest spill over Arnaghad’s lap, then cleans that with his tongue too. After, he falls asleep there, curled into a ball in Arnaghad’s lap and it is enough. For now.

[xtruss]

Alina Surquislla Gomez cradles a baby alpaca. Her family has worked with alpacas for three generations and has witnessed the impacts of climate change in Peru on the herds, from unpredictable rainy seasons to pastures drying up.

The High-altitude Quest To Save Alpacas

The once-verdant mountain pastures where alpacas graze are drying out from climate change; scientists, herders, and activists are rallying to find solutions.

Saving alpacas: Herders and innovators are going to great lengths to save the alpaca of the Andean highlands, threatened from warmer temperatures, drying glaciers, increasing diseases, and shrinking grazing lands. The highland wool is softer than that of the lowland variety, and a team of Peruvian researchers is developing ways to help the alpacas adapt. They also are using 3,200 animals to preserve the genes of colored alpacas to make sure the colors do not disappear, team leader Oscar Cárdenas tells National Geographic.

— January 19, 2022

LAGUNILLAS, PERU — Rufino Quico remembers when his pastures turned green each November as spring rains arrived on the high Andean plain where his herd of 380 alpacas grazes.

Quico was born in Lagunillas and lives in the same adobe house as his forebears. His family has tended alpacas for generations, as far back as they can remember. Now 57, he is not sure his children will be able to follow in his footsteps—or even if his beloved hamlet, which stands at 14,000 feet above sea level and is home to 56 families of alpaca herders, will survive the coming decades as climate change remakes the landscape.

“Our pastures should have turned green, but look at them. They are yellow and of little use to our herd,” he said, as he gazed across the vast expanse of spring grasses withering under intense sun and crystal blue skies in the Puno region of southeastern Peru.

Climate change in the Andes has rewritten weather patterns in ways that have affected alpacas at every stage of life—from increasing mortality of newborns to shrinking grasslands where herds feed. Abrupt changes in precipitation, as well as ice melt as glaciers retreat, are wreaking havoc on both alpacas and the communities that raise them.

Left: A baby alpaca receives an injection of medicine during transhumance, a seasonal migration. Right: An alpaca that died the night before is kept by the non-governmental organization (NGO) Descosur for research.

The Peruvian highlands are not lush and historic records show that precipitation has never been plentiful. But it was enough to sustain alpacas. Alpacas give birth only in the first three months of the year, during the rainy season. Now, that once-reliable season, which moderates temperatures, has become erratic. Alpacas are very sensitive to cold, and brusque swings in temperatures, including cold snaps that have killed thousands of alpacas, are making herds vulnerable to illness and contributing to a higher death rate among newborn animals.

Rodolfo Marquina, head of Descosur, a nonprofit that works on economic development in southern Peru, said the climate changes “have impacts for all aspects of alpaca rearing.”

Complicating the situation is the retreat of glaciers, which is reducing stream flows that experts say have long supported the high meadows and wetlands during the long dry season between April and November. One hectare of thick marsh grasses, which grow all year, can easily host 25 alpacas, while one hectare of regular pasture is only enough for one animal to graze, says Oscar Cárdenas, who heads alpaca programs for the National Institute for Agrarian Innovation (INIA), a government research center.

“Glaciers are the foundation,” said Cárdenas. “If the marshes disappear, alpacas will disappear with them.”

Oscar Vilca, who is in charge of southern glaciers for Peru’s National Glacier and Mountain Ecosystem Research Institute, has been sounding warning bells for some time. According to the institute, Peru’s glacier coverage dropped from 926 square miles in 1962 to 430 square miles in 2016, the last year a national glacier inventory was conducted. It represents a 53 percent reduction in 54 years.

“Climate change is affecting the region’s hydrological potential,” he said. “This has an impact on alpacas and the people and communities that depend on them for their livelihoods.”

A Long History

Peru is home to about four million alpacas, more than 70 percent of the world’s alpaca population, according to the INIA. Neighboring Bolivia has the second largest population, which is less than 10 percent of the total. Australia, where alpacas were introduced in 1980, ranks third.

The alpaca was domesticated in Peru at least 6,000 years ago. The animal is a member of the camel family and appears sturdy, Cárdenas said, but throwing off even just one variable, such as a decline of nutrients in pasture grasses, can quickly decimate populations. In the 16th century, herds tended by the Inca were all but wiped out after the Spanish conquerors arrived in 1532. Slaughtered for food and exposed to fatal diseases—primarily mange carried to the Andes by sheep and goats imported by European settlers—Peru’s alpacas were nearly completely eliminated within a century. Alpaca populations began to expand around 1900, mainly as demand for alpaca fleece grew.

Left: A drone view of the city of Antabamba in the province of Apurimac. Antabamba is an important outlet for alpaca farmers to sell their products. Right: Due to the closure of Peruvian borders and travel restrictions during the pandemic, markets for handicrafts made from Alpaca fiber collapsed. Artisans like this one who sell crafts were most affected by the decline of tourists.

Cárdenas said the changing climate may not prompt such a mass die-off, but one immediate consequence could be a change in the animals’ coats, making the fleece less valuable. Two varieties of alpaca exist: huacaya, which is short-haired, and suri, which has long hair. Around 80 percent of alpacas in Peru are huacayas, with 12 percent suris, and the remaining number represented by cross-breeding with llamas and vicuñas, an undomesticated cousin in the camel family.

Peru’s alpaca herds produce around 7,600 tons of fleece yearly. Adults, which can weigh around 140 pounds, produce around 4.5 pounds of fleece annually. The fleece is categorized by color and quality. There are 22 shades of fleece, but white is the most common and the most sought after. Fleece is classified into seven texture categories, from super fine, which fetches the best price, to short and thick, which is discarded.

The fleece is used principally in garments, but also in blankets and household items. Peru earned approximately $121 million from alpaca exports in the first seven months of 2021, on par with exports from pre-pandemic 2019; the pandemic crashed the alpaca fleece industry in 2020. Exports go principally to China, Italy, and the United States.

Help is on the Way

In recent years, a variety of scientists, herders, and activists have begun testing solutions to bolster the survival of the alpacas, which in turn will help save the communities like Lagunillas that raise them. At the INIA’s Quimsachata Research and Production Center, headquartered in the Puno region, home to the largest genetic reserve of alpaca breeds, Cárdenas’ team is working on a genetics project. He is using approximately 3,200 animals to preserve the genes of colored alpacas to make sure the colors do not disappear. The center is also focused on developing methods to help alpacas adapt to rising temperatures at high elevations, and thrive at lower elevations.

“The climate is crazy—unstable—and this leads to numerous problems. In addition to nutritional problems caused by weaker pastures, we are dealing with parasitic issues because of climate change. We are seeing an increase in mange, lice, and chiggers at elevations where they did not exist before,” he said.

Left: An alpaca is sheared of its fleece. Right: During the rainy season jackets are placed on the alpacas to protect them from cold and frosty weather. Families that manage the herds move them to higher altitudes to prevent the alpacas from eating the grasses that grow further down the mountains, since the animals will need that pasture later in the year.

Alpacas can survive at lower elevations, which is how herds have expanded in places like Australia and the United States, but their coats grow coarse. The fleece can be used for hats and gloves, or blankets and rugs, but it cannot be spun into fine yarn for high-end garments. In warmer temperatures, alpacas also suffer from illnesses not present in highland areas, requiring expensive, hard-to-get medication that can affect fleece quality.

The INIA also has been working with communities to develop low-tech solutions, including constructing stalls that can shelter herds and growing hardier forage crops, such as clover, that can supplement diets during the dry season. The Agriculture Ministry in 2020 launched a three-year program to install 2,300 livestock stalls in high Andean communities.

Alpaca breeders are also working on solutions. Those with ample land are able to move herds in search of pastures for grazing. Alina Surquislla, 35, works with her extended family to manage 500 alpacas over a rugged chunk of land in the Apurimac region to the west of Puno. She and her family tend the herd at lower elevations, around 14,000 feet, during the rainy season, gradually moving them higher as the precipitation ends and pastures begin to yellow. She has herded alpacas as high as 17,000 feet to look for pastures. Her family has also drilled wells where they can find water.

Some alpaca breeding families must migrate their herds up and down the mountains four times a year as climate change makes it harder to find good food for the animals. Families can be displaced for up to three months during the seasonal movements.

In Lagunillas, Cristina Condori, 49, has depended on precipitation during the rainy season for her 200 alpacas. Now, Condori and her family have turned to pre-Columbian technology to build earthen canals to trap water in small reservoirs lined with plastic to keep water from seeping into the soil. They, too, have been drilling wells where they can.

“My family has been trying to find solutions, because this is our livelihood and it is what we have been doing for generations,” she said.

Traditionally, alpacas roam freely through the meadows. Now, Quico said, the community is building fences for the first time to better manage where herds graze to give pastures a chance to rejuvenate. Standing on the steps of the hamlet’s small padlocked church, he looked up at the exposed barren peaks in the distance, now free of their glacial ice.

“Climate change is alarming,” he said. “But we are doing what we can to adapt. We are constantly looking for the best solutions.”

[omgkalyppso]

Camelia

General Information Age: 37 Date of birth: March 29th Sign: Aries Race: Elf Relationship status: Married to Marie, dedicated to Boo and Mina, available Social status: Social Elite

Traits of Voice Accent: Mexican Languages spoken: Elvish, Orcish, Draconic, Undercommon, Common Style of speaking: Formal, giddy, staccato and sometimes hushed. Curses softly under breath when things go awry.

Physical Appearence Height: 5'11 or 180 cm Build: Noodly. Rectangular body shape. Fat on her belly, upper arms and thighs especially. Eye colour: Brown Skin colour: Dark brown Shape of face: Circular Distinguishing features: Lack of scars, some stretch marks. Delicate hands. Hair colour: Brown Hair style: Thick, lustrous. Neat and deliberate styles. Posture: Walks with good posture, stands with her legs crossed or on the sides of her feet. Nervous energy. Piercings: Left eyebrow, one per ear

Personality Traits: I feel tremendous empathy for all who suffer. I often get lost in my own thoughts and contemplations, becoming oblivious to my surroundings. Flaws: Because I would rather make a new friend than a new enemy I have a hard time standing up for myself. Education: A graduate of Goldenthorn University. Ideal: Community. It is the duty of all civilized people to strengthen the bonds of community and the security of civilization. Personal goals: To inspire the next generation of minds to invent and create and discover more community-conscious concepts than their forebears. General attitude: Passionate, defensive, generous. Willing to make mistakes and learn from them. Religious values: Believes in an elvish Creator Spirit who has aspects for different needs. Hobbies: Reading. Watching theatre and lectures.

Health Sleeping habits: Needs six hours a night at minimum. Can sleep twelve hours if the opportunity presents itself (it doesn't). Energy level: Middling. Does her work but flags after 1 PM. Eating habits: Can't stomach eating for the first few hours of wakefulness. Likes two meals a day, the level of health doesn't matter. Snacks occasionally. Memory: Excellent memory when called upon. Has difficulty remembering things unprompted (dates, deadlines, plans for the day).

History Birth country: Elanlune Hometown: Imladris Past places of residence: Goldenthorn Family: Mother (Freesia) was a professor of transmutation magic. Father (Gladiolus) was a professor of divination magic. Friends who are OCs: Clover Friends belonging to friends: THIS COULD BE YOU Briefly explain life story: After a thorough education in her youth, Cam decided that she did want to follow in her parents footsteps, but didn't want to pursue her higher education where they were teaching. Fearfully, she travelled abroad and completed her education in Southern Rose. She was relieved to return home, even though her education wouldn't be sufficient to get her work at her preferred university with her parents still teaching. She worked as nursemaid and a language and etiquette tutor to young nobles for a time, and was working in the right area of town to meet Mina. They started a shy romance that grew into a strong partnership. They happily parent a child named Dahlia, now ten years old. They met and helped Borgakh during (events of cancelled dnd campaign), and were happy to open their home to her when she sought a new place to settle. She shared about her failed romance, and it seemed obvious that she should leave this in the past. It was thrilling to help her do so. Divination research doesn't always happen at the university, and while Borgakh was inconveniently out of country, Cam hired Mina as protection for an expedition. Their relationship slowly evolved also.

Combat Class: Wizard Style of fighting: divination magic Skills (dnd lvl 1): Arcana, History, Investigation, Religion, Perception

-

Template I messed with for this character profile: HERE.

[shelbyshoe]

Fairies After Dark

Chapter 3

Natsu, a Horde vampire, desires nothing more than to find his father and leave his brother behind. Lucy, an immortal Valkyrie, just needs to get this Horde bounty off her head. Doesn’t help the assassin after her is a gorgeous vampire with cherry pink hair.

Rated: M (sexual content, violence, and harsh language)

Words: 6123

FF.net link here.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

NALU set in the Immortals After Dark universe by Kresley Cole. I highly recommend the book series. Check out the wiki for more information. Not required to understand the story, but recommended as the universe is fantastic. Hope you enjoy!

Do you know what the Valkyrie do for sport…? We kill leeches, rip their fangs from their skulls, and hang them on the wall for decoration.

-   Lucy Heartfilia (AKA Lucy the Celestial Valkyrie)

Did the guy you ate have black hair? Blue eyes? A stupid face? Runs around naked?

-   Natsu Dragneel (AKA Natsu the Salamander)

“No, absolutely not,” Lucy said. Erza stood before her with hands on her hips. The women stood between the door to the dungeon and the stairs to the rest of the coven house. The darkness of the basement gave Lucy the chills. The only light came from old exposed bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Levy closed the door to the dungeon and stood beside Lucy.

     “I have a barrier placed on the dungeon. No one traces out or in,” she said. While Lucy felt dread, the witch practically bounced on her heels with excitement.

     “Why? We can’t let them think we’re going to go soft on them,” Erza continued.

     “What’s the problem?” Levy asked.

     “Erza wants to torture them a bit, but Lucy says no violence.” Cana pointed between the two and leaned against the basement wall. Lucy found it suspicious how little Cana had intervened in all this.

     “I’m beginning to think you feel something for that vampire.” Erza’s eyes narrowed and Cana shot her a wink. Juvia’s footsteps cut through their conversation. The little witch bounded down the stairs with a slip of paper in her hands.

     “I believe I got everything for the warding spell, Miss Lucy.” Her eyes scrolling through the list.

     “Lucy!” Natsu’s voice rang out in the cold basement. Lucy’s heart hammered in her chest at the sound of her name shouted in the darkness.

     “Fine, we can just talk to him. But if he tries to hold back form me, I will use violence.” She pushed through the dungeon door, and Lucy trailed behind her. The mystical barrier was so thick that she could feel it pass over her skin.

     “Lucy!” Natsu called.

     “Will you shut up? I’m here,” Lucy said. The temperature had dropped substantially since they entered the room. A clang of bars came from one of the cells. Each one reminded her of ancient times with archaic cells that held no bathroom or cot. Just metal bars, a cement floor, and a corner bucket.

     “Isn’t it great?” Levy said, “I wanted it to look like one of those renaissance festivals the humans like.”

     “Levy, this is barbaric.”

     “I know, right? So aesthetically pleasing.” Why was Levy her friend again? The whole dungeon gave her the creeps. At least the dungeon at Val Hall was modern. They found Natsu pressed against the bars at the farthest cell from the door. His fingers gripped around the enchanted metal with a scowl plastered on his face. Gajeel sat in the corner of the same cell—far away from the single bucket. His eyes closed as though he slept.

     “What is this about a warding spell?” Natsu’s attention fixed on Lucy.

     “We have some questions for you.” Erza stood straighter with her arms crossed over her chest.

     “Are you trying to keep me away from you?” Natsu ignored Erza even when she moved to break his line of sight.

     “I am.” She had no reason to lie about it since she never promised him forever. His brows came together, and he pulled away from the bars.

     “Did I do something wrong?” he asked. The question echoed from the night before. When she pulled away from him in the alley, he had asked her the same. Her heart squeezed in her chest at his downtrodden expression. Erza banged on the bars with her dagger.

     “Hey! Eyes over here and answer me or I’ll gut you both,” Erza said. The dagger had manifested from the air with a natural grace that named her, Erza “Titania” the Fairy Queen. Natsu’s scowl resurfaced—his attention on Erza. Gajeel’s eyes opened to focus on the knife in her hands. “What has your brother done with Mavis?” She threw the question at the vampires. Natsu’s jaw tensed and hands curled into fists.

     “I need to speak to Lucy. Alone.” Natsu stood nearly touching the blade. The fearlessness in his demand not lost on Lucy.

     “Answer my question, and I’ll allow it.”

     “Allow it? I will speak to Lucy, and then you’ll ask your question.” No one spoke to Erza this way and lived. Her pulse quickened in her throat. Gajeel had one hand on the ground as if ready to stand. A soft red haze shimmered across his vision. If they fought, would Natsu win? Would Erza kill him? How enchanted was Levy’s new basement dungeon? A chill ran through her spine. What could she do?

     “I’ll talk to him, Erza.” Lucy stepped beside her. Erza rooted in place—a glare fixed to her face. “Can’t you trust me?”

     “There was never a time, Lucy, that I didn’t trust you with my life.” Erza frowned and turned to the door. Lucy got what she wanted. No one would be killing anyone, and yet she felt unsatisfied. Cana patted her on the back.

     “Have fun.” She looped her arm around Levy’s and pulled her to the door. Juvia followed behind and waved to Lucy on her way out. She waited until the door clicked shut.

     “Why are you here?” she asked.

     “Shouldn’t brides be nicer?” Gajeel said.

     “Be quiet,” both replied in unison. Gajeel grinned and adjusted himself on the cement floor.

     “Why are you using a warding spell?” Natsu asked.

     “Oh, come on. You’re a Horde vampire and your brother is the king. There is no way this is working out for either of us.” Lucy wrapped her arms around her as Natsu leaned into the bars.

     “She’s got you there,” Gajeel added.

     “Now, why are you here, Natsu?” Lucy said.

     “You killed Rufus the Minstrel.”

     “You don’t sound surprised.” While she wanted to gloat about the kill, she had to admit the Minstrel was strong. The leech nearly ripped her arm off.

     “Why would I be?” Natsu let out a heavy sigh and his shoulders drooped noticeably. “I came here to figure out how I could keep you safe from them. I’m only in the Horde for the protection. Can’t run alone in the Lore. My allegiances were never with Zeref, and he’s no brother to me.”

     “How am I supposed to believe that?”

     “Born vampires can’t lie.” Gajeel picked at his cuticles with a kunai he’d produced. Lucy made a mental note of his power.

     “Even if that’s true, I don’t need protection,” Lucy said. Gajeel chuckled and moved to the other hand.

     “Not even I can defend myself from the entire Horde, Lucy. They want the one who murdered him dead,” Natsu said. Lucy was no fragile maiden requiring protection. Her powers, while not as strong as the others, were nothing to underestimate. Thunder rumbled outside.

     “Do you know what the Valkyrie do for sport, Natsu?” Lucy stepped closer to the bars. His eyes roamed her curves and darkened. “We kill leeches, rip their fangs from their skulls, and hang them on the wall for decoration.”

     “Sounds like fun,” Natsu said. From what little they’d spoken, Lucy found it unsurprising to hear him take what she said as a challenge rather than a threat.

     “If you don’t stop coming after me, talking about protection as if I’m a lamb at the slaughter instead of an immortal Valkyrie, I will have to play that sport with you too.” She turned from the bars and walked out of the dungeon. The door slammed behind her, and her pulse raced. Surely it was anger and not the way he looked at her that made her blood burn.

♥♥♥

     “I like her,” Gajeel said.

     “What’s not to like?” Natsu slid down to the floor with his legs crossed.

     “Do you know where their Valk is?” Gajeel’s voice held no accusations and he leaned toward Natsu waiting for his reply.

     “No. Zeref may have done it and told no one. Could possibly be the work of the old king.”

     “So, what happens when they find out we have no information for them?”

     “Lucy won’t let them do anything to us.” Natsu propped his chin in his palm. Why would they think he had information? They must believe he and Zeref were close enough to exchange that kind of information. Would explain the way Lucy felt about him. The idea that Zeref could impair the way his bride saw him made him indignant.

     “You mean she won’t let them do anything to you! What about me? Also, I don’t know if you heard her correctly, but these women want us dismembered and thrown to the wolves.”

     “The blue one likes you; you’ll be fine.” He waved his hand in dismissal and racked his brain for any clues of a captured Valkyrie. When Zeref took the throne, they met with Erza. They hadn’t fought about anything then, and she wouldn’t have agreed to the truce had the former king or Zeref taken Mavis. She either didn’t know about the capture then, or Mavis wasn’t missing yet. Was the Valkyrie taken by someone else? “Were you around for the last Accession war?” Gajeel’s brows furrowed, his gaze going red, investigating memories.

     “I have some memories from that time, but I’m not sure which ones were mine.” Gajeel tilted his head with an unfocused stare into the dungeon.

     “Anything about the Valkyrie?” The more Natsu thought, the more he believed Zeref had something to do with the Valkyrie’s disappearance. His secrets ran deep, and the Valkyrie already deduced that he had.

     “No, but I did kill a Forebearer that seems to have been in the war.” Gajeel grimaced and his eyes dropped back to Natsu, clearing in the process. “I can’t tell shit from these memories.”

     “Did the guy you ate have black hair? Blue eyes? A stupid face? Runs around naked?” Part of him hoped Gray was dead. Annoying bastard. The other part wanted him alive. He could call him there and ask if he knew about their Valkyrie. Maybe if he sent Erza to Gray, she could kill him and allow Natsu some time alone with Lucy. Two birds.

     “Nah, some light-haired guy I had to kill on a bounty.” This was perfect. The door to the dungeon clicked open and slammed shut behind someone. Their footfalls clicking against the cement floor.

     “Okay, you had your time,” Erza said. The armor she wore was an iridescent color that hurt his eyes if he looked at it for too long.

     “A little overdressed, aren’t we?” Natsu asked from the floor. Gajeel laughed through his nose. A spear manifested in Erza’s grasp.

     “Does your king know what happened to Mavis the Fairy Tactician?” Her eyes flickered the silver of her race. A rumble of thunder cut through the basement walls.

     “Wow. With a tagline like that, I can understand why someone would want her,” Gajeel said. With one fluid movement, Erza lunged forward and cut into Gajeel’s cheek with her spear. His eyes turned a deep crimson and blood dripped from the cut. Natsu instinctively reached his arm out and pressed it over Gajeel’s chest to keep him from standing. If he decided to attack Erza, Natsu wasn’t sure he could hold him back.

     “This is the first time I’ve heard her name,” Natsu said, “If I recall, the Horde was not the only vampire group in that war.” Erza’s lips pressed into a thin line.

     “You expect me to believe some human-turned-leech could capture and hold the queen of the Valkyrie?”

     “That I can’t say, but lucky for you I know one personally and we can just ask them.” He had to speak carefully. While he hadn’t seen her in battle, he surmised that this Valkyrie had enough kills on her belt to prove that she could easily rip their spines out of their throats.

     “Who?”

     “Gray Fullbuster, the Forebearer’s general,” Natsu said. Gajeel pushed his arm from his chest and didn’t bother to wipe the blood from his cheek.

     “How would you know a Forebearer?” Erza adjusted the spear to point through the bars at his face. Her muscles bunched in her arms, ready to plunge the weapon into his skull.

     “Let’s get this out of the way,” Natsu said, “I have no allegiance to anyone, especially not Zeref. In fact, go ahead and kill him for all I care. My biggest concern now is Lucy’s safety.” Her grip loosened on the spear.

     “How am I supposed to believe you?” she asked.

     “Born vampires can’t lie. Why does no one know this?” Gajeel said. Erza’s brows came together, but she didn’t question it.

     “Where does this general come into the picture?” Erza asked.

     “Before I joined the crusty Horde, I traveled with him. We were together a few centuries. I didn’t join the Horde until Zeref took the throne.” The spear lowered from his face and she set the end down on the floor with a clink.

     “How can we contact him?” she asked.

     “Why not just summon the bastard?” Gajeel’s grin was wide and menacing. The image of Gray popping into a witch’s coven and being manhandled sat well with Natsu.

     “Sure, why not?” Natsu shrugged and leaned against the back wall. “We have enough room in here.”

     “Oh no, we are separating you two.”

     “What? Why?” Gajeel asked.

     “I’d like to remind you that I don’t trust either of you.” The spear disappeared, but the threat remained. “I’ll have someone here to escort you to a new cell.” Erza clinked and clanked all the way to the dungeon door.

     “What’s with the armor?” Natsu said.

     “Beats me. Why are you allowing these women to boss you around? Last I checked you didn’t let anyone tie you down.” How could he explain how important Lucy felt to him?

     “I chose to come here.”

     “So? They’re still running the show. Not much freedom here.” He gestured toward the bared cells.

     “Freedom is about choices, and I chose Lucy.”

     “Didn’t fate do that?”

     “What can I say? Fate has good taste in women.” Footsteps came down the basement stairs.

     “Hey, before they separate us, I have to ask you something,” Gajeel said, “How did you know the bunny was your bride?” The question sounded so genuine that Natsu didn’t know how to respond.

     “Um, she blooded me. Has no one taught you the vampire birds and bees?”

     “I’m not fucking around.” Gajeel’s eyes flashed. “Before that. How did you know she was your bride?” Her heartbeat had reverberated against his chest like the music that shook the walls that night. His mind swam with it. Even now, he could faintly hear it through the witch’s thick barrier. A siren song for him alone. When she left the dungeon, her absence could have driven him mad if he let it. What had intrigued him about her that night?

     “At first, it was her heartbeat.” Natsu turned to the man beside him in earnest. Gajeel focused on him as though he were giving him the directions to the holy grail. “It was so loud; I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t get it out of my head. But it was her touch that confirmed it.” The door opened and made Gajeel jump. The woman who stood before them this time was the Valkyrie with long brown hair.

     “Hello, boys. I’m Cana and I’ll be your escort today. I’ve been instructed to bring this one to the first cell.” She pointed to Gajeel with her long black painted claw.

♥♥♥

     “Lucy, if you don’t stop shaking your leg and making the floor creak, I’m going to throw you out.” Levy sat on the living room floor. The couch moved back so that they could create a summoning circle. Lucy ceased the nervous habit and laid with her head back on the sofa cushions.

     “I’m stressed,” she said.

     “I would be too, if the guy I slept was the prince of the Horde.”

     “We didn’t sleep together!” Lucy straightened; her legs tucked beneath her. Levy merely hummed to herself as she drew the circle out in salt. “We didn’t!”

     “Look, I wouldn’t even blame you if you did. It’s the Valkyrie who have a problem with vampires, not me.”

     “Why is that?”

     “You all are on a crusade. We are mercenaries doing business with the highest bidder.” Her fingers worked in a little bowl to stir a paste made of herbs. With easy strokes, she drew sigils on the wood floor. “Once you get all your stuff sorted out with your vamp, I’ll be having a nice chat with his friend.”

     “You really are thirsty.” Lucy saw the back porch from a window in the living room. The backyard was lush and green with plant life. Farther off were rocks that stood proud against the crashing sea. Erza leaned against the banister with her face toward the horizon. Since she emerged from the basement, she appeared out of focus. How long had she waited for a sign of Mavis?

     “I wouldn’t worry too much about her.” Cana closed the basement door and sauntered to the couch.

     “What if we find out Mavis is dead?” Lucy asked. Cana shrugged and plopped down beside her.

     “I don’t know, my love.”

     “Why do I not believe that?” The soothsayer was not like a full blood vampire. She could lie. Kooky Cana knew exactly what she was saying. Cana’s plans and pace of time a mystery to all. “I’m sure you already know where Mavis is.” Cana leaned her head against Lucy’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

     “That should do it.” Levy stood from her spot in the center of her salt circle.

     “Juvia has candles.” Juvia stood beside her with arms full of fresh white candles.

     “Draw the sigils on those, and I’ll grab the book of shadows.” Levy bounded from the living room, a fresh pep in her step.

     “At least someone is happy about all this,” Lucy said.

     “Is Miss Lucy worried about her vampire?” Juvia asked. She held a small pocketknife and carved each candle. Watching the process felt soothing.

     “My vampire? Not really. If he complies with us, nothing should happen to him,” Lucy said. Cana laughed and sat up from her shoulder.

     “You really think Erza won’t want to add his fangs to her collection?” she said.

     “Not if I tell her not to.”

     “And they call me kooky.” Cana shook her head and glanced at Erza from the window. “That woman out there will do anything for Mavis.”

     “Why?” Juvia asked. Her hands froze over the half-carved sigil.

     “She believes it was her fault that Mavis disappeared.” For once, Cana didn’t deny what she already knew. This was the first time Lucy heard this about Erza. No one gave the details on Mavis’s disappearance.

     “Well, that’s obviously not true,” Lucy said.

     “She’ll learn that eventually.” Cana regarded Lucy, and Juvia continued to carve. “Your man is all alone down there. You sure you have nothing else to say to him?” she asked.

     “I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that you just called him “my man,” or that you are goading me to speak to him. What do you get out of it if I do speak to him?” Lucy said. Cana placed a hand over her heart in her false offense.

     “Why would you believe I had an ulterior motive? I just want to see you happy, and I believe he would do that for you.” Lucy couldn’t help the spike in her heartbeat. Had Cana seen something? Was Natsu in her future? Why did that idea excite her? Impossible. Leeches and Valkyrie don’t go together. She’d be a laughingstock that no one would take seriously. Erza would kick her out of Val Hall. Yet her thoughts betrayed her. His hands against her inner thighs spreading them for better access occupied her. His darkened eyes gazing across her skin as if she were his salvation. “Did I do something wrong?” he had asked. Gods no. He had done absolutely nothing wrong, except exist. Cana stood from the sofa and moved to the dining room. The back door opened and closed behind her. Erza didn’t even look up when Cana stood beside her. Cana may not have an ulterior motive. Lucy leaned back into the sofa and allowed her a reprieve to fantasize about the vampire in her friend’s basement. She thought about how he stood up against Erza, his eyes darkening with malice. He was so sure of himself, so ready to take her on to get to Lucy. His appearance was almost as hot as his image in the living book of Lore. She pictured that muscular body over her, his lips hovered over her skin, their bodies merged in heated bliss.

     “Lucy!” Natsu’s voice cut through the house like a knife. Lucy startled in her spot on the couch. Everyone, including the two women on the porch, turned to her. Her cheeks warmed under their gazes. She convinced herself that she was angry and not embarrassed.

     “I’ll deal with it.” Lucy stood and waved to the room to continue whatever they were doing. She gave the two outside a thumbs up to set them at ease and dashed toward his voice.

     “Lucy Heartfilia!” he called. Lucy cringed at her full name. Why had she given him her full name? Her pace quickened down the basement stairs.

     “You are the loudest person I have ever met in my life!” she said.

     “Can we stop all the screaming?” Gajeel asked from the first cell by the door. She watched him produce two metal earplugs and shove them into his ears. “Wake me when all the screaming is over,” he said. His voice louder in his lack of hearing. He laid on the floor and turned toward the wall. Lucy stomped to the farthest cell and found Natsu against the bars. His eyes the dark black of high emotion.

     “You are the most—” she began.

     “I could hear your heartbeat speed up from down here,” he groaned, “I can scent you.” His eyes squeezed shut as if to shut something out.

     “Sorry to bother you then.” She turned to leave. If all he wanted was to complain about her heartbeat, then he could sit in the basement and rot. She’d ask Levy to soundproof the dungeon better. His arm reached out between the bars and grabbed her arm.

     “You weren’t doing anything by yourself, were you?” His voice dipped low. Lucy glanced at the farthest cell. She could still see Gajeel lying on the floor with his metal earplugs. Natsu gently took her chin between his thumb and forefinger turning her to face him. The darkness in his gaze remained, his lids heavier than before. Did he mean what she thought he meant?

     “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

     “You’re my bride, and your body is screaming at me.” His hand lightly grazed her jaw and moved down to her décolletage. Her eyes slid closed. A heat snaked down her body from his fingertips. She opened her eyes to watch his eyes fix to her mouth. His grasp loosened on her arm and slid down her hip. Her sex tightened in anticipation, her jaw going slack when he undid her shorts and slid his fingers into her panties. Fuck. Natsu grinned and his fangs lengthened in his mouth. Lucy pressed her body against the bars. Her need built as it had before. His mouth covered hers between the bars, taking in her gasp as his digits slid between her folds. Her legs were rubber and she grabbed the bars on either side of her to keep herself standing. His mouth set her ablaze, her body grind against his hand, and she only wanted more. Hotter. She needed to burn up in him. His thumb stroked her sensitive clit, and his mouth took her in a frenzy. She felt his fang glide against her tongue first. The split second of pain set in after, but it was the pleasure that overtook her. He slid his other hand behind her head, fingers in her hair, and pressed her lips harder against his. The copper taste of her own blood saturated her mouth. She felt his moan against her skin. His body pressed so tight. Her climax hit her like a freight train, her body not getting enough of the feeling, like no other experience before. Is this how intense it would always be with Natsu? His fingers worked inside her, stroking her favorite places, riding her out of her euphoria. Their kisses slowed—taking time to taste each other. Her eyes snapped open and she wrenched herself from his grasp. She had one of her hands around the opening of her shorts and the other against her lips. The copper flavor still provided her mouth. She was close to loathing but the look of Natsu, fucked out against the bars, stamped out the feeling. He had slumped against them with a dazed grin. His eyes still black as ink and cheeks flushed from taking her blood. The look was unsettling, but her body still begged for more. She felt out of control, and it scared her. She closed her shorts and wiped her mouth.

     “The circle is ready!” Cana’s cheerful voice sounded passed the dungeon door that Lucy hadn’t heard open.

     “I’ll bring him up!” Lucy didn’t recognize her own voice. The door clicked closed and Natsu stood straighter and adjusted his pants.

     “How could you possibly want to keep us apart?” His voice was husky and delicious. She swallowed to rid her mouth of the taste of blood. Just like the battlefield, a mouth full of blood, chaotic, and wrong.

     “How could I possibly not? You took my blood, Natsu. You didn’t even ask. The idea of it is revolting.”

     “First, it was an accident. Second, it didn’t feel like you found it revolting.” Any attraction she had felt dissipated. The rage boiled to the surface.

     “I can’t stand you.”

     “Why? Because I’m a vampire? Lucy, if that’s the only reason why you deny us, I think I can live with that.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “If anything, it proves to me that we’re perfect. Fate picked us and I happen to agree with its decision. If it was my personality or something about the way I’ve treated you that you hated, I’d happily step away. But the only thing standing in my way is your feeling towards all vampires as if I’m just like every other leech you’ve ever met. That, Lucy, I can change your mind on.” The dark green of his eyes returned, clear and bright. “Let’s go summon a Forebearer, shall we?”

♥♥♥

     If what Lucy had to say was an attempt to scare Natsu away, it didn’t work. In fact, he felt a pep in his step as she roughly escorted him to the living room. He’d barely contained himself down in the basement. The feeling of her coming apart in his hands sang like a song on repeat. Nothing could kill his mood now.

     “You look happy,” Erza said. Lucy tossed him to the floor. Magical cuffs linked his wrists together behind his back.

     “I really am,” he said. Lucy scowled at him and moved to a chair by the extinguished fireplace. Smart witches already knew he could manipulate fire. Not like the cuffs would allow him to do so.

     “Let’s just get this over with, Levy,” Lucy said. The blue-haired witch frowned. The book in her hands appeared older than every immortal in the room. He couldn’t tell what kind of skin made the leather of the cover. Pages stuck out from the binding, other objects like feathers and bones marked other pages. Two of the witches stood at the edge of the salt circle. One held a white candle covered in carved runes and sigils that matched the ones at their feet. They illuminated in the wax when the witches chanted in a language Natsu had never heard. The energy swirled throughout the room and seemed to pull to the middle of the circle. Levy, with tome in hand, glowed in ethereal light. Her hair hovered over her shoulders in a wind that no one else could feel. Witches were scary.

     “I call to you,” Levy said. As if the man had traced there himself, Gray Fullbuster appeared in the center of the circle with a look of horror and bewilderment across his face. Erza manifested her spear and pointed it toward the man’s chest. His cool blue eyes scanned the room and fell on Natsu, on the floor with hands behind his back.

     “What the fuck have you done now?” Gray said.

     “Nice to see you too, Gray.”

     “It appears you two actually know each other,” Erza said.

     “Unfortunately,” Natsu said. Gray shot him a dirty look and a rude hand gesture. Erza rolled her eyes.

     “You were a part of the last Accession war?” she asked. Gray shook his head and took in the rest of the room. Knowing the Forebearer, he was coming up with an escape plan. Poor bastard. Instead of glaring at Natsu, he continued to eye the witch hiding behind her lit white candle.

     “Natsu, what the hell is this all about? You know we were traveling through most of the Accession.”

     “They’re looking for a Valkyrie named Mavis the Fairy Tactician. Ring a bell?” Natsu asked.

     “Jellal spoke of her once when I joined their ranks at the end of the war. You remember, Natsu, that time you decided to join the Horde.” Gray seethed at him. His hands held securely at his side wrapped into fists. The room turned to Natsu in the vicious way it did when everyone thought you were scum.

     “Let’s not forget, Gray, that you were once a human who agreed to convert to vampirism. I just had the misfortune of being born the way I am.” This time, heads shot to the vampire held helpless in a summoning circle.

     “Enough.” Erza’s word held power behind it that doused the room in silence.

     “If you don’t have information for me, who does? Who is Jellal?” Erza pointed the tip of her spear at Gray’s heart. He stood unflinching as the blade pressed against the fabric of his white coat.

     “If you are asking me to betray those closest to me, then you can just kill me here.”

     “Oh, please.” Natsu adjusted himself on the floor, so the cuffs didn’t dig into his skin. “Always so noble and shit. Just tell them Jellal is the leader of the Forebearers.” Natsu sat on the couch behind him and wiggled with impatience. After the delicious taste of Lucy, he wanted to feed. Gray was just slowing everything down. His blue eyes blackened in rage. Whatever. Natsu would deal with it later.

     “The leader?” Erza said.

     “You bastard,” Gray said.

     “Where can we find Jellal?” Lucy stood from the chair and paced at the window. Just as antsy as he was. Natsu saw a glimpse of what taking her blood could be like. There was nothing like his bride against his lips. He wasn’t sure if he could take anyone else and pictured Lucy falling apart in his arms again. As if reading his mind, she glanced in his direction.

     “Like I’m going to tell you that.” Gray sneered at Lucy and glanced between them.

     “You will tell me where Jellal is.” Erza flicked the spear up and ripped his coat along with the shirt beneath. A trickle of blood ran down his exposed chest. Juvia made a small sound and dropped the candle. Levy held out a hand just in time to write levitate in the air around the wax. The witch sighed.

     “Can someone stand here and take this?” Levy said. Juvia shrank under her gaze and rushed out of the room. Gray’s dark gaze followed her all the way up the stairs. Interesting. Lucy clutched the candle and took Juvia’s place.

     “Gray, they just want to ask about the Valkyrie. They’re not going to invade.” Natsu crossed his legs on the couch.

     “I don’t know them. It would be a betrayal,” Gray said.

     “Erza, why doesn’t Gray go ask him and return here?” Natsu said.

     “Shut it,” Erza replied, “You aren’t running this show, leech.”

     “What makes you think he’ll ask him and just run back to us with information?” Lucy asked.

     “One, you can just summon him back and kill him if he doesn’t do as you ask. Two, I’ll go with him to make sure the task is done,” Natsu said. The room went into an uproar. Gray yapped about spending time with Natsu. Erza shook her head and insisted that she couldn’t trust them. Natsu could barely hear Lucy over the noise, but he swore she insulted him.

     “I agree with him,” Cana said next to him on the couch. Her presence was so muted that Natsu hadn’t noticed her there. The chaos ceased.

     “What? You can’t possibly believe this vampire?” Erza said.

     “I have to agree with Erza on this,” Lucy said.

     “I also agree. I’m not going to travel around with this asshole again,” Gray added. Erza glared at him.

     “Lucky for us, you don’t make decisions here,” she said.

     “Lucy has blooded Natsu. Why would he betray her? He’ll be anywhere she is, and he doesn’t like Gray enough to help him. I think it’s a fine plan. We get information, he gets to prove to Lucy that he’s trustworthy, Gray gets to not betray his own people, so that’s a win-win-win.” Cana nodded approving her own plan.

     “I like you. Your name was Cana, right?” Natsu asked. The woman smirked and leaned toward him. Her eyes lit with mischief. She pushed some of his hair behind his ear.

     “Whatever you want to call me, cutie.”

     “Stop being ridiculous, Cana.” Lucy’s eyes were swirling mercury fixed on Cana’s touch. The woman beside him laughed and leaned against the armrest instead.

     “Jealous?” Cana asked. Lucy’s claws dug into the white wax in her hands.

     “Enough!” Erza pressed her fingers to her forehead with a furrowed brow. Her spear disappearing from her hand. “Fine, Natsu will go with Gray to the Forebearer leader and report back.” Lucy gave the candle to Erza and stride from the room. Cana patted him on the leg and stood to follow.

     “No worries,” she said, “I’ll talk to her.” He had no idea what she would talk to her about. Natsu stood before Levy.

     “I’d like if you uncuffed me now,” he said.

     “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Levy removed the cuffs from his wrists with a tiny key around her neck. “Don’t worry about your friend.”

     “My friend?”

     “Yeah, Gajeel. I’ll take care of him.” Her grin spread across her face in a way that reminded him of a shark. Black Steel was in for some trouble. He stood beside Gray in the circle. They sent them off without another word.

     Both vampires lie on the back looking up at the dark and cloudy sky. Snow came down in light flakes and melted against his skin.

     “Where are we?” Natsu asked. Gray’s coat and shirt flapped open in the wind, so he shed the garments and walked bare-chested through the snow.

     “Russia.”

     “Oh, joy.” Natsu stood and brushed off the snow sticking to his hair. “Let’s go—” His words cut off by Gray’s fist in his face. The things he’d do for Lucy.

[salafiway]

With regard to differences which you see between the Muslim nowadays, Allaah has not left the people confused and unable to distinguish the true from the false, rather Allaah has created signs by which the truth and those who are sincere may be known, and He has created clear evidence and proof for the correct path, from which no one deviates but he is doomed.

When the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) spoke of the ummah splitting into seventy-three groups, he said that they would all be in Hell apart from one, the one which follows the same path as him and his companions. This is the standard, so we have no choice but follow in the footsteps of the Sahaabah (may Allaah be pleased with them). It is not sufficient for a person to quote a hadeeth and say that it is saheeh, then use that as evidence to support his madhhab or his point of view according to his own understanding of that hadeeth; rather what he should do is to research whether the Sahaabah understood this hadeeth in this manner or not.

This is the criterion which divides those who really follow the truth from others. This means referring the interpretation of Islam to our righteous forebears, the Sahaabah and those who followed them in truth, for they are the best and most knowledgeable of this ummah, as the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) said.

Anyone who examines the groups that have deviated from the Straight Path will see that they have confused the people by quoting a verse or a hadeeth out of context, so that people think that they are following the Qur’aan and Sunnah, but they cannot prove that this is the way in which the Sahaabah (may Allaah be pleased with them) understood these texts.

Those who distort the attributes of Allaah, those who worship graves and circumambulate them, those who dance in dhikr, those who deny the divine will and decree (al-qadar), those who say that the Qur’aan was created, and other deviant beliefs and ways, none of them claim that his belief is the same as the belief of the Companions of the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him). Even if they claim that they have a verse or hadeeth to support them, they cannot prove that their interpretation is the same as that of those who witnessed the revelations and heard the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him), namely the Sahaabah (may Allaah be pleased with them).

This is an important and precise standard by means of which a person can know whether what he hears and reads of beliefs and ways whose proponents say is true guidance is in fact true or false.

If you follow what the Salafi scholars tell you of Tawheed, fiqh and hadeeth, this is following true Islam, which Allaah wants for all people. The Shaytaan may come and tell you and whisper to you that this is taqleed (blind imitation) and is not permissible; undoubtedly that is the first step towards deviation from the right path. Allaah has enjoined upon the ordinary Muslim to ask the scholars and to follow their opinions and fatwas. You know that the closest of them to the right path and the truth are those who follow the path of the Companions of the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) in their understanding of the Qur’aan and Sunnah; they are the followers of the righteous Salaf.

The Muslim who has some measure of Islamic knowledge can find out for himself whether what he hears or reads is sound or not, by studying and comparing it with that which has been proven from the righteous salaf.

There is no reason why the one who goes against the way of the Salaf should not be right in some cases, but no way or madhhab can be sound apart from the way of the salaf or first generations of this ummah, the Sahaabah and Taabi’een and those who follow them in truth.

Everything quoted by the Salafi scholars is the view of the Sahaabah and of Sa’eed ibn al-Musayyib, al-Zuhri, Mujaahid, ‘Ata’, Maalik, Hammaad ibn Zayd, Hammaad ibn Salamah, al-Shaafa’i, Ahmad, al-Bukhaari, Muslim, Abu Dawood, and other prominent scholars.

You will find that the innovators quote that which they think supports their view, and ignore that which clearly proves that they are wrong. You will find them mentioning things in their books that goes against the Sunnah, and rejecting the Sunnah because it goes against their books, distorting that which is stated clearly in the Qur’aan, describing as da’eef that which is clearly stated in the Sunnah because it goes against their opinions and their whims and desires, and so on. For this reason they are called ahl al-ahwa’ (people of whims and desires).

With regard to Ahl al-Sunnah, they are more objective, they look at the Sunnah without any bias or preconceptions, and they give the Sunnah – if it is saheeh – precedence over everything else. They do not have any whims and desires that they follow to the extent that they reject a hadeeth or distort a verse for their sake.

In fact there is no contradiction between the texts of the revelation, rather there may appear to be a contradiction in some cases. Every field of knowledge has specialized scholars, so in the field of hadeeth there are scholars who can explain what is saheeh (sound) and what is not, and can explain what is meant and dispel confusion, and reconcile between reports which seem to contradict one another.

To sum up:

The best of guidance is the guidance of Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him), and the people with the most knowledge of this guidance are the scholars of hadeeth, namely the righteous salaf. Those who follow them will be saved and those who go against them will be doomed.

So you must adhere to this path and ask Allaah for guidance and steadfastness.

With regard to the questioner saying that Ahl al-Hadeeth are the “Saudi salafis”, this restriction is not correct.

Ahl al-hadeeth are not restricted to a particular country or to certain people, rather Ahl al-hadeeth includes everyone who follows the Sunnah of the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) and understands it correctly in accordance with the understanding of the Sahaabah (may Allaah be pleased with them) and those who follow them in truth.

And Allaah is the Guide.

[bbclesmis]

Could there be a Les Misérables series 2 on BBC One?

BBC One's lavish Les Misérables drew to a close tonight, with the six-part series based on Victor Hugo's 1862 novel – and not, writer Andrew Davies was keen to emphasise, the musical version – wrapping up the saga of Jean Valjean (Dominic West) and his long-time nemesis Javert (David Oyelowo).

That's your lot, right? The final battle over. Curtain down.

Well, possibly not. Though Davies' series rinsed the original book, there is source material in existence that the Beeb could plough if they wanted to commission a second series.

In 1995, 133 years after the publication of the first novel, HarperCollins released Cosette: The Sequel to Les Misérables from American author Laura Kalpakian. It continued the story of Valjean's adopted daughter (played in the BBC's Les Mis by actress Ellie Bamber) following his death.

In the book, one-time resistance fighter Marius (played by Josh O'Connor on television) becomes the publisher of La Lumiere, a reformist newspaper for the French working class. In the (other) French Revolution of 1848, he's jailed for his anti-royalist views but rallies to support the masses.

Cosette also sees the title character follow in Valjean's footsteps by adopting a street kid known as 'the Starling', who ends up catching the eye of Cosette's teenage daughter Fantine (named after her late mother).

Could the book serve as inspiration for a second series of TV's Les Misérables? The odds on that, we'd guess, are long. In terms of style and tone, it's inspired far more by the musical than Hugo's original book, so Andrew Davies likely wouldn't go near it. On top of which, Cosette received a mostly negative response from Les Mis fans on publication.

The other option would be two novels published six years later, in 2001 in France. François Cérésa wrote a pair of sequels to Hugo's story, Cosette ou le temps des illusions (Cosette, Or The Time of Illusions) and Marius ou le fugitif (Marius, Or The Fugitive).

Only the former has ever been published in English, but these books saw Thénardier (Adeel Akhtar) return from America, Marius unjustly imprisoned – again! – and, most controversially of all, Javert resurrected, with Cérésa having the villain survive his suicide attempt and even find redemption through God.

Unsurprisingly, these books proved even more controversial than Kalpakian's earlier effort, infuriating Hugo scholars. Cérésa was defiant, though, calling his critics "intellectual terrorists" and telling The Telegraph at the time: "Javert's suicide always seemed too precipitate to me. I wanted to give him a chance to redeem himself morally."

As for the character's improbable survival, he added, "It's very easy to imagine that the temperature in the Seine on the day he threw himself in was not fatally cold. Someone could perfectly easily have dragged him out and revived him."

Regardless, the legal mire surrounding Cérésa's books means the BBC will probably be reluctant to touch them. Pierre Hugo, the author’s great-great-grandson, was actually awarded damages from the Parisian publishing company Plon for breach of “moral rights”.

"I hope to set a legal precedent for all descendents of celebrities, be they writers, artists or musicians, to protect the spirit of their forebears," he told The Telegraph in 2007.

Pierre was ultimately unsuccessful in his efforts to have the sequels pulled from bookshelves, but we can't see the BBC, and especially not Andrew Davies, looking to adapt these contentious works.

So while sequels to Les Misérables *do* exist in book form, the negative reaction they received means we've almost certainly seen the last of Cosette, Marius et al on television. And Javert? He stays dead, because, to quote the man himself, there is no way to go oooooooon!

(x)

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Human beings are creatures of tradition. We walk in the footsteps of our ancestors. We aren’t the only ones: migrating herds shape ecosystems around their annual pilgrimage. Salmon climb mountain streams out of family tradition, returning to their own birthplace to breed. The reverse journey is taken by the red crabs of Christmas Island, or the eels of the Sargasso Sea. Generations follow the footsteps of their forebears, even without feet.

Personal or professional, private and public, our lives flow in grooves worn by the waters of the past. There are countless things we do without knowing the reason: only that these things have always been done. Children ask the questions, a rite of passage, but soon they learn to stop. There are no answers. Only: that’s just the way it’s always been. Why do we do it? Because we always have.

Mistakes are made that way.

Parents pass down genes, furniture, customs. I have my father’s eyes, my grandfather’s watch, and my ancestors’ religion. I speak their language, but I also repeat their sayings; the family mottos, the in-jokes, the stories. We celebrate the same occasions in the same way, extracting recipes from notes and decorations from the attic, opening doors into the past. We raise our children how we were raised, because that’s all that we know. In this way, we are all Sargasso eels.

Since pre-history, Uffington had lived in the shadow of a white horse. It is etched into the nearby hill: crushed chalk in Bronze Age trenches, maintained for the thousands of years since. They call it White Horse Hill, overlooking the Vale of the White Horse. If the trenches aren’t cared for, the image disappears... and so they are. For thousands of years, the residents have kept the horse alive. 

They trace its figure like a rune in some forgotten tongue, vast communal scouring ceremonies they savour like a ritual. Since time immemorial. Since before records begin. The origins of the tradition, and the horse, are lost within the past, but its acolytes have never needed that answer. It has always been there, and there they ensure it remains.

Old gods once stalked this land. Our forebears made idols in their image, and would feast and toast in their name. Names hold power. Across the span of England’s other hills, hundreds of pubs bear a single name: the White Horse, one of the most common in the land. Nobody knows why. But the White Horse hosts feasts and toasts every day, simply because it’s always been that way. 

Names hold meaning. That title is held back from white horses of flesh and blood, no matter how pale their coat, because their skin is grey underneath. The same standard is not applied to horses sporting other shades. It’s as if they don’t stand up to the real thing. Truly white horses are said to be rare, and yet our myths are full of them. Every depiction, from Pegasus to the unicorn, is picked out in snowy white.

Nobody knows why. It’s just always been that way.

im having feelings about the uffington white horse again