#( horror stories are just that; shadows and deception -- until dawn )

[notthedyingtype]

@poisonpicked // jason "jax" tried to console mike: "“ why don’t we hang out tonight? like we used to, you know? order in cheap take-out, watch crappy movies, go for a walk… whatever you want, right? “"

the world feels like it's off of it's axis still, but it's not as drastic as it was. a lot has been changing for mike lately, &&. the majority of it for the better, he still had a few slips into unease when he let his mind wander down a rabbit hole into darkness.

today was one of those days.

three fingers delicately press the plastic rectangle of his phone to his ear, simply letting the quiet settle to contemplate an honest answer. was company wanted? yes. especially jason's. but part of him still felt like it wasn't a necessity to function. how long had it been since he had even said hello to another human being that wasn't over the phone? mike let's that silence linger a moment longer over the phone before he answers, static crackling as he speaks. "i'd like that a lot."

[geminiamethyst]

Skyline Gang: Trial of Darkness. Chapter 33

Chapter 1: click HERE

Chapter 32: click HERE

The first adventure that the Skyline Gang has had outside the Skyline was almost a complete disaster:

They found an ancient relic, with still no clue as to whom left it in their attic and for what purpose; they travelled halfway around the world to return said relic; got lost in a jungle after being separated by an earthquake which turned out to be an illusion; Dude almost got stung by a deadly scorpion; being chased by a monster that was another illusion by Misty; Dude and Candi almost fell to their deaths; Misty betraying the Skyline Gang; Dawn being resurrected; Dude’s life force being drained out of him for the Queen of Psychopaths to live again properly; everyone almost dying because of Misty’s deception to them, and finding out the truth behind Dawn’s origins.

The only positive being it seemed that Misty changed sides and worked together with Candi to stop Dawn once and for all. There was no way it seemed to bring her back. Another thing was fortunate was that helicopter coming in at the right time. It was hard to spin a fake story. They had to convince the crew that was on board that they were given a tour and was separated from their guide who disappeared, abandoning the people he was meant to help. Given how ruggedly tired everyone looked, the team somehow bought the story. They gave the Skyline Gang a lift to the airport, where they were able to pay for tickets to finally leave.

There was no way that they could reenact the whole thing on stage. They even closed the Skyline for a few days to recuperate. Just a chance to finally relax in the safety of their house. Especially for Dude as nearly the entire journey home, despite everything, he couldn’t fully relax. He’s jumping at shadows and seemed to refuse to attempting sleep without some form of light on. What happened to him affected him more than he intended to let on. He thought about getting a nightlight but decided to wait until he was certain if he needed it.

Everyone was barely able to convince people that they won’t be doing a show because it wasn’t worth retelling this adventure. Everyone had just recovered from the horror that Dawn caused them. The last thing that they wanted was a tale of her returning and Misty being the cause of it. Dude refused to let history repeat itself. If people found out what she did, and tried to do, they probably might have tried to cast her out. Then the cycle might repeat all over again. Dude wasn’t prepared for that to happen, he might never be.

Finally, once everyone had freshened up, and settled down, Dude finally revealed everything. He couldn’t keep it in any longer. He revealed who Dawn was and how she came to be. He even revealed seeing her ghost as the fortress was coming down. No one stopped his story, they were too much in shock. It was just horrific to know that anyone could be consumed by the Darkness that loomed around this world. Even the Skyline Gang weren’t immune to it, Orange was proof of that. Candi was in tears by the end of the story. Sprout was giving her a hug to calm her down. Mimi was fidgeting with her damp hair, ignoring the fact that it’ll end up in a tangled state. Pip’s foot was bouncing up and down at an alarming rate, mixed between agitation and apprehension. Bud was calculating the scene over and over again in his head, wondering that if they had more time, if they knew, then maybe there was a chance to save that lost soul. Rainbow laid down at Dude’s feet, giving a long whine with a pair of sad eyes. Misty was confused and sad at the same time. The woman that she had seen was that small part of Dawn that refused to die. No wonder she just appeared out nowhere and was never seen again. At least that’s what Misty had concluded. She just had to know for sure though.

“Dude?” Misty asked after a long five minutes of contemplating silence.

“What’s up?” Dude asked back, just wanting nothing more than to crawl into his bed, only staying awake by three hours of sleep.

“Could you…tell us what she looked like? Dawn before she became Dawn I mean. If you know that too.” Misty asked again, pulling out something from her pocket. Paper? No one could tell. In all honesty, they were more concerned about her question. It was quite random, but curiosity was like a plague. It spread like wildfire among the others. Just wondering about what Dawn might have looked like might bring out more of her personality, a better way to try to remember a woman that they wished to know more about.

“I do actually.” Dude answered, brightening up a little from the memory. He tried not to think about the bad stuff. Just focus on the light and laughter that Orange had until her final moments. Her smile, cheeky laughter and seemingly mischievous attitude (Dude briefly wondered if that’s where Misty got her mischievous nature from). “She wore orange, had orange hair and a red necklace with these massive beads.”

“So, like this then?” Misty enquired, suddenly thrusting the paper that she was holding at Dude. Again, random, but a little bit more concerning. Dude took the paper, wondering if Misty had done a silly little sketch to try to brighten up everyone. It would be out of character for her, but then again, a genuine laugh doesn’t hurt anyone. It wasn’t a drawing, it was a photograph. Dude’s heart stopped for a moment as he studied it. Orange hair, orange dungarees, a red beaded necklace, ocean blue eyes that sparkled with fun and mischief.

“Yes! This is her!” Dude declared, leaping to his feet. He showed the photograph to everyone else, receiving quiet gasps and wide eyes. “How did you get this?”

“I found it in my pocket, after waking up…after killing Dawn.” Misty shrugged, her eyes darting to someone, anyone for an answer. She pondered if someone had slipped it into her pocket, but judging by everyone else’s reactions, they couldn’t have. “But I don’t know how it got there.” Bud suddenly offered to take a look at the photo himself. Dude obliged, trusting that Bud could see anything hidden better than he could. Bud readjusted his glasses, staring hard at the photo. He took in every detail of Orange, just as Dude did for those few seconds. Then he looked at the background behind her. His eyes sparked with familiarity. If this photo was taken in the Skyline, Bud would more than likely recognise where in the pavilion, or outside it, it might have been taken. His eyes widened a little. He traced his finger around one side of the photo, feeling it carefully.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait!” He suddenly shouted. Just as suddenly, he ran off. He hated running as everyone was now aware of. He wouldn’t run unless he was in some kind of trouble. Right now he was running as if someone had set his clothes on fire. He was so fast that it took everyone a few seconds to realise that he had left completely.

“Bud?” Rainbow barked after Bud as everyone stood by the now open front door.

“I’ll be right back!” Bud responded, his voice urgent with purpose. His form disappeared, making a beeline for the pavilion. Misty picked up the picture, as he had dropped in in the midst of his run. She looked at the picture again, and even traced the side that Bud had to see what the trouble was. Oh, it was torn on one side. A bit weird but it didn’t tell her much about why Bud dashed off. Filing back inside, everyone else started to wonder about the same thing. Bud running off like that was bizarre in itself. He obviously figured something out. He saw something that no one else was seeing. They all gathered around Misty, trying to spot the clue, but it wasn’t doing much good.

The sound of heaving breathes and staggered footsteps can be heard. Bud had returned. His colour was drained from his face as sweat poured down it. Hands on his knees he struggled to regain his breath. He looked like he was ready to collapse into the nearest chair as soon as possible. No one could blame him. After all, even during the adventure, he had briefly mentioned his lack of athleticism, even joking about joining the gym.

“I don’t know how you do it Dude.” He panted, knees knocking together as he attempted to stand up straight.

“Do what?” Dude asked as his eyebrow raised in a little bit of amusement.

“Running…” Bud groaned in response, holding up a piece of paper in his hand. The amusement went away as Dude caught a small glimpse at it. A small bit of colour and what seemed to be a torn side.

“Is that what I think it is?” Dude asked carefully.

“Yes. Misty, could I have that picture, please?” Bud insisted, holding his hands up out. Misty was happy to oblige so long as they got answers. Bud laid out the paper and photograph of Orange on the table. All but Misty recognised what Bud had brought back with him. He must have gone back to his old room in the pavilion to retrieve the incomplete evidence that he has. From the first few days of the Skyline, when they were trapped in there, Dawn had unexpectedly given the Gang a clue. A photograph of the previous Skyline Gang. Like Bud had discovered with the photograph of Orange, one side of the picture had been torn, obscuring someone that was originally on the end. No one could work out who it was, what with everyone around them being very secretive and not saying anything of the past. Now it seemed that they had something valuable. Bud carefully brought the two together, being slow as if he were dealing with an explosive. Once the pair were together, a small light radiated from where the tare was. The photograph fused together, becoming one once again.

“The missing part of the photograph…” Dude finally stated the obvious as the light died away. At least some things appeared to be out to right. Orange was back where she belonged.

“Look! Their names!” Pip suddenly shouted, pointing wildly at the photograph. Everyone looked carefully. In addition to the photograph being put back together, the names of the Skyline Gang were finally revealed: Blue was Danny; Green was Sammy; Yellow was Melanie; Purple was Peppa; Pink was Charlie; Red was Bobby and Orange was OJ. Finally, a link, a true physical link to the past.

“Those weren’t there before.” Dude muttered, scratching his head a little.

“The photo was incomplete.” Bud concluded, tracing his finger along where the rip was. Nothing could be felt along that line. It was as if the photograph was never torn in the first place. “With so much that we still don’t know about the Skyline itself, I’d say that it has a hand in this.”

The magic that the Skyline seemed to hold, the magic that everyone could feel all around them everyday, it played an enigmatic hand in this business again. Nothing made sense but then again, did it really have to in this instance? With all the dark magic that they faced, it was pleasant to have some from the light for a change now that they were safely at home. Now they have names to go with these faces. The photograph that was missing so much was now finally complete, a true memory that deserved to be remembered.

“So what do we do with this?” Sprout asked, looking uncertain.

“I think we should put it up.” Dude answered right away. In all honesty, he always wanted to hang it up, complete or not. “Call me sentimental or whatever, but it feels wrong not knowing them or respecting them in some way. Even if OJ turned evil, it wasn’t her fault.”

“I’ll find a photo frame and give it a rockin’ cool design!” Pip jumped up, already racing up the staircase, with Rainbow nipping at her heels.

“I’ll help you look. Maybe there’s some in the attic.” Sprout called after her, his feet heavily pounding on the floorboards. A photo frame was a perfect idea. Decorating it might be excessive, but it felt like a nice idea too. Just something to make the past feel relevant.

“Who’s cooking tonight then?” Bud suddenly asked, wanting to break away from the awkward atmosphere.

“No one! Let’s just order a pizza!” Dude announced, just wanting to have an excuse to rest a bit more. The last thing he wanted was to cook or do anything for the next few days. Expect play some basketball of course.

“You know what? I’m throwing my diet out the window. Let’s go with that.” Mimi sighed, seemingly on board with it. Except for the beef burgers that Pip would make when it was her turn to cook, Mimi would rarely eat fast food. It was something about watching her weight or something like that. As Bud started to ask around about what everyone wanted, and as Dude made a move to the kitchen to find the number, Mimi’s eyes suddenly sparked as she remembered something. “By the way Dude, that spa day…”

“You weren’t joking?!” Dude exclaimed as Mimi followed him into the kitchen.

“Don’t worry. Considering what’s happened, I won’t go overboard.” She teased lightheartedly. Originally she had a longer list, but decided to cut down for Dude’s sake.

“What’s your definition of overboard then?” Dude fired back. Mimi’s joyous laugh filled the air, echoing around the house. Only Candi and Misty were left behind. Candi watched as her opposite picked up the photo, looking deeply at it. In a funny sort of way, because Dawn had played a part in her creation, Candi wondered if Misty beelined that she was looking at what could’ve been a potential mother figure. Potential to have a small family if things went the way that Dawn had planned (minus the possibility of Misty dying if Candi did too). Candi couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Misty as she felt this longing and emptiness emanating from Misty. And confusion.

“Are you okay, Misty?” Candi asked, placing a hand on Misty’s shoulder. She half expected Misty to shove her away, like she usually would. Only she wasn’t. It was nice to not be pushed away.

“How come I’m still here?” Misty asked absentmindedly, putting the photograph down. How come she’s still alive? Maybe that’s what she meant. But Candi had a feeling that there was more to it than that. Misty looked back at her, green eyes dancing merrily with confusion and a little bit of fear. “Why bother keeping me around after what I’ve done to you all?”

“After stopping you know who, I think it feels right to give you a second chance.” Candi answered, smiling brightly. Honestly, she wanted to give a better answer. She wanted to offer more. However, something small and simple was just felt right to give right now.

“Even if I’m a mischief maker?” Misty asked, still confused.

“It would make our adventures more fun.” Candi smiled again, being brighter than the sun and all the stars in existence combined. She wrapped Misty up in a tight hug. Misty was stunned, not wanting to be close to anyone. She wanted to shove Candi away like she always did. She wanted to tease and run away. She wanted to cause mischief and trouble all over again. However, right now, that small part she often pushed back came through for her. Hesitantly, she returned the hug, wanting to feel like she belonged somewhere. She had a home. She had friends again. She finally knows where she can be and have a home. Even if she causes trouble for everyone, she had a feeling that they have her back whenever she needed them. And this time (for now) she won’t risk throwing it all away again. She won’t admit it, but she got a little bit of wisdom from this. She sighed in relief as it dawned on her that she was home at least. “Welcome back to the Skyline Gang.”

I hate writing endings…and this one just feels a bit bland but I couldn’t think of what else to write…

Hope you all enjoyed this sequel!

Epilogue: click HERE

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (3/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: Honestly, this chapter might just be a celebration of my love for Lucien and Vassa, and I'm okay with that. Also, Lucien briefly quotes Manon from Throne of Glass early in this chapter, because I couldn't resist. You can find all chapters here.

Lucien is inside Vassa when he hears the growl outside the window. He succeeds in not cursing, not wanting the queen sprawled on the bed below him to think he’s at all distracted. Her bronze skin picking up the luster of the candles and her hair its own firelight, spread across the pillow, her lips open as she moans, scrabbles her fingers on his back, pulls him closer. As much as he adores Vassa in the middle of a clever conversation, outsmarting everyone around, he prefers her in this wordless state.

Lucien decides that Tamlin can wait, and runs his thumb against Vassa’s lower lip, thrusts inside her until she stifles her moans into his hand.

She rises from the bed within minutes, not wanting to waste her hours in human form, and he follows her, adjusting his jacket as he winnows to the grounds of the Greysen manor, his mechanical eye whirling in search of Tamlin.

“You’re sure the human queen hasn’t enchanted you?” his old friend asks, prowling out of the shadows. Lucien decides that pointing out the irony of the statement would be unwise.

“I’m surprised you were allowed past the gate,” he says instead.

“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to scare a human.” Tamlin glances at the backs of his hands, as if he’s not sure whether the claws are still visible. After all the conversations Lucien has had with him in his beast form, he supposes it’s a reasonable concern. “And I’m surprised to see you’ve given up on your mate so easily. I’d thought you’d be a model of courtly love.”

Lucien does his best to look mollified. He has told many lies in his life, dancing between truth and half-truth and truth’s opposite so nimbly that he considered his lies blessed by the Mother herself. After centuries, what’s most embarrassing is that he assumed these lies would always come easily to him and slip away with no resistance.

Then came Hybern, the Cauldron, and the dozens of golden threads Lucien watched form between Tamlin and the newly-Fae Elain Archeron, the mating bond so clear he wondered why he was the only one who could see it, though such uncanny sightings were not unusual for him, especially with his new eye.

Within seconds, Lucien had known what would happen if the bond was revealed. Feyre would never let her sister go to the Spring Court. Rhysand -- Feyre’s true mate, Lucien knew, could not reveal to Tamlin for fear of the resulting furious explosion, a regret that had already lit a fire in his gut -- would go to war over the weeping girl, more and more luminous with each tear that spilled from her sweet brown eyes. Prythian would be shattered, invaded from both coasts. And Tamlin would be destroyed. He’d gone to battle with the Night Court over the woman he loved and doomed his actual mate to kidnapping and the Cauldron, trauma and a life she’d never wanted, a cosmic joke that would have been funny if Lucien had read it in an epic poem written millenia before.

The lie, then, was easy.

You’re my mate, he’d told Elain, the shock and wonder and horror true as anything else in his long and miserable life.

Lucien had been sure that Tamlin would confront him, raging about the fact that Lucien had claimed the female who the Mother had given to Tamlin himself. But Tamlin had only doted over Feyre, stalked his lands, conspired with Ianthe and Hybern, and Lucien had been forced to keep up the lie to everybody. It had not been difficult to leave the Spring Court with Feyre, despite everything, and though the constant rejection from Elain had been grating, the smug disinterest of the Night Court an annoyance that gnawed at his very core, Lucien found that these discomforts were bearable, at least in the beginning. Even the times Feyre pried into her mind and he had to cloak his thoughts did not bother him as much as he would have thought. He’d dealt with worse. It was the span of the deception that rankled, the fact that Tamlin never seemed to realize he’d met his mate, that Elain had fallen into love or else infatuation with Azriel when there were both real and imagined bonds pulling her elsewhere. The stream of invitations from the Night Court, trying to pair Lucien and Elain together. Gradually Lucien realized that he was the only one who knew the substance of his lie, the only one who’d even glimpsed the truth.

And of course Vassa had only complicated the situation further. He’d tried for months to stay away, if not for an imaginary love story with a woman who did not want him, for the sake of Prythian, for the sake of all involved. He’d even thought that Vassa and Jurian would anger each other enough to wind up lovers, and once he lived with them in their Band of Exiles, breaking up their constant arguments had left him feeling dried and worn. If he hadn’t been used to being overlooked, it would have been a blow: considering the way Vassa burned bright in either form, her mind always analyzing a situation on a dozen levels but her mouth often blurting out the truth as she saw it, refined just enough by her confidence for diplomacy. Her lips twin rose petals, her words the thorns bent on ensnaring lesser minds and beings in her net. She was beautiful, of course, but her mind was gorgeous. His fear and regard for Koschei and the other human queens were predicated on the fact that the death-god could have imprisoned such a woman.

Last month they’d talked late into the night, the embers of the fire giving her face a fragile golden outline, and it occurred to Lucien that he and Azriel and Rhysand were no closer to determining the breaking of Vassa’s enchantment, that she might live out the rest of her life under this imprisonment. And still her whole face brightened with their conversation, about the latest innovations in the Dawn Court and their potential implications for Prythian and the human realms, Scythia in particular. How lovely her amber eyes were, lit with her hope and intelligence, the curve of clavicle shaded by the night. Lucien had been certain that he’d never met someone less deserving of her curse, and still she dreamed of the ways in which she might aid her kingdom on her return.

He’d taken a step toward her, another, pressed his lips to her cheekbone, gentle and slow, giving her a chance to pull away. Instead she smiled and said I was hoping you’d get the idea, and so he kissed the curve of her jaw, the curves of her ear, until she’d reached out for him and pulled his mouth to her, her tongue on the seam of his lips within seconds, their bodies flush against each other.

Despite the month they’ve spent in and out of each other's beds, Lucien hasn’t told her about the lie. As far as he can tell, Vassa thinks she is a second choice, or a rebellion against the Mother’s wisdom. He cannot risk a daemati peering inside Vassa’s open human mind and learning this secret, and in spite of this, the lie burns most heavily on him when he’s with her, so that, despite decades of training himself in deceit, he has almost revealed the truth to Vassa a dozen times.

“My mate has centuries to come around to the idea of me,” he says now, trying to sound sly instead of weary, “but I find the prospect of this wait no longer holds much appeal. What brings you to the human lands tonight, Tam?”

“Rhysand wants you in my court, along with Vassa. He’s sending your Elain as his emissary and thinks she requires protection.”

Matchmaking aunt Rhysand, Lucien thinks, scrubbing a hand over his face. The scent of Vassa’s skin still on his fingers.

“And you allowed this?” he asks instead, playing for time.

“You know that Rhysand only begins his strategies with polite requests. I’d wake up one morning to an invasion.”

“I can be at your estate tomorrow.”

“In a week.”

“Why the delay?” Lucien has never known Rhysand to bide his time. Once a plan is put in motion, there are no delays. Even if he’s grateful for the reprieve. He does not know what he will say to Vassa, or Elain.

“Apparently my estate requires renovations.” For the first time in years, Tamlin’s face is rueful, a surprising expression after so much rage and sorrow and self-pity. “The most crucial will be completed in that time. Your mate has claimed my gardens and will begin installing flowers. The Morrigan is winnowing her.”

Lucien weighs the possibility of telling the truth right then, telling Tamlin that the female in his gardens is his own mate, that there is a reason his voice goes soft, approaches tender, when he speaks of her. But this is the best he’s seen Tamlin look since before Amarantha appeared on their lands, the first time it’s been easy for Lucien to remember why he’d always liked the High Lord of Spring in spite of more recent evidence to the contrary. Perhaps Tamlin will realize the truth on his own.

“I’ll be at your estate as you request.”

“Make sure you wash the smell of the human queen off before you arrive.”

“Her name is Vassa,” Lucien snarls, a brief unleashing of his temper.

“While I have no interest in who is in your bed, you know that Rhysand would not accept the slight to his court so easily.” Tamlin is trying to help, Lucien knows, but he’s been stalking the forests for so long that he does not realize Lucien has had three meetings with Rhysand since the first night with Vassa, preceded by scrubbing and spells that leave him raw and nearly without scent.

“Perhaps it would be a relief to Elain.” He’s reaching, the lie too heavy for his shoulders when he imagines where he’ll be in seven days. Already he’s forming a plan for every night until he must appear at the Spring Court with Vassa.

“Females generally like to do the leaving, I find.”

“You sound ridiculous when you speak that way,” Lucien says, giving the words a breath of laughter to soften them. He is pushing as he never did before, but instead of bristling, Tamlin sighs.

“I used to think I understood this world,” he says, and Lucien thinks that now, with so many befores to consider, for once he does not know the story Tamlin’s telling himself.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vassa knows that something’s wrong as soon as she finds Lucien back in bed. Generally he spends his nights awake with her, sleeping in the pockets of time when he’s not needed elsewhere in Prythian. Now he’s sprawled on the mattress, jacket discarded on the headboard, his breathing too light for sleep.

“Who summoned you?” she asks, knowing that he’s more likely to tell her than if she asks what’s wrong?

“We’re both expected in the Spring Court in a week. Elain Archeron will be there as well.” He mutters the words into the quilt so that Vassa has to lean closer to him. He forgets, sometimes, that she has only human ears.

“Why would Tamlin need me at his estate?” She does not point out that much of his estate lacks intact walls or windows, that its High Lord was the building’s principal destroyer. These facts only poke a would inside of Lucien, and so she holds her tongue.

“Rhys wants us there.”

“More questions about Koschei, then.” She’s told the Night Court all she knows, unless the sorcerer took her memories, in which case Vassa wishes he’d remove the more painful of her recollections, the horrors of the life she lived imprisoned on his lake.

“Azriel has been investigating. Maybe there’s a way to break the enchantment on you.” He reaches out for her hand and traces the lines of her fingers. Vassa holds back a shiver of anticipation, knows that he will hardly touch her as soon as they’re in the Spring Court. Six nights together, perhaps the last that they will ever spend, if the enchantment is somehow lifted and she’s able to go back to her own country. These years in Prythian were always meant to end.

“Tamlin knows I’ll need a place that cannot burn?”

“I’ll show you all the lakes the Spring Court has to offer. You can choose your favorite.”

“I’d prefer a new location every day, I think.” She reaches out for him until she’s lying next to him, letting the warmth of his body still her whirling mind. So many hours pass every day where she cannot think like a human, where she’s trapped inside the body and mind of an animal, and although she’s managed to gain some control over the firebird, the most gutting loss is her own right mind, its familiar quicksilver darting, so that it seems to work in triple time whenever she’s human again. The mind of the firebird is slower and angrier than Vassa has ever allowed herself to be. The anger of a queen is deadly, and she has always been mindful of her citizens, how best to rule them.

“You know it’s you I want to be with, don’t you?” He props his cheek on his hand, gazing at her, and Vassa raises her eyebrows. The mating bond between the High Fae is the stuff of legends, stronger than love or fear or desire.

“I could never marry you,” she says, meeting his russet eyes only because she’s been so immaculately trained since childhood. “I need to return to my country as soon as I can.”

“It’s not as if I’m bound to Prythian.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You are employed by half the High Lords and held in high esteem by nearly all. I don’t think you’d know what to do if your days weren’t filled with counsels and entreaties and schemes.”

“Plenty of schemes to hatch in the human lands.” He reaches for a lock of her hair, wraps the tendril around his finger until she’s so close there’s nothing to do but kiss.

“What about your mate?” she asks, after a kiss long enough to make most females, Fae or human, forget the thread of the conversation.

“I do believe she will survive.” He pulls her toward him again, this time working at the fastenings of her dress, the corset beneath, and all the while Vassa thinks, even while she runs her fingers against his copper skin, that this cruelty towards his mate seems so incongruous with everything else she knows about Lucien. She does not flatter herself that he has fallen in love with her. They have known each other for three years now, hardly a moment in his long life, shared beds for only a month. Soon he will forget all about her, Vassa is certain. And perhaps a certain amount of longing is dignified for a queen, helps her to understand the plight of her citizens, the secret sufferings in their own hearts.

If she had more time these days for contemplation, Vassa would have a chance to realize that she’s deluding herself. Still, she presses herself to Lucien until they’re barely more than heated skin and ragged breaths.

[flowerflamestars]

Destined and Dreamt

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN

Nesta Archeron wasn’t sleeping.   Wrapped in a quilted silk robe, she paced the length of her bedroom, once, twice, before giving into the urge to throw back the curtains from her windows. It was the darkest part of the night. Thick clouds had long shrouded the stars, the only light the reflection back from the fire burning in the grate across the room.

But still, it felt a little easier to breathe.

Her life had felt like cage for a long, long time. Like any other creature of clipped wings, when Nesta slept, she dreamt of the sky.

There were so many places she hadn’t seen and longed for: the impossible high mountain gardens in the Sky kingdom, the sharp gold eyed fairies of Hesperia;, that Blooming Country, under their lavender sky. The horrible beauty over the Wall, wilder and more dangerous than the fae of the continent she worked with. Fifteen thousand year old trade routes that crossed between the sacred spaces of the Great Desert, books written by the hands of gods in the Weeping City.

The mountain peaks in her dreams, so vast their summits turned the very wind to song.

Tonight, however, it was the nightmares that kept her awake.

Some were nearly as old as she was: Feyre devoured by magic, Elain with cold metallic eyes, Nesta alone- Nesta a monster, without her sisters.

Newer, were what was haunting her now: humans turning on them. Elain in chains, Nesta made ready for a pyre, the horror Lucien would unleash trying to get to Elain before the sheer number of mortals brought him down.

It should have been a comfort- if everything went to hell, they were going to burn too.

But hell was coming for them in worse, different ways. It wouldn’t be their neighbors condemning them- if Feyre got her wish, took that gamble on all their lives, it might be the Queens to whom their tiny human world was personal property who ordered all their deaths for consorting with faeries.

Or Hybern, bringing their brutality to bleed all of Prythian dry.

In the very back of her mind, Nesta heard again, soft and fathoms deep, the voice that had responded to Elain’s charm. We’re called Illyrians, born hearing the song of the wind.

Behind her eyes, the mountains sang the icy air to shape. Not words, but feelings that bubbled up beneath her breastbone and completed a longing so desperate tears ached in Nesta’s throat.

She had nightmares, and then nightmares.

Nesta had bargained and cheated, lied and bought her freedom. She might not have been able to save her baby sister- a failure she could never, ever take back- but Nesta would be damned if she failed their vassals too. Failed Elain or Lucien, besides.

The cold wind in her mind was a wilder thing than the chill of this snowy night, she could almost feel it if she tried. Ice and power and freedom, the air twisting around her like an embrace.

There had to be a way to keep them safe.

Beauty would not distract her. It was the oldest human story, wasn’t it? The innocent maiden and the wicked faery. The lost kingdom and it’s chosen heir, a quest, a sacrifice.  Destiny. The trick at the end- the pure of heart is worthy, but faeries always lie.

This wasn’t a tale and Nesta couldn’t freefall through the very sky into the arms of her true love.

She’d find those mountains someday, climb them until Nesta touched the clouds herself. Cross the dangerous, fathomless enchantment of an ocean to follow the path of her families old compacts in blood. Her mothers homeland, the faery smith who’d bound gold on steel for the first Archeron Lord, maybe even Lucien’s lost and savage Autumn.

She would live, and she would see it all.

Nesta just had to find a safe route through a war first, and nothing- no one- was going to stop her. 

— Lucien was a liar. It was possible it was in his blood- learned over the cradle, crooned by his mother the deceptions that would keep him safe.   He’d let himself believe the lie he could survive Beron intact in youthful fury. Shed his colors and lied through centuries of brittle, false Spring Court charm. He would lie now- lie and burn and bleed if it meant he could protect the Acheron sisters from what was coming.   Sleep had never arrived.

When Elain finally gave into the overwhelming exhaustion of magic and conflict a few hours before dawn, he’s stayed still. Felt the soft sigh against his shoulder as her eyes tipped shut, halfway through the litany of what he knew of the Day Court, the exchange for a cheekily retold explanation of the ties between the Archerons and the north’s fell High Lord.   “We’re not his subjects,” Elain had all but growled, face pressed to his arm. That several hours into that tangled space between them, curled together on her floor, she’d cajoled him out of his coat and most of the asinine human layers Lucien wore these days, was not something Lucien would let himself dwell on.   How infinitely pale she was in comparison, the smooth curve of a freckled cheek pillowed on his bicep.   “The original oath ensures it,” Elain went on, “Prythian’s courts don’t allow humans to belong to them in legal truth, but for us it’s a protection. Not under Rhysand’s rule, but we can enter the protected city- carry things from it on our ships to countries who don’t know it exists.”   Adamant to his gold, but that wasn’t right either- aspen, ash to his birch bark maple, the trees that cut paths through Autumns heart.   “Velaris,” Lucien crooned back at her glee, the syllables smoke in his throat.   “The City of Starlight,” Elain’s laugh had no sound, the amusement a twist in her voice as it swept over his bare skin.   In an urge he’d been turning over and ignoring for the better part of an hour, Lucien risked reaching out to brush the curls from her face where they’d fallen into bright, half-lidded eyes.   “Wherever a High Lord is,” Lucien found himself saying, as the silence stretched a beat too long, as he looked into those dark, dark eyes, “is their court. Rhysand has more power than any of them- wherever he is, Night lives.”   His hand was still in her hair when sleep took Elain.   The trust of it- asleep against him, like Lucien wasn’t High Fae, magical and monstrous as they came- froze him in place.   It was a longer while than he’d ever admit before he carried Elain the scant step to her bed, left her wrapped in warm down- the temptation to stay so huge- and insane- that Lucien started walking and hadn’t stopped until he was here; deep in the snowy woods.   Dawn was only now cresting through the clouds, the light silvered pink and slow to reach him.   It was too damned much.   His mother- not just alive, or miraculously unhurt as he only hoped and dreamt of- but apparently seizing her own fate with a surety Lucien hadn’t known existed in his entire lifetime. His mother’s freedom.  They’d both be safe, at least as much as was possible, from Beron and Lucien’s brother’s wrath. For the first time in his life.  How had she broken a bond of blood? Stolen a High Lords crown?And why, after untold centuries of it’s wildness trapped in Beron’s hands, would it accept being wielded by one human girl? And what- he was truly afraid of the answer- what waited in the Day Court for them?   Lucien had only one guess, and it made it hard to breathe.   While he was already damned and ceding oxygen, Lucien let himself think of Elain. A Court’s crown should have had an effect- magic, in it’s truest, oldest aspect, shone on the skin of mortals- but Elain remained herself.   An utterly human, utterly feminine beauty. Bottomless clever eyes and a vicious, brilliant mind only countered by that kind unforgetting heart- everything in the world Lucien wished to hold.   It wasn’t fair, but he blamed Feyre.   He’d had it locked away. Bound in so much red ribbon behind his ribs to call enchantment down- and then Feyre in her pointed frustration had spent an entire day making asides about how ridiculous it was, how unnecessary it was, for Lucien to marry her sister.   While he’d been braced for the condemnation, for Nesta to brush away Feyre’s fears in that cool way of hers, that wasn’t his first impulse. Like a madness- like the High fae that he was- Lucien wanted to get in a fight.   This was where he belonged. In pace with Nesta, forever at Elain’s side.   He wanted to tear apart anyone who’d try to take that away. His home, his family, his-   Love was not a word Lucien allowed himself to think. It hadn’t lived in his vocabulary for enough centuries it had been easy to bury. Passing fondness of course existed, friendship- though his last lover had in fact been killed by Feyre’s hand, in these very snowy woods.   Andras hadn’t even been allowed to die wearing his own face.   There was nothing Lucien wouldn’t do to keep the eldest Archeron sisters alive.   He’d forgiven Feyre- been as close to her as he had anyone in decades, a friend- but Feyre had protectors too powerful and numerous to name now.   Before the sunlight reached the forest shadows Lucien’s body had melted through the snowdrift, burned so hot he was settled in summer warm soil instead of mud. A few red plumes of leaves had tried to unfurled out of their time on the oak behind him, scattered down at his displeasure between racing thoughts.   He’d never burned Elain. Lucien wasn’t actually sure it was physically possible for him- and that thought, at least, was a balm.   Lucien needed to bury it all.   Needed the lying diplomats face he’d perfected, the utter and complete act he, Elain, and Nesta pulled off in concert- Lucien needed the lie. Not to escape what he was feeling- it wasn’t possible, and he didn’t want to lose all the insane hope and fear he carried- but to face this day as the clever fox he’d been and find a path through.

  If Rhysand planned on endangering them, he had another thing coming, Nightmare Lord or no. — Elain woke up alone.   It shouldn’t have been a surprise- much less an imposition that filled her with the sort of blinding frustration a less keen observer associated only with her elder sister- Elain was the maiden daughter of Lord.   Not just a Lord, so far as the gentry were concerned, but Flatha, scion of a distant crown across the ocean, given their noble lands in totality from the personal property of the Council of Queens, their dangerous wayward relations contained within their own tiny kingdoms. Six centuries ago, Elain would have been gormflaith;  a princess named for the blue of her blood, just for being born Archeron.   For her purity.   The reality was, of course, that her father was an absent, worthless wastrel at best and Elain very clearly remembered falling asleep in Lucien’s arms.   Brown skin warm on her face, the air around them sparking- with Lucien’s laugh it ignited, a hundred little shining flecks to mix with the deep sound.   In the darkest part of the night, it had seemed like a whole other world. Effortless magic everywhere, that she looked on with such enormous fondness it was impossible to hide, a wreath of flower and bone- where exactly in the Autumn Court had the bone of a dragon come from?- tucked in her hair and humming with a power that lit along Elain’s muscles like adrenaline, easy as breathing.   Tumbling into Lucien’s embrace to bask in the predator-intent, faery savage way he watched her face.   His hand in her hair. Gentle, so impossibly gentle as curls rasped over knife callouses, the gesture completely separate from the wickedness in his molten eyes.   Waking up alone, under no less than three layers.   Elain bit the inside of her cheek and rolled over, kicking off suffocating blankets two and three as she went. The one left tucked around her with the precision of rolled pastry was rabbit fur- warm, soft, and usually housed across the room on a divan near exclusively used by Nesta.   The perfect repose of a noble heiress- but most women of Elain’s outsize standing were not hiding a house full of dangerous faeries. Did not turn every bit of glittering charm and very real companionship on their fake- but not quite- fiancé to get them out of their eminently fashionable great coat, all the way down to a silken tunic that left perfect, near obscenely sculpted arms bare, only for fire to paint the air with happiness. The average daughter of Flatha weren't able to summon the crown of Court of Prythian out of thin air, or possess a High Fae sister, and a triplicate strand of pearls that lived on her wrist to hide a scar whose sensitivity felt like- felt like-   Elain rolled back over and groaned.   There were a thousand things to do. Nesta needed to know that Sorcha had passed them off impossible power, offered refuge that could reshape their plans. Lucien needed to sign off their shipping manifests, go to port and glamour smuggled faerie cargo.   Their farms needed the roads cleared, the staff accounted for in the blizzard, extra supplies taken to the orphanage to begin the winter holiday celebrations. A ball to finish planning, ash wood to burn and hide, Feyre’s arrival to stage so that she could move freely at home.   Elain was busy. But instead of moving she was staring out the diamond paned window that showed her pink sky and blinding white snow; thinking about Lucien’s hands. She wanted to hold those hands and let their matching rings clank together. Let him feel the pulse in her wrist and see how pleasure arced over her skin from that silvered mark.   She wanted Lucien at her side for everything. — Back in fighting form, at least on the surface, Lucien was more intrigued than alarmed when halfway back home he ran into Feyre, coming out of the woods.   It was that old friendship- Feyre the huntress, Feyre the human unafraid of magic tempered spring green groves, Feyre newly changed and desperate to be outside- that kept him from the immediate warning sign.   She was alone, for one thing.   Smiled that cocky, antagonistic smile he hadn’t seen since she was a human. “Vanserra,” She called, and Lucien heard cauldron damned Rhysand in the syllables.   It was not like when Nesta called him by his surname.   Because being pricks to each other was the friendly foundation for them, Lucien squashed his shoulder into hers in reply, the snow liberally sprinkled in her hair sliding over his still bare arms. “Where’s your crown, little Fey? Thought Night Court fashion had rubbed off on you.”   With a half smiling snarl, Feyre used both hands to send him careening, before hiding them away in the deep pockets of a gigantic leather coat he could smell Illyrian blood on. Hair in a simple braid, she was leagues closer to the woman he’d known.   “Rhys is dramatic,” She said, unbearably fondly.   Rhysand was setting her up as an equal, and the ruler of the most populous court in Prythian, but Lucien was not going to be the person to tell her that.   “Dramatic,” Lucien repeated with a grimace, melting the snow in his path. He didn’t miss that Feyre watched impossibly fast motion- ice to slush to water, soaking deep into the soil at his behest- with rapt attention. “What are you doing out here?”   He was going to make a joke about her hunting pheasant with unfair fey advantage, perhaps extol the virtues of the terrifying, wonderful woman Nesta had employed as a cook and really grind in the fact of his life here, when Feyre blinked. 

And then again.   High Fae tells were dangerous, subtle things. Control was a mark of age, and power, with the rush of instincts that ran thick in their blood with adulthood. High Lords were volatile, courtiers deadly.   Feyre, for all her obvious immortal grace and power, still feigned like the nineteen year old mortal she was in many ways.   And lied like one.   “Practicing,” Feyre recited, face normal and eyelashes fluttering. Untruth changed the entire tone of her voice. For someone who looked so damn much like Nesta, sounded so much like Elain, the lack of ease felt bizarre. “Rhys is training me, but I can’t control all the courts power yet.”   The woods led to both the main road out to the farms and the local village, in the other direction, apple orchards and the shattered Spring Court border. Lucien decided to play along.   “No more accidental fires?” He teased.   Feyre laughed, almost genuine. “Autumn is easy,” She insisted, which told Lucien enough to know that whatever drop of Beron she possessed, its depths had not been reached. “Darkness is obvious, but I’m still finding out what came from who.”   Before he could reply, Feyre twisted, fluid as a Dawn Court assassin, to pose before Lucien. “Spar with me?”   He’d fought her as a human. Fought Tamlin for the chance for her to learn to master her new body, retrain in old skills. Even if Feyre had been fighting with Illyrian’s every day for the last year, Lucien had three centuries and an impossibly savage upbringing on his side- there was no danger.   But still, his pulse said look closer.   “You should know,” Lucien teased, mirroring her wide stance, “I did already fight the ceremonial duel with Nesta for Elain’s hand.”   Feyre stopped mid motion darting forward lightening fast to laugh. “Nesta held a sword?”   Something utterly indignant, blood red and fey, twisted in Lucien’s chest. He caught the hand that had been about to slap into him and sent Feyre flying back, her knees hitting the snow bank his melted path had created. “Hand to hand? No weapons or magic?”   Feyre grinned, shoulders aligning. “Just one round, fight me for real.”   Lucien didn’t immediately realize what a mistake it was. — Elain’s first sign something was off was Nesta’s pale face, crashing through her bedroom door.   It was early enough- the house empty enough- that much like much like Elain pulling Lucien into her bedroom the night before, Nesta looked like herself. Ink already visible on both hands, her wine colored dress without the sleeves laced on, carrying both books and letters balanced under one arm, the Archeron seal clutched golden in the other- this was the real Nesta.   Who tossed herself down on a chaise, catlike, to glare at Elain.   Not at Elain- not really, no true malice could live between the eldest Archerons- at the world. “Feyre didn’t sleep in her room last night.”   The fur blanket tucked around Elain’s shoulders slid to the floor as she turned, taking the comforting smell of Lucien’s hair with it. “Did she stay with Rhysand?”   She’d thought, not yet. Feyre might speak to him like a lover, invade the High Lords space in that half casual way Elain assumed faeries would take very seriously, but they didn’t seem there yet. There was a restraint, hunger in those ancient purple eyes.   Starvation.   Nesta sighed, began to shuffle the books she’d set down into a perfectly straight pile. “No, she took one of the guest rooms. It wasn’t even made up.” It wasn’t even- Feyre had come home, crossed the continent back to the land of their childhoods, and pointedly slept in a room without fresh linen? Or candles, or water brought in?   Elain joined Nesta on the chaise, silk magic warm beneath her.   Feyre’s rooms were exactly where they had been when they were children. The eastern wing, where she could see the sunrise over the gardens from her bedroom. Before the house had been plundered straight to the ground to pay debt- the very beams and rooftiles sold- the room next to it had been a tiny childrens library, just for her.

They’d rebuild it three times the size with more windows than walls. Elain had spent an obscene amount on fine glass, Nesta filled it with supplies from four countries- a studio, for their sister who’d always wanted to make beautiful things.   Elain swallowed the hurt, shared a look with Nesta that said all that needed to be said.   With it went the thoughts she kept thinking seeing Feyre’s face, both utterly young and preternaturally frozen, beautiful. Mortal freckles but no smile lines left. That same unrestrained laugh, but their mother’s blue eyes looked at Rhysand for answers. She was back, she was alive, she was- “Why do you think she came home?”   Nesta handed her the largest envelope.   It contained not one letter, or map, but more than a half dozen missives on blue paper, written by equally many hands. Elain dumped them on the cushions between them and began to read.   Humans in business with faeries had unique tactics to stay ahead. For one thing, compacts bound to bloodline meant most of the immortals didn’t care to know their business partners, after all, by their standard, they’d be dead soon.   But mortals stuck together. Many of their ancestors had been the same once, royal blooded and wild with nothing to loose. Explorers, who’d gone looking for whole new lands to gift their children, bereft of a crowns direct privilege.   Their descendants learned care in the cradle, and the power of passing knowledge.   Blue paper for the secret city’s Court, incendiary powder ink for High Fae information, moon silk ribbons, for Sangravah, the weaving capital of the world.   Elain compared the words, reiterating the same thing again and again, before meeting Nesta’s blazing eyes. “The Night Court has been invaded?”   Of course it had come from a dozen people; merchants made money in conflict. Human worlds changed, when those conflicts were fae. The danger was near suicidal for mortals in magical wars- but those rare survivors ended up rich beyond promise.   “No one knows who it was.” Nesta said lowly, frustrated, “They infilitrated the civilian population, took something, and burnt half the city to the ground once it was found.”   A valuable something, if they needed that much chaos to dissuade pursuit. What did Sangravah have? The best rugs and tapestries in the world. The only port where Dawn Court silk could be bought. Libraries and temples, pink light and poetry.   “Isn’t Sangravah a stone city?”   Nesta’s pale bitten lips said yes without the words. Elain swore.   For something to do with her hands she tipped the book pile closer and read down the spines: Alchemic Fire: A Compendium, Mother’s Moon: The Priestess Orders, and White Stone, Silver Blood, The Complete History of Northern Conquest. That Nesta hadn’t slept wasn’t a question Elain needed to ask, anymore than she knew that she’d find colored coded annotations if she started reading along. Completely illegal tomes, of course, Nesta’s favourite import.   She tried not to picture centuries old stone made molten, leveled to the ground. The heat, the chaos- the magic it would take for that kind of destruction.   “Hybern?” Elain asked, her own doubt clear.   The shake of Nesta’s head knocked loose her hasty updo, wooden pins catching in the freed waves of her dark hair. Recognizing the sheen and sharp points, Elain tried and failed to sympathize with the storm Rhysand had coming.   Nesta was walking around with ash wood in her hair.   “Hybern,” Nesta repeated with equal dubiousness, “Or Night Court rebels, or another Court or the Queen’s Council. Rhysand has more enemies than the thrice damned Plague Lord.” A High Lord who had specialized in bloodline curses- a single faery who’d brought the continent to it’s knees, a thousand years before. Elain wondered if they were of any relation. The male Feyre called Rhys and laughed with seemed to have an equal notoriety with his own people.   And possibly worse power running in his veins.   “Prythian,” Elain began carefully, “Might be even less stable than we know.”   Whispering despite the warding, echoed adrenaline making her awake, awake, awake, Elain managed in a steady voice to tell Nesta about Sorcha. Crowns and the Autumn Lords crimes, asylum waiting in the most foreign of places. — Feyre cheated immediately.   Lucien, who’d once had nightmares about that exact look of mischief on a human face, like a Suriel waiting in the dark, knew it was coming.   So when the youngest Archeron sister rolled out of the snowbank he’d neatly tossed her into with a laugh, Lucien was able to smartly dodge the ice that came railing toward him. Not sharp, but a barrage like giant hail that cracked against tree trunks, sent snow flying.   Feyre had never actually seen how fast Lucien could move.   And he wasn’t trying terribly hard now. If she’d been training with Illyrians all along, she’d be used to superior ungodly strength, but not the speed of High Fae. Even if she hadn’t been given the opportunity, Lucien thought Feyre would have sought it- Nesta’s infuriated face that those were Illyrians, childhood legends made real was evidence enough.   Rather than reengage, half a kind thought to the looming oak behind Feyre had the tree shaking every bit of wet snow off its drooping branches.   The weight of the snow knocked her back down with a groan. “You talk to trees now?”   Lucien straightened from the trunk he’d been leaning against and tried not to sound full of the vague insult he felt, “I always talked to trees.”   Feyre didn’t bother to get back up, shaking the slush from the hugely oversized shoulders of her coat. Narrow eyed, she tilted her head in question. It was still bizarre to see Feyre so- the mix of her human mannerisms and the instincts of a faery body muddled, indistinct. It was even more confusing now that he knew her sisters. When Nesta had the same posture, with her utterly similar and painfully different face, it was all fae- aggression, focus, the shape of a hunt.   Feyre looked baffled. And angry? “How’d you learn that from Spring?”   He waited a beat too long for the quicksilver teasing smile, for the punchline. It was long enough for the temperature to drop several degrees, for her brow to furrow completely. Lucien swore. “You’re joking.”   Incised, Feyre tossed an impressively articulate fireball at him, straight autumnal gold. “Of course I’m not joking. Spring controls plants.” Spring controlled plants. Gods and immortal honey.   “What,” Lucien growled, pausing to dodge Feyre’s barrage of fire, “In the Crones darkest mercies is Rhysand teaching you?”   It was an obvious mistake to snarl Rhysand’s name like that in her hearing. Like he hated the bastard- which in some ways he did. The High Lord, even if it had been Feyre’s idea as Lucien feared, had brought death and danger to the Archeron’s doorstep.   Was, after a sole year of what was clearly painfully basic training, touting her as the greatest magical force in Prythian.   Feyre’s eyes visibly flashed and Lucien braced himself.   But what he was met with was a wall of fire. Not warding, not bloodmagic, not sunfire, but only Autumn’s burning grace.   He could have parted it like a curtain. Eaten it up with hotter flames, pulled back until it belonged to him. It was exactly the sort of magical pageantry Beron insisted upon- no one raised in the Forest House wanted to be the weaker end of that pull.   Disallowed, Lucien’s thoughts still managed to flicker to the crown that fit his head. Day’s gold and Autumn bone, a missing piece, a-   Lucien stepped into the fire.   He could tell she was angry just from its depth, roil. Like stepping into the titanic baths of a Winter chalet, like the Summer court sea; Lucien had forgotten how good it felt. Living heat coiled up his arms, caressed his face.   Swore he could taste just a hint of bonfire on the back of his tongue. The ritual kind that burned and burned under a full moon, hawthorne and rowan, violets and rose. It was, he thought, painfully near the scent of Elain’s rage, protection that littered the air like embers.   Lucien was only aware he’d closed his eyes when it all went away. The world was blinding white, and Feyre was talking so fast her words bled together.   -“why the hell would you do that,” She was saying, “Do you think I actually want to hurt you? Shit, shit shit.” Lucien tried not to smirk, but the action was ruined by his recoil when Feyre grabbed his bare arm with both hands. Not that it stopped her- she kept swearing right up to the moment she actually managed to trace up his arm, staring at his unblemished skin with giant eyes.   Friendly, afraid, and awed; but still Feyre’s touch crawled over his skin with wrongness.   It had a name, a very specific reason, but Lucien wasn’t about to use the word, even in the privacy of his own mind.   Finally he snarled, discomfiture actually real enough for Feyre to drop his arm in sheepish apology. Clearly, some fae things she had learned.   “I don’t understand,” She said, “What just happened? Are you okay?”   It had been easy, Under the Mountain, to forget the savior of Prythian was a teenage girl. “Of course I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me, Feyre.”   Forcefully, Lucien made himself remember that he’d once wanted to be her teacher. Trapped under Tamlin’s rule, less than a shadow of himself, he’d wanted to make sure the world leveling power in her veins didn’t destroy her. Now, he wondered what in Cauldron’s name Feyre had been doing for the last year.   And wished, wished, he’d thought to take a real shirt with him leaving Elain’s rooms.   Feyre was still staring at him in that half hollowed out way that spoke of something like human shock. Lucien made himself smile through the grimace. 

“Fey, you know who I am now? My history?”   Feyre nodded, pulse visible in her throat. “Heir to the Autumn Court.”   He didn’t let himself blink, but it was a near thing. The North still called him heir? How that must burn in Beron’s gut, infuriate Eris.   It wasn’t the right time to explain his banishment, the price on his head. Much less grin over it. “Could you drown Rhysand in darkness?”   Caught between the human impossibility of Lucien’s utter lack of injury and what she had been taught was a fearsome faery weapon, it was a long moment in the frozen morning before Feyre smiled again.   “He’d like to see me try,” She drawled, giving much more information that Lucien really wanted but- “You’re flame retardant? “   Lucien laughed, but the warning bells hadn’t stopped. There was no one in their history who’d ever had the power Feyre did. Some things were universal to High Fae; instinct and strength, winnowing and healing, longevity and vengeance. But even a faery child born whose parents had mixed two court bloodlines, or grandparents, or great grandparents- it could happen for generations down, still the result would be the same. A favoring of one, maybe two Court’s vital skills.   There were theories about how it worked. That the solar courts had more malleable, airy skill, but the elementals blood was more physically shaping.   Lucien himself was not a good example.   He’d taken the name Vanserra the second he could for a reason- he’d favored completely Sorcha’s skills from the cradle. There had always been talk along with it- Lucien who burned a little too bright, whose very name was light like his mothers.   Remarks about his deeper skin, the shape of his mouth, and the height he grew into- so unlike his siblings.   The last Vanserra heir. It was the savagery that saved him long enough to grow; had the Lady of Autumn’s whole family not been slaughtered? The male heirs had disappeared centuries before, the loss of all the rest to Hybern was a tragedy that bore the mark of Beron’s fingerprints.   Of course Lucien would be unloved- hated. So different than Beron, than his brothers- yet still the most powerful son of all. A walking reminder of crimes and bloodshed, it made a very Autumn sort of sense.   Lucien was a very Autumn-blessed faery.   But that didn’t mean he didn’t receive a basic education on other courts before his banishment. He was not fire retardant- like calls to like. Too much an Autumn blaze to ever feel anything but it’s embrace; but sunfire would burn him. A ward twinged with Summer’s roaring heat could wound.   He wasn’t the child of every Court like her- but he knew the difference.   Lucien kept right on smiling, despite the peaked horror. How could she be ready for war?   “Not inflammable,” He drawled right back, laid on an eye-roll whose familiarity brightened her smile, “Just Autumn born.”   Liquid fast, Feyre reached out to tug on a long red tied braid in his hair, “I would have never guessed.”   Could she smell Elain on the ribbon?   Not letting the thought show, Lucien swatted at her playfully. He loved her- not like he loved Nesta, but affection all the same. Her youth scared him. “So fires so easy,” He asked, “Are you getting all the elements now?”   Feyre started walking again, meandering toward the house as she talked. Fire and water, darkness and wind. Was it actually possible a drop of each court wasn’t enough to obtain their more esoteric skills?   Or had she simply not learnt to access them?   “-the hardened wind shielding is dead useful, not sure if it’s Day or Summer. The same with the light show, but I don’t know what it does”-   “Light show?” Lucien interrupted.   Feyre raised her eyebrows. “Sometimes when fire won’t come I get light instead, this kind of glow?”   Summer Court light was weapon, she’d have known if she conjured it accidentally. But if it went along with flame-   Lucien summoned a ball of flame. He didn’t need to hold it over his hand like a showman, but it would be better for his point. “Is all your fire red?”   Feyre only made a face in response.   He started slow, relying on the old adage that instinct would catch up once possibilities were realized. Red to orange, orange to gold, gold to peach and pink. Pink to the burning, seething white he carried around in his chest, the natural color of Lucien’s flames.   Delight and determination shaped Feyre’s face, before she mimicked it perfectly.   The white of the snowing, pristine world before had nothing, nothing, on the gleam and glow. It was identical. But, but- Lucien realized, flames gutting out, it wasn’t fire.   Pure magic, the rise of the sun that fed the world. Feyre couldn’t tell what the light did, because she hadn’t let it loose on darkness. It was cleansing, hungry as his own flames. Daylight.   Enchantment had always been Lucien’s specialty.   Now that he let himself think it, the prospect that he’d never questioned was insane. His mother was a creature of blood and the Bone Forest- her spells were binding, clever. Had he ever seen her break one?   Had her flames ever eaten magic, destruction tempering in a whole new shape?   The fire of High Fae is not always, simply, fire.

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

 @donnarosemary

[sunshineandfangs]

The Long Way Home

Day Five (October 11th - Friday): Different Time Period

Klaus and Caroline in the 1920′s? Klaus and Caroline as Originals and their adventures throughout the centuries? Is Caroline sent to the past and has to deal with a Klaus from that time? Is Klaus sent to the future and sees himself with Caroline? Royalty AUs? Regency Era? So many possibilities!

This is always something I thought about so I decided to write the snapshot version. Some angst again, though not Klaroline related.

---

Caroline watched her fellow blonde from the shadows. She was beautiful and vibrant and so achingly young. Physically of course, Caroline did not look a single year older than the other girl. Both of them appearing an eternal seventeen. However, the discerning would note the differences in their eyes, their demeanor.

That girl didn’t walk with an edge of lethal grace, always one move away from being able to attack or defend. She didn’t carry a confidence built over ages, the kind one gains when they had to fight for their right to exist and came out on top. There wasn’t a weight in her eyes that came from the slow build of weariness, from that near constant fight.

So, the two of them could hardly be more different for all that they were once the same person. She supposed that’s what over a thousand years of separation did to a person.

---

To be quite truthful, Caroline almost didn’t return to Mystic Falls. The people, the events that had once been the entirety of her short life were now little more than vague memories. They were strangers with familiar faces, as if remembered from a dream. And she would be the strangest of them all, an entirely different person from who they knew.

The worst moments of this younger Caroline’s life were waking confused and hungry in a hospital. Her mind reeling from what felt like PMS on hyperdrive and then an influx of what couldn’t be memories. Almost dying a second time to her rapist and the pain of her friend’s rejection, for all that she hid it with snark and flippancy. All terrible things to befall anyone let alone a teenager.

But she had yet to experience the stunned horror of waking to a village being devoured by flame. Of having the rancid, acrid scent of burning corpses so thick in the air she could taste it in the smoke. Or the dawning realization of where she was, when she was. The denial that she had dearly wanted to sink into when she spotted a familiar river with no bridge, a waterfall surrounded by several dozens more trees.

And yet she had not been able to afford such a luxury as panic. Not when she realized she could not understand a word anyone spoke to her. When she had to use her superior strength and speed to fight off men that wanted to kill her, rape her, enslave her. And even those that may have had good intentions, but whom she still couldn’t understand. Everything felt like a threat when she was so lost and clueless.

The next blow came later. For it had truly broken her heart to feel relieved that compulsion transcended language barriers. To have to rely on a tool that once decimated her own mind just to survive, to have the chance to fit in and find a way home. 

Fortunately or unfortunately, desperation was a cruel but effective teacher. High school Spanish had been half-remembered vocabulary and grammar rules, a middling grasp on the written and spoken word. In comparison, the languages of the few settlers that remained came quickly. Even as she tried not to think about how one sounded vaguely Norwegian or Icelandic, how she suspected it was Old Norse. Or how the tongue of what she came to realize were the natives, didn’t have a modern equivalent to her knowledge.

Then, just as she was finding her feet, she learned the harshest lesson of them all. There was always something worse. Hope could not die faster than when a powerful witch confirmed all her worst fears. When they sensed the magic of their descendant in her ring and the magic of her monster in her blood. 

Ayana spoke to her just long enough to tear the last remnants of her denials to shreds. And then achingly remind her of home as familiar features twisted with familiar disdain. She had refused to aid an abomination, telling her instead to pray for a quick death.

Caroline harbored no shame for the way she fled in tears. Decades later she would feel only disgust that an adult would let prejudices blind them to the plight of a child. But she was proud of the way she rallied. How she determinedly moved from tribe to tribe across the ancient Americas, learning dozens of new languages and making both friends and enemies. Painstakingly building trust and learning of new magics all in the hopes of home.

It failed.

She spent weeks, months, filthy and near starving to travel across the sea to the Old World. To do it all again. To fail again.

It wasn’t until somewhere in her fifth century that Caroline stopped trying so hard. Such an idea would have once been unfathomable, but truly all she was doing was making herself miserable. Fighting so hard to return to people whose faces grew blurrier by the decade. To people whose mental labels were “best friend,” but who had been long supplanted in her mind by centuries of other companions. Some whom had long died and she had mourned. Some whom she had turned and met up with every so often. So, why look back when she could look forward?

Another five hundred years would see her “home” anyway.

---

Caroline witnessed the precise moment when her past self was whisked away in a storm of magical energy. She read the startelement and fear on her face and felt something in her own chest twist, not quite in pain but also not quite in happiness, knowing as she did exactly what that girl’s next thousand years would be like.

A thousand years, and she supposed this place still had an effect on her after all, for she didn’t immediately try to take the place of her other self. Instead, she lingered in the shadows, watched with another odd pang that no one made a fuss about her disappearance. 

They got a pass when she spotted Elijah in town. Though she had never personally met any of the Originals, wanting to stay well clear of their mess, she hardly lived under a rock. She knew who they were, knew their reputations. Even saw most of them from a distance once or twice. 

It wasn’t worth the energy to hold grudges against strangers for their prudence in priorities.

---

A few weeks later, Caroline found herself drinking in a bar. Not the Mystic Grill. Some other establishment she hadn’t bothered to remember the name of, one on the outskirts of Mystic Falls.

The alcohol burned as it raced down her throat, her glass emptying far quicker than she would like. She frowned down at it as she traced the rim with her finger, not sure how she should feel. Elena was sacrificed. Elena was resurrected. All without Caroline needing to lift a finger. Her involvement or rather lack thereof made her feel guilty. Or perhaps her lack of guilt made her feel guilty. Should she be feeling conflicted in the first place?

She had called them strangers with familiar faces. And...and it was true. She looked at them and felt a startling lack. Only the memory of a memory of their once importance elicited any emotion for them at all. So perhaps she should treat them like strangers. Build new bonds should their paths cross, but otherwise go about her own business.

Tension she hadn’t realized she had been holding left her shoulders. A weight she had long carried lifted as she, at last, truly let her past go. It only took another five hundred years…

“Caroline Forbes,” an accented voice mused behind her, startling her from her thoughts.

She turned, admonishing herself for her carelessness. When her eyes fell on the person behind her, his blonde curls and deceptive dimples, a true litany of internal curses rang in her head.

Always something worse.

He likely noticed the way her eyebrow twitched a fraction, but that was all the reaction she allowed to slip.

With a polite nod she returned his greeting, “Klaus.”

There was a curious expression on his face and he didn’t wait for an invitation to step closer, invading her space.

“I rather delighted in Katerina’s misery when she learned you had so thoroughly slipped the noose she had placed around your throat. I even had a fond thought or two for the baby vampire who managed to vex her so.”

He cocked his head as he looked at her, eyes dark and assessing. Humans might have thought his demeanor casual and friendly, but the predator that lived in her veins knew better.

“Yet somehow you’re not a baby vampire at all, are you, love?”

There was no point in lying. Not when he could surely feel her age as she could feel his.

“No,” she said simply.

He made a soft, contemplative noise. “Katerina is not nearly foolish enough to mistake a human for a vampire. So, however has this come to be, hm?”

Caroline didn’t bother to smother the light laugh that erupted from her chest. “It’s a long story.”

“I always have time to learn of curiosities, love.” Threats, she heard unspoken. “And this is a rather unique time for curiosities. Why don’t you join me for the summer?”

She knew it wasn’t a suggestion. And the only thing worse than being noticed by an Original is angering one. Besides, she could use the time away from Mystic Falls, the last remnants of her attachment left at the bottom of a shot glass.

With an easy shrug she stood from the bar stool, setting a few large bills on the wood.

“Lead the way.”

A smirk crawled across his face. One she didn’t flinch or cower from, and only lightly tensed when he guided her out with a hand to the small of her back.

“I rather think we shall have fun, you and I, love.”

---

So Caroline accidentally time traveled just after Elena was rescued post-masquerade. Therefore, due to time travel shenanigans with her arriving just as the Originals were leaving technically Caroline is older than them in vampire years lol. By a few weeks but still, that’s hilarious. Though she’s not stronger since I headcanon the Originals have more strength than normal vampires even when matched for age. Fights could still go either way though of course. She certainly closest in strength to them than any other vampire.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Sing Once Again With Me: The Point of No Return (The Witcher; A Phantom of the Opera AU)

A/N: Strap in folks, we’re in the homestretch now. And all that entails. Word Count: 1400 Content Warning: None Taglist: @ficsandcatsandficsandcats @joz-stankovich @sennextheassasinkingoflight Previous Chapter: We Have All Been Blind/Twisted Every Way Cross-posted to AO3: here

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jaskier waited in the wings for his cue. He couldn’t see Geralt, who had taken up a position on Box Five, through the small silver of curtain he peered from, and for that he was strangely grateful, the bitterness of being kept in the dark, of not being included on something that so intimately involved him, still staining his heart and souring his tongue. The glimpses he caught of the adoring crowd added a rush of excitement to the tension pooling in his belly.

He understood why Geralt had lied to him, and to the others. The White Wolf was far too used to being alone and trusting only himself. But it made Jaskier feel like a burden to the witcher, just another thing in the way. Again. It frightened him how easily the deception had seemed to be to Geralt, and how much it felt like being left behind or sent away, flashing scenes of the last time it happened across the bard’s anxious mind.

And then he spotted his cue and there was no time to think on it further as he stepped onto the boards, his only hesitation in-character.

~

Geralt shifted anxiously, every sense on high alert. Jaskier was just stepping out onto the stage, but there had so far been no sign of “Valdo.”

His voice was soft, low timbre full of promise and desire. Every fiber of Geralt’s body tensed, practically vibrating with the conflicting emotions running through him, and when Jaskier’s voice broke on a particular note it took all of his willpower not to leap off the balcony to take him into his arms.

And still there was no sign. Had his instincts been wrong? He wasn’t sure what he would do if that was the case, since this was likely their last real shot. Geralt scanned the room. One of the guards in disguise shifted nervously in his seat.

The curtains at the back of the stage fluttered. A masked dancer emerged, stalking toward Jaskier silently where he sat, vulnerable and open, not seeing or caring about the threat. Geralt had to remind himself that this was all part of the show and Jaskier was in no real danger.

The masked man began to sing and Jaskier startled, imperceptible if not for his witcher senses, before relaxing again, turning slowly, a seductive glance over his shoulder that sent a thrill up Geralt’s spine, a second’s distraction as he wished he was the one Jaskier was looking at that way.

~

His voice was warm, honey-toned and deep, a purr striking straight to the core. Each slow, flowing step brought him circling closer, a shark toward a wounded seal. Jaskier felt like a gull caught in a fisher’s net, trapped and tangled, unable to fly away. Yet somehow, the words that the Phantom sung soothed him, the desire to flee diminishing with every line, leaving him breathless and utterly still.

He tried to stick to the script even as his mind went blank and the Phantom’s fathomless green eyes burned into him. They faced each other on the stage, the space between them a gulf or easily crossed in a matter of seconds. As he sang of succumbing to the passion between the characters, he felt it in his soul. He wanted nothing more than to give in, to do whatever he was commanded, now and forever.

Ever so slowly, they approached one another. The rest of the world melted away until he and Valdo were all that existed. Gloved fingers rose to caress his face. He leaned into the touch, nearly forgetting to sing as he did.

~

Geralt watched the scene play out with dawning horror. They hadn’t been able to spot the Phantom in the crowd because he had been waiting in the shadows backstage, waiting to come forward. The show had indeed been a trap, but they were the ones caught in it.

Geralt felt like such an idiot. Of course he would star in his own show. And why not, when it gave him power? All eyes were on him, especially Jaskier’s, and no one could reach him. If he chose to, he could kill the blue-eyed bard and several dancers before anyone could intervene. He gave a signal to the guards anyway, and several of them slipped out of position to begin circling. It was time for damage control.

~

Valdo smirked. He watched the witcher and the city guards out of the corner of his eye, even as Jaskier’s mind surrendered to his influence. For his little songbird, the line between reality and the story was blurring and merging.

“I told you that you would always be mine,” he murmured, taking the last step and pulling the blue-eyed man to press back-to-chest against him. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Jaskier’s ear and made sure that the words were only for him, and not their equally enraptured audience. “You belong to me.”

~

Valdo’s face glowed in the flickering firelight, shadows and valleys forming jack-o-lantern skeletons, dancing and warping his features with every breath as Jaskier gazed up at him over his shoulder.

“From now until forever,” he promised breathlessly.

Pearl-white teeth flashed. “I had hoped you’d say that Songbird. But first, you have a show to do.”

A shiver ran down Jaskier’s spine, hot breath tickling his neck. He wanted nothing more than to stay there, caged in Valdo’s strong grip, in uncaring bliss. But even back at Oxenfurt, Valdo had always been a consummate professional and refused to leave anything unfinished.

As he stepped away from the embrace to carry on, a flash of silver caught his attention. Geralt, jaw clenched and back rigid, amber eyes shining with tears. Staring at him, and at Valdo. Of course he would see it, would know how much there was in this that wasn’t acting.

He felt like his mind was trying to tear itself in two. A part of him wanted to forget the whole thing, to jump off the stage and into Geralt’s arms, to insist that they get Roach immediately and flee, to wherever Geralt thought best as long as it came with the promise to never return here. But the rest of him boiled with rage and hatred. How dare he come here, after so long, after everything he had put Jaskier through, and ruin the good things that he now had. The witcher had never been anything but selfish and vile.

The world spun and he thought he might faint.

The audience applauded, startling him completely and breaking his concentration on either of the men. Somehow, even as he was tormented by his feelings, he had finished the song and done it well.

He turned to Valdo for the next part, spotting guards creeping up as he did. And suddenly, he reached up, seized the cold black mask, and ripped it from the Phantom’s face before he even knew fully what he was doing.

Gasps and at least one scream rippled through the room.

Valdo’s face twisted in a snarl.

The guard leapt forward, swords drawn, at the same time that a hand wrapped around Jaskier’s throat. Once again his back was pulled against Valdo’s torso, a shield now instead of a lover’s embrace.

“That was your last mistake,” Valdo growled coldly, squeezing his airway.

The mask dropped from slack fingers as he silently begged for air. Everyone froze, watching each other for what would come next.

Valdo drew a blade of his own from some hidden place within his costume and pulled backwards toward the curtains and the rigging. Stopping before one of the thick ropes, he sliced.

Jaskier’s eyes fell to the label just before the blade connected and cast his expression upward, hoping that Geralt would catch the warning in it.

~

Geralt dove out of the way just as the great, crystal chandelier over the center of the stage came swinging, crashing down.

When the spray of glass and initial burst of flame cleared, Valdo and Jaskier were nowhere to be seen. The audience and cast and crew panicked, fleeing, screaming, drowning out all other sounds and threatening to overwhelm his sensitive hearing.

Geralt growled, forcing himself to his feet and charging into the warren of halls behind the theater, seeking Yennefer with a desperation that in that moment made up all of his being.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

What would u say are the best and worst book narrated by each character ?

I sat down to come up with my least favorite book by each narrator and had a pretty easy time of it — there’s an unfortunate dip in quality in the series around #39 - #43 that I can point to as definitely not my faves — and then ended up totally baffled by how to choose JUST ONE favorite book by each narrator, because such a task is almost impossible.  In conclusion, I really love Animorphs, as you probably never would have guessed from reading this blog.  So, with a little cheating, here goes:

Tobias

Least favorite: #43, The Test

The plot of this book pretty much requires that all of the characters, but most notably Rachel and Jake, act in ways that really don’t fit with their behavior for the rest of the series.  My cynical hypothesis about What Was The Ghost Even Thinking rhymes with schmender schtereotyping, but even if I more kindly assume that everyone was just acting strange to jerk Taylor around, I can’t really enjoy this book.

Favorite: #49, The Diversion

Tobias’s point of view works so well for this book, because its plot draws attention to his status as a partial outsider not only for human society as a whole but also for his team.  He’s literally trapped in a liminal space that here actually gives him a lot of perspective on his friends’ families — and the importance of sticking close to his own.  (And by that I mean 93% Ax, 7% Loren.)

Other favorite: #23, The Pretender

Speaking of Tobias being sort of stuck between roles, this book is so good because it shows the strength of his position as both able to access and able to escape being human.  He moves flexibly between a ton of different roles in this book — a leader to the hork-bajir, a supporter to Jake, a parent to himself, a son to Elfangor, a quasi-hawk, a quasi-human, a quasi-andalite — and does so with astounding grace and aplomb.  Resting bitchface has never seemed like a cooler accidental superpower.

Another favorite: #33, The Illusion

This book is the brutal shadow-self to #23, instead shutting Tobias out of a whole bunch of different roles over the course of the plot.  It does however contain one of the series’s best villains (Taylor is terrifyingly sympathetic) and some of its best moments of heartwarming body horror in the final battle.

Ax

Least favorite: #8, The Alien

Honestly, there’s nothing really wrong with this book, but there’s nothing amazingly right about it either.  It has a few great moments (Jake’s naïve optimism at the kandron’s destruction giving way to fear for Tom, Ax having dinner with Cassie’s family, Tobias definitely not tattling on Ax) but overall the plot is just kind of inane and doesn’t do much to move the series forward.

Favorite: #38, The Arrival

Estrid et al. act as such a cool check-in for not only how much Ax has grown as a person through spending too much time around humans, but also how much the team as a whole has grown until they are actually more effective warriors than a group of battle-trained andalite assassins.  Every time I reread this book I end up making noises of triumph and fist-pumping the air, no matter how public my location is at the time.

Favorite favorite: #46, The Deception

This plot hinges on the stark contrast between Ax’s terrible and unavoidable awareness about the horror of open war and the Animorphs’ lack of standard of comparison beyond “hey, remember D-Day?”  MM3 and #28 both do important work to condemn humanity from the outside, but this book actually uses Ax’s perspective primarily for celebrating the whole human species from an outsider’s point of view.

Marco

Least favorite: #40, The Other

As I’ve mentioned here, at this book’s core is an interesting concept that very emphatically does not age well.  On top of the cringe-inducing attempt at an After School Special treatment of the idea that (*gasp*) queer men with AIDS are human too, it also has a largely nonsensical plot that strains both credulity and logic.

Favorite: #25, The Extreme

It’s a brilliant use of Marco’s perspective to comment on the constraints and terrifying outer reaches of Jake’s leadership, one that also contains a highly enjoyable mix of humor and horror.  Because Marco.  I could reread this one a thousand times and still find new aspects of the narration to delight in.

Also favorite: #15, The Escape

This book makes amazing use of Marco’s unreliable narration and lack of self-insight to contrast his willingness to imagine himself confronting sharks with his willingness to run from them upon a real encounter, along with his determination to kill his mom and his inability to stop himself from saving her.  Marco is at his most human in this book, and also his most lovable.

Also also favorite: #51, The Absolute

The governor of probably-California is one of my favorite minor characters in the series, and I absolutely love the dynamic between Marco-Tobias-Ax any time it occurs (this book, #46, #30, #49), meaning that this surprisingly fun aside acts as a much-needed breath of fresh air and comic relief in between the Animorphs losing the morphing cube (#50) and blowing up the Yeerk Pool (#52).  Plus, Marco + tank  = OTP.

Cassie

Least favorite: #39, The Hidden

I’ve said most of this before, but this book is just… nonsensical.  And it’s not delightfully nonsensical like parts of #26 or #14, it’s mostly cringe-inducingly nonsensical.

Favorite: #29, The Sickness

Arguably this is the best Animorphs book, both IMHO and by fan consensus.  It’s got a simple but devlishly difficult plot, a ton of great characterization moments for all six kids, a handful of brilliant devices and settings that meld beautifully to Cassie’s overall character arc, and a wide-reaching perspective on the importance of overcoming difference that is a huge part of what makes these books so good.  It’s also funny, horrifying, edge-of-your-seat engaging, and tear-inducingly beautiful at the very end.

Also my favorite: #4, The Message

Whereas #29 is probably just hands-down the best book ever written, #4 holds a special place in my heart because it’s the first Animorphs book I ever read and the one that convinced me to go find the rest of the series.  This one is sweet and mystical, bleak with the dawning realization that these poor defenseless cinnamon rolls are in this war alone but also hopeful with the realization that these precious cinnamon rolls are in this war together.

Jake

Least favorite: #47, The Resistance

Although I’m of the opinion that #41 is more poorly-plotted, this book manages to be both poorly plotted and glaringly racist.  Its plot doesn’t make sense on several different levels, not the least that Visser Three knows how to find the hork-bajir valley in this book and then apparently forgets how to get there for the entire rest of the series.  And don’t get me started on Jake’s reprehensible behavior from the moment he casually declares Tom “as good as dead,” through to him trying to boss Toby about what’s best for Toby herself, all the way on to him being a jerk to Rachel and Marco. Blah.

Favorite: #31, The Conspiracy

Unlike #47, this book actually makes really good use of Jake’s character flaws to drive the plot forward — he’s bad at being vulnerable, and that ends up being a huge problem for his team.  It also leans hard on the irony of Jake being the only one with a “textbook” family (i.e. upper-middle class, heteronormative and monogamous, European-American, traditionally gendered, outwardly happy) and also being the only one under constant threat for his life any time he’s at home, thereby accomplishing one of the series’s better comments on the fact that children’s lives aren’t as simple as we’d like to think.

Favoriter: #53, The Answer

There are definitely flaws with RL implications in this book, but the plot is so freaking brilliant that I can still regard it as a Problematic Fave.  The final battle is so well-engineered and the Moral Event Horizon is so terrifying as it swings by that I assign this book to myself for rereading any time I’m struggling to write action or battle.  It’s a scary, awful book, but also a very fitting capstone to the series.

Favoritest: #26, The Attack

This setting is so cool.  This plot is so cosmic and yet so personal.  This use of the chee is so bitingly brilliant in its commentary on pacifism as a luxury not everyone can afford.  This story has so many moments that are either heartbreaking callbacks (the opening scene with Tom’s memories from #6) or bloodcurdling foreshadowing (Jake and Rachel’s casually absolute trust that each will be willing and able to kill the other if necessary).  This narration feels like a middle-aged and yet middle-school protagonist struggling to figure out who he wants to be — and defeating a cosmic power at its own game with the power of love.  I could gush forever.

Rachel

Least favorite: #48, The Return

Again, there’s nothing truly wrong with this book; it’s just a silly and inconsequential aside into the main character’s maybe-dreams at a time when the plot outside her head is heating up to the boiling point.  It makes this whole thing come off kind of like Bilbo sleeping through the Battle of Five Armies.

Favorite: #27, The Exposed

I’m not normally a big one for romance, but this book makes me ship Rachel and Tobias so hard that my tiny bitter walnut of a heart grows two sizes every time I read it.  Rachel has such great self-awareness that she doesn’t like any situation she cannot control or at least do violent battle against, and yet she dives into the bottom of the ocean with both eyes open and her chin up because that’s what she has to do to protect the rest of her team.  Crayak has no idea what he’s talking about when it comes to asking her to turn on her loved ones.

Additional favorite: #32, The Separation

As I’ve said, I didn’t really get this book until I realized that it’s not so much about Rachel herself as it is about how the rest of her team views her, and how she defies their simple categorizations, both well-meaning (Cassie) and not (Jake), through simply being herself.  Rachel is both masculine and feminine, both tough and vulnerable, and she makes no apologies for any of it.

And another favorite: #37, The Weakness

This book has an important role for the rest of the series in that it shows how the Animorphs’ guerilla tactics can easily be taken too far, and also how Jake’s discernment of his teammates’ strengths and weaknesses keeps them all alive.  Rachel makes a fair number of logical-seeming decisions in this book that prove short-sighted, and of course it all leads to her and Jake’s brutal Checkovian epiphany at the end.

Added additional also favorite: #22, The Solution

A brutal but powerful read, this book focuses on the ugliest parts of Rachel’s personality (her sadism toward David) but also the most powerful ones (her compassion for Saddler and protectiveness toward both Jake and Jordan).  It also shows that her reckless taste for violence and her boundless desire to protect her families both biological and found are actually two sides of the same part of her personality.

Okay I have a lot of favorite Rachel books: #17, The Underground

It’s oat-freaking-meal.  Only it’s not just oat-freaking-meal, and I’m not talking about the extra-tasty maple and ginger flavoring.  It’s a biological weapon.  It’s a way to harm the enemy, but only through harming prisoners of war.  It’s a social dilemma the like of which we rarely see in children’s books.  It’s a lesson in decision making under uncertainty.  It’s a moral imperative, but no one is quite sure what that imperative is saying.  It’s a deconstruction of the implied assumption that it’s possible to write adventure stories in which no one gets hurt.  It’s awesome.  It’s hilarious.  It’s disturbing as fuck.  Welcome to Animorphs.

[desitubetk-blog]

The 10 Best PlayStation 4 Exclusive Games

http://www.desitube.tk/?p=6519

The 10 Best PlayStation 4 Exclusive Games

So, You got the Playstation 4 console system. You now confused to where and which to start to play games one by one. It's really hard to choose the right games for begginers to choose. Because Playstation 4 has lot of best games to play and most of them it's exclusives. So don't be confused, let us guide you with Top 10 Must Play Playstation 4 Exclusives Games. We are going to show you the list containing games from every category that are very popular. Relax and enjoy the list below.    

10. Uncharted: Nathan Drake Collection

Uncharted is an third person shooter action adventure platform video game series. Naughty Dog developed it and Sony Interactive Entertainment published it only on PlayStation consoles. The series follows treasure hunter Nathan Drake as he travels around the world to uncover various historical mysteries. Nathan Drake is a modern-day Indiana Jones. He travels the world seeking adventure and priceless artifacts.        

9. Until Dawn

Until Dawn is an interactive drama adventure survival horror video game. Supermassive Games developed it and Sony Computer Entertainment published it on the PlayStation 4. If you fan of horror games then you must try Until Dawn. Featured in Western Canada, Until Dawn centers around a group of eight teenagers who decide to vacation for a night in a cabin in the woods. You get to play as each of the characters in turn, making decisions about how they react and where they hide when the killer comes creeping. The choices determine who lives and dies. The developer has stated that Until Dawn has "hundreds of endings" but that should not be taken literally. Different endings have different variations depending on the combination of characters alive at the end of the game.    

8. MLB: The Show 17

MLB The Show 17 is a (MLB) Major League Baseball  video game. Sony San Diego developed and Sony Interactive Entertainment published it on Playstation 4 Console. It is the twelfth entry of the MLB: The Show. If you want to play a best Baseball game then you must play MLB The Show 17 and MLB The Show 16. The game features more game modes, such as Road To The Show and an all-new franchise mode. In addition, Battle Royale and  Conquest Mode have been added into the game. Which turns the sport into a kind of turn-based strategy game.        

7. Killzone: Shadow Fall

Killzone Shadow Fall is a first-person shooter video game. Guerrilla Games developed it and Sony Computer Entertainment published it for Playstation 4. It's a first-person shooter in a science fiction setting. It is the sixth game of the Killzone series and the fourth game of the series for home consoles. It's popular for its multiplayer modes, visuals and art design. In addition, with single-player story mode mode and several gameplay features. As of January 2014, Killzone Shadow Fall has sold 2.1 million copies. Making it the first PlayStation 4 game to pass the million copy mark and the second best-selling PlayStation 4 game.      

6. The Last Guardian

The Last Guardian is an action-adventure video game. SIE Japan Studio developed it and Sony Computer Entertainment published it for the PlayStation 4. In this game players control a young boy who befriends a giant half bird and half cat-dog creature named Trico. Both teamed together to solve the puzzles in very beautiful high-graphics environment. Much like its predecessors, Ico and Shadow of the Colossus, The Last Guardian is a third-person perspective game that combines puzzle elements and action-adventure.        

5. InFAMOUS: Second Son

Infamous Second Son is an action-adventure open world video game. Sucker Punch Productions developed it and Sony Computer Entertainment published it for the PlayStation 4. Same like in previous Infamous games. The player-controlled a young boy with superpower abilities that players use in combat and when traveling across the city. The story follows protagonist named Delsin Rowe fighting the Department of Unified Protection (D.U.P.) in a fictionalized Seattle. Playing further Delsin acquires new powers and becomes either good or evil as player choices influence his morality.        

4. Bloodborne

Bloodborne is an action role playing video game. FromSoftware developed it and Sony Computer Entertainment published it. The game was released worldwide for only on PlayStation 4. The game is played from a third-person perspective. Players control a customizable protagonist named Hunter. Gameplay is focused on weapons-based combat and exploration. Players battle beastly and varied enemies. Including bosses, with items such as swords and firearms. Intrested journey through the story in the decrepit Gothic, Victorian era inspired city of Yharnam.      

3. God Of War 4

God of War is an upcoming action adventure third person video game. Santa Monica Studio development it and Sony Interactive Entertainment published it for the PlayStation 4. It is the eighth installment in the biggest hit God of War series. The eighth chronologically, and the sequel to 2010's God of War III. The game will be a soft reboot for the franchise and will take the series to the world of Norse mythology. Previous games were all based on Greek mythology. Old main hero Kratos will return as the main character and he now has a son named Atreus. Kratos acts as a mentor and protector to his son. He has to master the rage that has driven him for many years.    

2. Horizon Zero Dawn

Horizon Zero Dawn is an action role playing video game. Guerrilla Games developed and Sony Interactive Entertainment published it for the PlayStation 4. The game features an open world environment for Aloy to explore. It's Divided into tribes that hold side quests to undertake. While the main story guides her throughout the whole world. The game story revolve female character Aloy. A hunter and archer living in a world overrun by robots. Having been outcast her whole life. Aloy sets out to discover the dangers that kept her sheltered. The character makes use of melee weapons , stealth tactics and ranged to combat the mechanised creatures. Resources can be looted. A skill tree facilitates gameplay improvements.     1. Uncharted 4 Uncharted 4: A Thief's End is an action-adventure video game. Naughty Dog developed it and Sony Computer Entertainment published it for the PlayStation 4 video game console. Set several years after the events of Uncharted 3: Drake's Deception. Uncharted 4 follows series Hero Nathan Drake, Who has retired from fortune hunting. He reunites with his older brother Sam and longtime partner Sully. He search for clues to the location of Captain Henry Avery's long-lost treasure to save his brother. Nathan Drake lives a life that would make even Indiana Jones jealous. Doing things like climbing steep cliffs, getting in epic shootouts, blowing up vehicles and Hand to Hand Combat. This time with more realistic graphics, Amazing sound track, More Intresting Story and super gameplay. It's must have to play title. We sure it you like, Just try it.     So, how about the article. We sure you all really love to read this list of Top 10 Must Play Playstation 4 Exclusives Games. Please don’t forget to share it. Bookmark it or add it to favorites for enjoy further updates. Thanks…

[notthedyingtype]

@dcwnseeker // jess studied with mike: "“What’s the quote? Nothing is… Nothing is ever… Oh, I was useless at literature, I always asked Ashley for help.”"

hannah &&. beth had been missing for almost a year now, the anniversary arriving sooner than he was willing to think about -- the guilt of the hand he played in that stupid prank gone wrong still keeping him awake most nights into the early morning hours.

ambien wasn't helping much anymore, but he was still grateful when it did.

pen rests idly between forefinger &&. middle, staring down at the blurred lines of blue on white -- that line of questions long forgotten in a distant haze, english not his worse, or his best, subject but simply lost to distant thoughts at the back of his mind instead of ms. finnegrey's assignment.

gentle nails against his forearm draw his attention back into reality, turning dark brown hues over to the blonde at his side. brows knit together as he listens, humming softly in the back of his throat.

nothing is? that's all she could remember. nothing is forever? nothing is set in stone? nothing is a lonely word? nothing is all i am without you? the list was endless there so he shoots for one that seemed to be general use by the public. "nothing is set in stone?"

[notthedyingtype]

@poisonpicked // jax confessed feelings to mike: "“I love you, And you don’t need to say it back, or even reciprocate. I just needed you to know.”"

trust had been a big thing for mike - it still was - &&. letting that trust run freely into the night up on that mountain made him reel it in to help clear up some loose ends. but, death took those loose ends away before he could trim them free. he went up to that lodge with eight friends &&. returned with two. one he kept regular contact with &&. the other practically lived with him -- &&. he wouldn't trade that out for anything in the world.

jax had this way of making him feel comfortable, even in the dark, &&. mike was ever grateful for that. eight fingers lightly dance along the line of the other males jaw, content to just lay here &&. let the night pass them by. that is until jax speaks, breaking the heavy silence that had laid around them.

"i love you, &&. you don’t need to say it back, or even reciprocate. i just needed you to know."

&&. there is a weight that hangs around his heart now. one he can't, nor will he want, to shake it free. those eight fingers still at the back of his jaw, deep brown hues that hold a depth of exhaustion &&. pain lock onto jax's own, hesitating before breaking that silence between them once again. "i... i love you too. i have for a while &&. i was afraid to tell you because i was afraid to lose you."

[notthedyingtype]

brows stitch together as one corner of his lips curls down into an animated frown, fairly certain he heard her correctly this time, but not absolutely certain if he did or not. it's the text that clarifies everything. it took eons to load, but the message came through just fine. washington lodge. all the pieces came together finally -- a place to celebrate where they lost friends years before. of course. he had seen the stories in papers, had even talked with sam in passing about losing friends before she left for this trip, he just couldn't remember the name of the location.

"'m on my way, sam. just hang tight." he'd get help along the way if the call dropped, &&. if it didn't; he'd have to drop the call to get help in. no one else needed to die on that mountain top. not if he had a say in the matter. he'd reach out to burke, use his connections there to get a free helicopter ride up &&. a call to the rangers.

he was owed a favor or two.

jason is hesitant to say anything about his plan, but she needed to know in case it came to it. even if she may not hear the full brunt of it. "look, sam, 'm gonna get help up there to you. i may have to drop the call to d'so. i won't try callin' back, i don't want you or anyone else gettin' hurt, but i promise help will be there. i'll be there." soon. he's already thinking about how he'll be approaching burke for the ride up there.

"Washington. Lodge." She says it again, hoping beyond hope that he can hear her. He'd told her he was in the marines, and if that isn't the type of person she wants coming to help them, she doesn't know who else to call. Maybe he'd also try to get the police to come, or...something. But she just hopes that the message gets through.

A thought strikes her, then, and she takes the phone away from her face long enough to tap out a text: Washington Lodge. Help! Her signal is weak, but maybe the text will get through better than her voice is. Still, she doesn't hang up, doesn't want to stop hearing his voice, even if it's choppy. He feels like a comfort she didn't even know he could be. He's a link to the outside that she hasn't been able to have since this whole ordeal started.

Hard to believe that was less than twelve hours ago.

She doesn't speak, only continues to listen to the static interjected in Jason's voice, and for the heavy footsteps that have been stalking all of them. Please let everyone be okay...please...

[notthedyingtype]

brows draw together with the next crackle over the phone, pressing it to his ear as he stands, beer ignored in favor of trying to decipher her goddamn message. it was like she was talking in code. pressing one hand flat against his temple, jason turns towards his room &&. the half packed bag there.

it's hard to hear her, even over the crackle of the static, but the jingle of zipper's &&. buckles coming undone; stuffing whatever he can blindly find into his bugout bag. help. he got that. she was in trouble, she called him, obviously he couldn't just fuck around.

"sam, sam," he doesn't want to talk over her, but he needs to know where she is. he wants to help her. he needs to help her. "what happened?" he hesitates in packing, glancing around his room quickly to see if anything may possibly be left behind. anything important. chestnut hues narrow briefly, shaking his head, unable to find anything else that may be needed. fuck, this isn't good.

--ash--on L--ge. he heaves a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he lets his phone drop back into his hand. he'd figure it out along the way. he can't stay here any longer. "look, just... stay where you are. i'm on my way." to wherever the hell you are.

Shes terrified to speak too loudly, but she keeps the phone close so he can hear her breathe, to try and let him know that, despite her call for help, she's okay for now. It isn't much, but it's something, she thinks. She hopes.

After listening for a few long moments and determining it's safe, she speaks again, hoping he can hear her. Only a few words come through from him, and she's worried that he isn't getting the whole message. Or even the important parts that she so desperately needs him to hear.

"I need help," she repeats, slower, wanting each syllable to come through the phone. She's seen horror movies before, and this feels exactly like one. Poor cell service, a stalker killer, keeping her own breathing quiet because even that sounds too loud. The stalker doesn't bother to silence his footsteps, so she thinks she's got a couple of minutes at least.

"The Washington lodge, in the mountains. The Washington lodge." the last words are a bit louder, and she crouches deeper into her hiding spot, as if that alone would give her away. As if the man is waiting nearby and she hadn't heard him. God, her nerves are shot.