#* ( reflection built upon sorrow ) study.

[honortodth]

❝ Careful, now. A gentle touch is best at this juncture. ❞

There's a small nod at Justinia's direction; in part due to his concentration on the body before him, another due to the now seven months that Feanor has remained silent. In truth, he did not miss talking, did not mind the absence of his own voice rattling between his ears. It seemed unnecessary, as if it were merely an obstacle in the way of his duties. Or perhaps it was simply an offering to Kelemvor in the hopes that he may see fit to bless him. Yes, take my voice, Lord of the Dead, for it is the least I can humbly offer after all that I've done.

The fragrant scent of thyme, lavender, and rosemary fills his nose as he opens the jars sat just next to him. Almost covers the smell of blood and viscera in the room if not for their lingering in his nasal cavity. He begins to fill the cavities he's made ( having removed organs and sluiced out the blood ) in the body before him with these herbs, a process meant to dry the body out and hopefully produce a more pleasant aroma than, well, death.

There's a brief moment that Feanor risks a glimpse of the deceased's face, eyes forever shut. The ashen face, devoid now of life and light, looks however to be at peace. An old man that had passed in his sleep ... a fate not granted to his parents. To Iriel. He falters, fingers coming to a stop. Blood fills his vision. Palms begin to sweat. The sickly sweet odor filling the room seems to permeate his skin. He's a boy again and there's blood covering the floor of his home. He's a boy again and they're dead.

❝ You can do this, dear. Take a moment. ❞

A fuzzy, lightheaded feeling itches at the corners of his brain and snaps him out of the memory. He's grown used to her using detect thoughts on him, welcomes the interruption in fact.

❝ Focus only on the body in front of you. ❞

I ... yes. I'm trying.

Her piercing golden eyes are gentle, understanding, but look at him as if to say ' try harder '. She was right, of course --- one wrong move and the body can't be properly preserved. Many times has he observed the process, seen how meticulously Justinia drains the bodies and how swiftly she fills and wraps them. A macabre artist at work. The embalming tools her paintbrush.

He closes his eyes, licks his lips and attempts to center himself. The horror of his mind's eye fades like the wafting away of smoke and he's able to finish. She joins him in wrapping the body in cerecloth, sealing it with beeswax. The final step in his work.

Thank you. For bringing me back.

She smiles, ❝ I know how easy it is to be lost in your memories, Feanor. Alone with death. Just see that they do not swallow you whole. ❞ A loving hand touches his shoulder, a hand as gentle as he remembers his mother's being, ❝ But if they do, know that I will be here to pull you out, dear. ❞

At the back of his mind, he wonders for how long.

[writingforstraykids]

Whispers of the forgotten

Pairing: vampire!chan x historian!minho

Word Count: 5184

Summary: Minho's been studying vampires for years when he stumbles upon an old diary. Tormented by sudden dreams and visions of its owner Chan, Minho descends into the oldest chambers of his university to free him. Releasing Chan sets free something much more dangerous...

Warnings/Tags: vampire au, fluff, angst, magic,

A/N: Here's the winner of our poll, I hope you'll enjoy it🖤 Let me know if you'd like more🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

The university grounds always felt timeless to Minho, trapped between centuries-old stone walls and the ever-present fog that rolled in from the mountains. It wasn’t just the oppressive architecture or the eerie stillness of the lake nearby; it was the whispers of history hidden in the dimly lit hallways and the distant creaks that sounded at odd hours. He had chosen this place intentionally for his research - partly for the gothic allure and partly for the rumored treasure of texts buried in its sprawling library.

The old library was a labyrinth, its shelves towering high into darkness, its air perfumed with the musk of decaying paper. Minho spent his days there, lost in his research. The space was a relic of the university’s founding - a mixture of gothic grandeur and creeping decay. It had a magnetic pull, as though the secrets of the past were begging to be uncovered.

Minho was a historian by trade and obsession. His particular focus: vampire lore. It wasn’t the glittering kind romanticized by films or novels; no, his fascination lay with the darker, more grotesque tales that had haunted humanity for centuries. Myths that hinted at truth. Creatures lurking in the shadows of history. Names scratched out of ledgers. Lives erased.

It was during one of his endless, dusty evenings in the library that he found it.

The diary.

The leather binding was cracked, the edges worn as though someone had spent a lifetime clutching it. Minho hesitated before flipping it open, his gloved hands ghosting over the embossed insignia on the cover. There was no title. No name. Just a symbol: a crescent moon pierced by a dagger. Minho opened it with care, his breath catching as he took in the inked words. The handwriting was spidery, erratic, each stroke filled with desperation. The first line felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

I am writing this so I am not forgotten.

The diary painted a vivid, haunting picture of a man named Chan. It chronicled a life that spanned centuries, a life steeped in blood and loneliness. Chan had loved, lost, and wandered the earth as a cursed soul. The further Minho read, the more he felt as though Chan was speaking directly to him. The intimacy of the writing was unnerving, yet he couldn’t put it down.

And then the dreams began.

At first, they were fleeting - flashes of moonlit forests, blood pooling on cobblestones, a face half-hidden in shadow. But the dreams grew clearer with each passing night. In one, Minho stood in a field bathed in silver light, and across the expanse, a figure emerged.

Chan.

He was breathtaking, but not in a way that felt safe. His beauty was sharp, almost cruel. His skin was pale, glowing faintly under the moonlight, with lips that seemed permanently etched in melancholy. His eyes, however, were what rooted Minho in place. They were dark and endless, reflecting centuries of sorrow and longing. They seemed to pierce through him, stripping away every defense he’d ever built.

“You found me,” Chan said, his voice low and velvety, reverberating like a secret meant only for Minho.

Minho jolted awake, his heart racing. He touched his face, his skin clammy with sweat. The dream lingered like a ghost, vivid and impossible to ignore. He told himself it was just his imagination. A byproduct of immersing himself in the diary. But deep down, he knew it was more.

The boundary between dream and reality began to blur. Shadows moved in ways they shouldn’t, stretching toward Minho like fingers reaching for his soul. The whispers from his dreams followed him into waking life, faint murmurs at the edge of his hearing. The isolation of his research became suffocating.

One evening, while pouring over the diary in his tiny office, the shadows changed. They rippled across the room, pooling in the corner until they formed a shape. Chan’s shape.

Minho froze, his breath catching. “This… this isn’t real.”

Chan tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint smile, sharp teeth shining in the night. “You’ve been calling me. I’ve simply answered.”

“No,” Minho muttered, backing away. “You’re just… I’m imagining you.”

“You’re not,” Chan said, stepping closer. His movements were impossibly fluid, like smoke curling through the air. “You’ve seen my past, haven’t you? You’ve felt it.”

Minho clutched the edge of his desk. “The diary… it’s just a story.”

“It’s my story,” Chan corrected, his voice tinged with sadness. “You found it because you were meant to. And now, you can’t ignore me.”

Minho stared at him, torn between fascination and terror. The man - if he could even be called that - was devastatingly beautiful up close. The planes of his face seemed sculpted from marble, but his expression was unbearably human, etched with sorrow and vulnerability.

“You’re not real,” Minho whispered, though his words sounded hollow even to himself.

Chan’s eyes darkened. “If I’m not real, then why do you feel my pain?”

Minho grabbed the cursed diary from his desk and threw it at the figure. “You're not real!” he yelled desperately, the shadows fleeing back into their designated corners of the room.

-

Minho’s life unraveled. The diary consumed his thoughts during the day; Chan haunted his dreams at night. Each encounter with Chan left him feeling both exhilarated and drained, as though he were walking a tightrope between reality and insanity. He stopped sleeping. He stopped eating. His colleagues began to notice his gaunt appearance, his distracted demeanor, but Minho brushed off their concerns.

The whispers in the shadows grew louder. They spoke in fragmented phrases, urging him toward the basement of the library - a place long abandoned, its door sealed shut. Minho resisted at first, terrified of what he might find. But the more he resisted, the more vivid the dreams became.

In one, Chan showed him a memory: himself shackled in a dark, cold room, his body weakened but his eyes defiant.

“They locked me away,” Chan said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “They feared what I was, but they didn’t understand.”

Minho woke from that dream in a cold sweat, the image of Chan’s chained form burned into his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Chan was still there, buried beneath the university, waiting for someone to free him.

-

The descent into the basement was a descent into madness. It was late, the halls silent except for the faint hum of the heating system. Minho had been chasing whispers, a trail of barely audible calls that echoed through the empty corridors. He didn’t know why he was following them - only that he couldn’t stop. They drew him deeper and deeper into the university’s underbelly, past locked doors and forgotten archives.

And then he saw it: an ancient door, reinforced with iron and marked with the same crescent moon-and-dagger insignia from the diary.

Minho’s heart pounded as he approached it. The whispers grew louder, almost deafening. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold metal handle. And then a voice - Chan’s voice - filled his head.

“You’re so close.”

Minho hesitated. Was this real? Or was he just descending into madness? The dreams, the diary, the shadows - they all pointed to the same conclusion, but it was absurd. Vampires weren’t real. Chan wasn’t real. He had to be imagining all of this. Right?

But what if he wasn’t?

The conflict tore at him. On one hand, everything logical told him to stop, to turn back and seek help. On the other, the idea of leaving Chan - if he truly was trapped - felt unbearable. Minho had felt Chan’s pain, his desperation, his hope. Even if it was all in his head, how could he ignore it?

Taking a deep breath, Minho tightened his grip on the handle and pulled.

The room beyond was vast and cavernous, its walls etched with runes that seemed to hum with power. In the center, bathed in a pale, unnatural light, was Chan.

He was chained, just as he had been in the dream. The sight of him brought Minho to his knees. Chan’s beauty was undiminished, but his body was frail, his skin ghostly pale. His eyes, however, burned with an intensity that took Minho’s breath away.

“You found me,” Chan said, not in his head anymore, his voice breaking. “I knew you would.”

-

Freeing Chan wasn’t easy. The chains weren’t just physical - they were enchanted, bound by some ancient magic that required Minho to decipher the runes lining the walls. Days turned into weeks as he worked, sneaking down to the basement whenever he could. Chan guided him through the process, his presence a constant comfort despite the circumstances. Minho worked tirelessly, his mind torn between hope and fear. He spent hours in that room, speaking with Chan, learning more about his life. The more he learned, the more he realized how deeply he started to care for him.

“You shouldn’t grow attached to me,” Chan said one night, his voice heavy with regret. “I’m not human. I’ve done things - terrible things.”

“You’re not a monster,” Minho said firmly. “You’ve suffered more than anyone should.”

“And you’ve taken on my suffering,” Chan murmured, his eyes softening. “Why?”

Minho didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at Chan - like he was the most precious thing in the world - said it all.

Minho did find himself growing attached. It wasn’t just Chan’s tragic story or his otherworldly beauty - it was the way he understood Minho in a way no one else ever had. Their conversations, though brief, were filled with a depth that Minho hadn’t realized he was missing in his life.

But the closer he got to freeing Chan, the more the shadows seemed to fight back. The university itself seemed to rebel against him - lights flickered, doors slammed shut, and whispers turned to screams. Minho began to wonder if he was truly doing the right thing. What if freeing Chan unleashed something worse?

In the end, Minho made his choice.

The final rune was the hardest to break, its energy lashing out as if trying to stop him. But Minho didn’t falter. With a final stroke of his makeshift tools, the rune shattered, and the chains binding Chan dissolved into nothingness.

Chan collapsed, and Minho caught him instinctively. For a moment, there was only silence, the weight of centuries lifting from the air.

“Thank you,” Chan whispered, his voice barely audible. “I owe you everything.”

-

In the weeks that followed, the university seemed to return to normal. The fog lifted, the whispers faded, and the shadows stopped moving. Minho, however, couldn’t forget. Chan had vanished after his release, leaving behind only a promise: “We’ll meet again.”

And he did.

Late at night, when the world was quiet and the shadows grew long, Minho would feel a presence by his side. Chan wasn’t gone - not entirely. He was in the whispers of the wind, the flicker of candlelight, and the dreams that still lingered.

Minho had freed him, but in doing so, he had bound their fates together. And as much as it terrified him, he wouldn’t want to miss his presence.

-

Chan didn’t disappear for long. The first time he returned in person, Minho was shelving books late at night, the heavy weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin. He felt Chan before he saw him - a shift in the air, a strange warmth that sent a shiver down his spine. He turned to see the vampire standing near the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint moonlight streaming through the high windows.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Chan said softly, stepping closer, his voice laced with gentle amusement.

Minho’s throat dried as he watched the man - no, the creature - who haunted his dreams. “I thought you left,” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended.

Chan stopped a few feet away, his dark eyes scanning Minho’s face as if trying to commit every detail to memory. “I could never truly leave. Not now. Not after…” He hesitated, his gaze faltering for the briefest moment. “Not after you saved me.”

The sincerity in his voice was disarming. Minho felt his heart quicken, unsure if it was from fear or something deeper. Chan tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Come with me.”

“What?” Minho blinked, startled.

“Outside,” Chan said, holding out his hand. “You’ve been hiding in this library too long. Let me show you something.”

Minho hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to stay in the safety of the library’s walls. But the way Chan looked at him - soft, patient, waiting - made it impossible to say no. Tentatively, he reached out and took Chan’s hand.

Chan’s skin was cold, but his grip was steady, grounding. The moment their fingers intertwined, Minho felt his nerves ease, as though Chan’s presence alone could quiet the storm of doubt in his mind.

The university grounds were bathed in silver moonlight, the fog rolling lazily over the cobblestones. Chan led Minho down winding paths, his steps confident despite the shadows that stretched unnaturally across their path. They didn’t speak at first, the silence between them comfortable, punctuated only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

Chan led him to the edge of the forest that bordered the campus, where the trees stood tall and ancient, their branches weaving into a canopy that shimmered faintly under the moon. Beyond the trees, a lake stretched out like a sheet of black glass, its surface reflecting the stars.

“This is my favorite spot,” Chan said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He let go of Minho’s hand and stepped closer to the water’s edge, his silhouette almost glowing in the pale light.

Minho watched him, his breath catching in his throat. Chan looked… ethereal. The soft light highlighted the sharp angles of his face, the curve of his lips, the way his hair caught the breeze. He seemed less like the monsters Minho had read about and more like something celestial - something far too beautiful for this world.

“You’re staring,” Chan said without turning around, his voice carrying a teasing edge.

Minho felt his cheeks heat. “I wasn’t.”

Chan glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Liar.”

Minho huffed, crossing his arms as he tried to hide his embarrassment. “You just… look different out here. Less scary.”

Chan’s expression softened, the teasing smile fading into something more serious. “And you look tired,” he said, his gaze sweeping over Minho. “You’ve been carrying so much weight, Minho. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

The sincerity in Chan’s voice was almost too much to bear. Minho looked away, focusing on the ripples in the water as his thoughts swirled. “I’m not used to relying on people.”

“You can rely on me,” Chan said, stepping closer. His voice was low, soothing. “You’ve already done so much for me. Let me do something for you.”

Minho hesitated, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in Chan’s eyes. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay.”

They began to meet more often after that night. Chan would appear without warning, his presence always accompanied by that strange shift in the air. Sometimes, he’d find Minho in the library, pouring over books, and insist on dragging him outside for a walk. Other times, he’d simply sit with Minho in silence, their quiet companionship speaking volumes.

One evening, as they wandered through the forest, Minho couldn’t help but steal glances at Chan. The vampire walked with an ease that seemed almost human, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. But there was a sadness to him, a weight that lingered in the lines of his face.

“Do you ever miss it?” Minho asked suddenly.

Chan glanced at him, one brow raised. “Miss what?”

“Being human,” he said, carefully pushing his glasses back into place.

Chan was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. His eyes searched the soft orbs hidden behind the glass, presenting Minho's eyes like windows to his soul. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it’s been so long, I don’t even remember what it feels like.”

Minho nodded, his heart aching at the thought. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live for centuries, to watch the world change while he stayed the same. “That must be… lonely.”

“It is,” Chan said softly. He looked at Minho, his gaze steady. “But it’s not so bad now. Not with you around.”

Minho’s breath caught, his cheeks flushing under Chan’s unwavering gaze. He quickly looked away, focusing on the path ahead. “Don’t say things like that,” he muttered.

“Why not?” Chan asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Does it make you nervous?”

“No,” Minho lied, though the rapid beating of his heart betrayed him.

Chan chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “You’re terrible at lying, Minho.”

They reached the lake again, the water shimmering under the moonlight. Chan stopped, turning to face Minho fully. “You’ve been so kind to me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Even when you were afraid, even when you didn’t understand… you never gave up on me. Why?”

Minho hesitated, his eyes meeting Chan’s. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I couldn’t leave you there. You didn’t deserve that…no one does.”

Chan’s gaze softened, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

Minho laughed, the sound nervous. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Chan insisted, stepping closer. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Minho’s cheek.

Minho’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words to respond. But then he looked into Chan’s eyes - dark and endless, filled with a depth of emotion that took his breath away - and he realized he felt *something* that went beyond admiration.

Their walks became a nightly ritual, a sanctuary where they could escape the weight of their pasts. Each step brought them closer, their bond deepening with every shared laugh, every stolen glance, every touch that lingered a moment too long.

And for the first time in a long time, Minho felt like he wasn’t alone.

-

Minho wasn’t sure when the library stopped feeling like home. For years, it had been his sanctuary, a quiet refuge in his darkest hours. But since the night he freed Chan, things had shifted.

The corridors stretched farther than he remembered, as if the building itself were growing. New doorways and passages appeared, and bookshelves that had once stood static now seemed to rearrange themselves overnight. The crescent moon-and-dagger insignia appeared in the strangest places - etched into ancient tomes, carved into the walls, and even flickering in the corner of his vision when he closed his eyes.

Chan was fascinated. The vampire spent hours exploring, his dark eyes lighting up with a mix of awe and apprehension as he traced the symbols with delicate fingers. “This place,” he murmured one evening, “it’s not just a library. It’s alive.”

Minho frowned. “Alive how?”

“It’s responding to you,” Chan said, his voice carrying a note of wonder. “To us. This magic… it’s ancient, older than anything I’ve ever encountered. And it’s powerful. Be careful, Minho. The library isn’t just revealing its secrets - it’s testing you.”

Despite Chan’s warning, Minho couldn’t resist the pull of the library’s mysteries. He spent long nights over ancient texts and deciphering runes, each discovery pulling him deeper into the labyrinth of secrets.

One night, he stumbled upon a hidden room. The air inside felt heavy, humming with an energy that made his skin prickle. In the center of the room stood a pedestal holding an old journal bound in cracked leather. The crescent moon-and-dagger insignia gleamed on its cover.

Opening it, Minho read about an ancient society tasked with controlling supernatural forces. The journal spoke of “The Keeper,” a role bound to the library - a guardian and a vessel for its power. A chill ran down his spine as he realized the implications.

Minho shared his findings with Chan, who listened in silence, his expression unreadable. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” Minho accused, his voice sharp.

Chan hesitated. “I knew the library held power. But I didn’t know… this.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Minho snapped, slamming the journal onto the table. “You’ve been here for centuries. How much are you hiding from me?”

Chan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked every bit the ancient, dangerous creature Minho had freed. But then his shoulders sagged, and he looked away. “I glimpsed the library’s power through the runes that bound me,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t have all the answers, Minho. I swear.”

Minho wanted to believe him. But doubt gnawed at him, growing stronger with each unanswered question.

The library grew more hostile as Minho delved deeper. Shadows seemed to lengthen unnaturally, and the once-faint whispers became guttural voices that followed him through the halls. Books flew off shelves, their pages flipping frantically as though trying to communicate. Chan's sudden visits started to startle him each time, never knowing what to expect.

-

One night, Minho experienced a vision. He saw robed figures conducting rituals, sealing monstrous creatures behind enchanted doors, and carving runes into stone with trembling hands. He woke with a start, sweat soaking his shirt.

The next day, Chan confronted him. “You’ve been marked,” he said, his voice grave. “The library is choosing you, Minho. It wants you to be its Keeper.”

Minho stared at him, horrified. “No. That’s not possible.”

“It’s already happening,” Chan said, gently reaching for his hand. “Your senses are sharper, aren’t they? You can hear the whispers, see things others can’t. The library’s power is growing in you.”

Minho couldn’t shake the feeling that Chan knew more than he was letting on. His suspicions deepened when he discovered a hidden journal tucked away in the library’s archives - a journal that mentioned Chan by name.

According to the journal, Chan had once sought the library’s power for himself, hoping to use it to break his vampiric curse. The revelation felt like a betrayal.

“You lied to me,” Minho accused, confronting Chan in the dim light of the library. “You knew exactly what freeing you would do to me.”

Chan’s eyes widened in shock. “Minho, no. I didn’t-”

“Don’t deny it,” Minho interrupted. “This journal says you wanted the library’s power. Was this your plan all along? To use me?”

Chan looked stricken. “I won’t lie to you. I did seek the library’s power centuries ago, but I gave up on that long before you freed me. I never intended for you to get hurt.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Minho demanded.

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t trust me,” Chan admitted. “I’ve made mistakes, Minho. But I swear to you, freeing me wasn’t one of them. I care about you.”

The vulnerability in Chan’s voice made Minho pause. He wanted to believe him, but the weight of the library’s growing power - and his own fears - made it hard to trust anyone.

The library’s magic reached a boiling point. The malevolent force sealed by the Keeper began to stir, its presence manifesting as a dark, swirling energy that threatened to consume everything.

Minho and Chan faced the heart of the library together. The runes on the walls glowed ominously, and the air crackled with magic.

“We have to seal it,” Chan said, his voice steady despite the chaos. “But it’ll take a sacrifice.”

Minho’s heart pounded. He knew what Chan meant. To seal the force, someone had to take on the role of the Keeper.

“I’ll do it,” Minho said, his voice trembling.

“No,” Chan said firmly. “You have a life ahead of you. Dreams. I’ve already lost everything. Let me do this.”

Minho shook his head, tears brimming his eyes. “I can’t let you go back to that prison. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Chan stepped closer, his hands cupping Minho’s face. “You’ve changed me, Minho. You’ve given me hope. Let me repay you by protecting you.”

Minho’s resolve wavered, but he couldn’t let Chan make that sacrifice. “Don't you dare, stupid.”

Despite his warnings, Chan stuck close to Minho. They worked together to decipher the runes that had bound Chan and still held secrets about the library’s power. In the quiet moments between their work, they found themselves drawn to each other in ways neither could explain.

One rainy evening, as thunder rumbled outside, Minho caught Chan staring at him.

“What?” Minho asked, feeling self-conscious.

“You’re different,” Chan said, his voice soft. “Most people would have run by now. But you… you’re still here.”

Minho shrugged, trying to mask the warmth rising in his cheeks. “Maybe I’m just stubborn.”

Chan’s lips curved into a small smile. “Or maybe you’re braver than you realize.”

-

The library’s hidden chamber was a cathedral of shadows and power, its towering walls etched with runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Candles burned in every corner, their flames flickering against the oppressive darkness. At the center of the room stood a massive circular rune, carved into the floor with precision that seemed almost inhuman. It glowed faintly, waiting to be awakened.

Minho stood within the circle, his heart pounding as he stared at the crescent moon-and-dagger insignia etched into the stone beneath his feet. The air felt heavy, charged with magic that pressed against his chest, stealing his breath. He could hear the whispers louder than ever, words in a language he didn’t understand, yet somehow knew were meant for him.

“This is dangerous,” Chan said, standing just outside the circle. His eyes were dark with worry, his fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t have to do this.”

Minho turned to him, his expression resolute. “Yes, I do. If I don’t, that thing will escape, and everything we’ve worked for will be meaningless.”

Chan took a step closer, his voice dropping to a pleading whisper. “We’ll find another way. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.” Minho gave him a small, sad smile. “This is what the library wants. What it’s been preparing me for. I have to finish this.” Chan opened his mouth to protest, but Minho raised a hand to stop him. “You’ve done enough, Chan. You gave me the strength to get this far. Now let me do this.”

For a moment, Chan said nothing, his jaw tight with emotion. His hands found Minho's cheeks and he pulled him in close, breath hitching as they were only mere inches apart.

“Chan,” Minho exhaled shakily, searching his eyes nervously. His heart fluttered beneath Chan's gaze and he felt himself melt into the older.

Chan only hesitated for a second before their lips met in a tender kiss. Minho's hand shot up to cup Chan's cheek, kissing back fiercely. “You better be careful.”

“I will,” he whispered with wide eyes.

Then he nodded, though his hands trembled as he stepped back. “I’m not leaving your side,” he said firmly. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

Minho swallowed hard and gave him a grateful look before turning back to the rune. He knelt, placing his hands flat against the cold stone, and began to speak the words inscribed in the ancient text they had uncovered. The language was foreign, each syllable strange and sharp, yet they rolled off his tongue as if they had been etched into his soul.

The effect was immediate. The runes on the floor flared to life, their glow shifting from faint white to blinding gold. A wind erupted from nowhere, howling through the chamber and snuffing out the candles one by one. The air became thick with power, crackling like a storm about to break.

Minho felt the magic wrap around him, pulling him upward as if he weighed nothing. His feet left the ground, and he hovered in the center of the circle, his arms outstretched. The glow from the runes intensified, bathing him in golden light as the crescent moon-and-dagger insignia seared itself into his wrist. Minho cried out, the pain sharp and all-encompassing, but he didn’t stop chanting.

The books lining the walls began to rattle, their pages flipping wildly as if caught in the same storm. The whispers grew louder, turning into a deafening roar that filled Minho’s mind with images of the library’s history: the rituals of the first Keeper, the sealing of the malevolent force, and the countless sacrifices made to protect the world from its darkness.

The magic reached its crescendo, and Minho’s body arched as a blinding purple light erupted from his chest. The wind surged, sending books tumbling from their shelves and snuffing out the last of the candles. For a moment, the chamber was plunged into darkness, save for the glow of the runes and the light radiating from Minho’s body.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased. Minho’s body went limp, and he began to fall.

Chan moved faster than he thought possible, catching Minho just before he hit the ground. The younger man was pale, his breathing shallow, and his head lolled against Chan’s shoulder. For a terrifying moment, Chan thought he had lost him.

“Minho,” Chan whispered, his voice trembling. “Come on, wake up. Please.”

Minho stirred, his fingers twitching weakly against Chan’s chest. His eyes fluttered open, and Chan froze. For a fleeting second, Minho’s irises glowed with an otherworldly purple light, the same color as the magic that had filled the chamber. The glow faded quickly, replaced by Minho’s familiar dark gaze, but the memory of it sent a chill through Chan’s spine.

“Chan?” Minho’s voice was faint, barely audible over the pounding of Chan’s own heartbeat.

“I’m here,” Chan said, his grip tightening around him. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Minho’s gaze dropped to his wrist, where the crescent moon-and-dagger insignia was now burned into his skin, its edges glowing faintly. He reached up to touch it, his fingers trembling. “It’s done,” he murmured. “I can feel it… it’s a part of me now.”

Chan cupped his face, forcing Minho to look at him. “You’re still you,” he said fiercely. “I won’t let this magic take that away from you.”

Minho gave him a weak smile, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “You can’t stop it, Chan. It’s already started.”

“Then I’ll fight it,” Chan said, his voice breaking. “I’ll fight for you. No matter what it takes.”

Minho’s smile softened, and he let his head rest against Chan’s shoulder. “Thank you…stupid,” he whispered.

Chan held him close, his heart aching as he felt the steady, fragile beat of Minho’s heart against his chest. The storm had passed, but they both knew the battle was far from over.

Above them, the library’s runes dimmed to a faint glow, their power settling into the one who had been chosen. And in the silence that followed, the two of them stayed there - bound together by sacrifice, by magic, and by a love that refused to fade.

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[autumnslance]

Prompt# 3: Temper

Her protection shone clearly. This one. This was the one he had been waiting for.

Midgardsormr studied the mortal. Even as he intoned taunting proclamations, a part of him simply…measured.

Wondered.

Would she be found wanting?

Ages ago—even by his reckoning—he had sworn oaths to this world’s god in exchange for a home for his children. One oath was to await Her champion. She had given him the signs to watch for.

She needed to be certain this mortal was the one foreseen.

The girl’s soul burned with a wild, reckless Light, heady on her minor successes so far, nascent will reflected in the stubborn set of her jaw and aggressive stance. She had flailed her way up the wreckage and against his tests, tougher and faster than he had expected—but only just.

There was potential here, certainly. Yet still far from the hero who must save their world. From what, She had not told him. Only that he would know Her Chosen, and so perform as agreed upon.

The girl cried out as his power locked away her uncontrolled Light. Time and action would tell if she could break through his barrier and reclaim her gifts. If she was truly worthy of a lonely god’s hope.

The mortal would be tempered in the flames of the Dragonsong—or she would burn.

—

He followed and watched; through tragedy and triumph, joy and despair, grief and gain. There were other, kinder ways to forge a person, and his fatherly heart almost regretted the sorrows that barred her path.

Yet she pressed on, overcoming each obstacle, passing every challenge. Both alone and with the aid of her companions, she fought. To help, to protect. Even amidst rage and sorrow, there was compassion in her actions and choices.

And the Crystals answered.

Her will broke through the wall he had built; only a crack at first, but chipping away more and more, until they stood in Azys Lla with her brilliance fully relit.

Not the wild, uncontrolled flames of their first meeting.

The Light was refined and ready.

For this trial, at least; there was more work to do, more room to grow. But now, her strength was directed. Now she understood.

And perhaps he did, too, having listened and watched over these moons as she tried to save both of their peoples from themselves.

‘Hearken, Hydaelyn,’ he silently called as he flew with the mortal to face the encroaching Darkness. ‘I have done as asked and tested thy champion. I shall continue to watch and guide, but her choices are hers to make. If thou wouldst temper thy weapon further, use caution, lest she turn back upon thee.’

He received a pleased laugh in reply, and relaxed. She had no intention of directing this mortal’s path; She merely needed the girl ready for the challenges to come, able to stand strong in the face of unimaginable adversity.

This Warrior of Light would, Midgardsormr knew, watching her stride into the Allagan hulk to confront danger. And for what time he could, he would be there alongside her.

Not only to see the fruits of his labors, his craftwork in action—but for her, this strong, brilliant mortal, who had, truthfully, forged herself.

[elriell]

Chapter Two—  

[Chapter 1]

In The Absence of Light

Restless sleep continued to plague her the following nights, just as she had feared the cold spikes of anxiety that crippled her mind refused to ease up their battle for control.

Azriel never mentioned their tense early morning encounter, but she could not deny that after his departure she had finally managed to succumb to a few good hours of rest, and for that she was grateful. She put it down to simply feeling calmer after seeing a friend and refused to look any further in to why that would be.  

So, when Elain saw him over breakfast, she offered him a genuine smile and accepted the muffin he silently offered her in return. She tried not to dwell on the fact that he did not in truth look as if he had been blessed with a good sleep, as she had.  

~

Several nights had passed since then and time trickled by slowly, each night she found herself staring up at the ceiling, tossing and turning among the expensive linens, unable to settle down. Vivid dreams swirled around in her head; the same thoughts as always, they appeared to be taking up permanent residency, she was less than pleased with that realization.  

Every noise poked at her subconscious, taunting her mockingly. She let out a sigh at the ridiculousness of her thoughts, as if the branches crashing in the wind could possibly be trying to ridicule her, she truly was losing it alltogether. Taking a deep breath, she gave up on her quest for sleep and slid her feet in the soft pair of slippers and set off for the kitchen, doing her best not to awake anyone on her path, though she doubted she would, everyone in this house seemed to sleep through most her terrors.  

Lost in her own scattered thoughts she barely saw him lent over, in truth he looked as though he too was in his own world. Strong powerful arms flexed over the sink as he gazed out the window in to the gardens below. The dark leathery wings hung limply behind him, he painted quite the sorrowful picture, moonlight casting down upon him.

A fallen angel, infinitely beautiful and untouchable in an heartbreaking way.  

“Trouble sleeping?” His honey voice caught her off guard, she really had to stop being surprised when it came to the shadow-singer, his instincts were sharp as the thorns that she tried to avoid when gardening.  

“Seems to be going around these days.” A soft shrug. “I was just going to make myself something warm, would you join me?”  

He turned towards her at that and it struck her as it always did how easily he concealed his emotions, as if he could carefully tuck them away in a box and forget about them. His eyes however spoke volumes, they were devastating to her mental resolve, a crack splintering straight to her heart.

“I would like that very much.”  Agreeing gently.

Elain willed herself to focus on the task at hand; warming up some milk for the both of them. She felt more than heard him shuffle amongst the kitchen retrieving mugs and placing them to her left, returning to his former place. “Thank you for the other night— No, no, no... Please don't stop me, I want to, no I need to. I haven’t gotten that much sleep-in months, so thank you.”

A small blush crept up his face much to her quiet delight, it was such a rarity to pierce his stoic exterior.

She poured them both a cup each and set out to retrieve some cookies from a jar she had baked earlier in the day, once she had set a sufficient amount on a plate, she joined Azriel at the small breakfast table at the far end of the room.

Though dark out it was a beautiful spot, the whole side of the wall was built from different shades of stained glass and under the moonlight it shone a messy pattern of colors across the cobblestone floor, it had quite easily become one of her favorite places once her nightmares began. A colorful sanctuary to be at ease.

There were so many questions on the tip of her tongue, she wondered so much about him, about his troubles, his travels, about Nesta, who she had not received any letters from since her departure though that was no surprise all things considered. She wished she could tell her she had not known of the plans, wished she could have at least said goodbye, god, she wished for so many things.

Perhaps she would ask Azriel to take her on his next visit to the mountains, she filed that away for another day.  

“I suppose the tonic didn't work then?” He inquired before dunking a cookie in to his mug.

“Ah—” Hesitating for a beat too long. “It's alright you needn't lie to me; your secrets are your own. If you do not wish to say I shall not bring it up again.”  He jumped in before she finished.

Truth. She knew without a doubt he would not push her, would accept whatever she was willing to give.  

“That is quite alright, to be honest with you Azriel, I am not sure I quite know myself.” She considered it carefully. “I think deep down, beneath every excuse, I just, well I just don’t want to be...”

“Medicated.” He finished for her.

It should not surprise her after all this time, he was always able to read her seamlessly and understand her completely even when she wasn’t sure she understood herself. He was able to deduce that she was a Seer when the rest thought she was going mad, even her own mate, scoffing internally at the word. It was a shame, she supposed, that it had nothing to do with Lucien. He was a good enough man but she simply couldn’t handle the burden that such a bond posed after the events of last year.  

“Exactly.”

He was uncharacteristically sheepish when he asked, “It’s not my place, but is something wrong? Lucien?” He stumbled over the last word as if he found it hard to roll off his tongue. Odd. Azriel rarely if ever spoke on the subject of the former spring court emissary, almost seemed to avoid it at all costs.

Upon reflection she could not think of one time through their many conversations that he had ever inquired about him if she had not started the discussion.  

It was eery some days, it was as though he could see inside her soul, study her like a well-read book.

And if she was following that analogy through then she was certainly an old nattered forgotten book that was far too damaged to be of much value... She heard Nesta’s voice as the thought formed scolding her for thinking that any book would not hold its own important value in the world.  

“No.” She replied honestly. “I am not quite sure what is fuelling my problems only that they are rather determined at keeping me from a peaceful sleep. But enough about that, let us talk about better things, happier things, tell me about your favorite places to...”

And so, they would spend several hours hunched over the table talking in hushed tones about everything and nothing at all, refilling their mugs repeatedly as time faded away and all that remained was the moments within, the coloured light streaming over them bathing them in a pool of colours steadily shifting as the sun rose, not that either noticed until household staff awoke to prepare for the day.  

And when she returned to her bedchamber, she would not care on bit that she was still on the brink of exhaustion.

~

They developed quite a habit of it unexpectedly. At one point or another in the night when her sleep or lack there of, became too much to bare, she would wander down to the kitchen where inevitably he would be sat as if waiting for her.

She tried not to be so self-absorbed as to think it was solely because of her. But after the first few times happened and it became a reoccurring pattern, warm milk always lay on the table waiting for her, always warm, almost as if he could sense when she would arrive despite it changing most nights.

It did not help her ever growing endearment to him.

~

Although she knew Azriel would eventually grow bored of this habit they had formed, perhaps conversation would become tiresome to maintain for him but she promised to enjoy his company while it lasted.

He made her happy and the small private moments she would cherish among the bland parts of her day, though it wasn’t particularly healthy for either of them as it meant neither was sleeping much.

But it was a worthy sacrifice, all considered she was not sleeping before therefore she was not losing anything, however she did feel a twinge of guilt for the shadow-singer. Hoped it would not interfere with his day-to-day activities and not put him at greater risk whilst following out orders.  

But alas all good things must come to an end and last night would mark that for them both.

He had been uncharacteristically quiet all night, simply letting her ramble on about the new plans for opening up the back garden to prepare it for new flowers and wildlife, he had simply watched her for hours with a gentle “Mmm” and “Of course” along the way, in hindsight she should have guessed something was coming.

He arose from the bench first keeping his eyes locked to the ground, and fiddling with the lapels of his jacket seemingly trying to buy time, while the silence hung heavy in the air.  

“It seems there has been some problems arising in the northern territories and Rhys has asked that I head out for a few days to ensure it is nothing more serious.” Shifting his feet back and forth still reluctant to make eye contact.

“I see.” She really didn’t. “When are you to leave?”

The grimace was noticeable on his controlled face, “An hour ago. Give or take.”

He did not give her time to respond as he leaned over her, closer than they had been to each other in some time and he smelled like the woods after a rainfall if that could be a smell at all, fresh yet masculine. The kiss he planted on her forehead was so gentle had she not had her eyes open she scarcely would have felt it.  

Her lids fell and her breathing changed, and she wondered if one could feel as if their heart both stopped and raced at the same time, she was losing all sense of reason and by the time she regained her thoughts enough to open her eyes he was gone.  

His absence hit her quickly and she had to take a deep breath to hold back the tear stinging her eye, yet again she was left to her own devices. Perhaps it for the best that she not grow too reliant on his company, though she was infinitely grateful for his friendship and companionship she did not want him to feel burdened by her.  

This would give them some much needed separation and time to rebuild her mental walls and form some boundaries for herself.

~

The first night was not as bad as she expected and she tried to be optimistic that this was a new leaf for her.

Unfortunately, as she well knew nothing lasts for long, especially something good. Not for her. By the fourth night the dark void had returned in full to cause chaos on her mind, and so chaos spread, worsening night after night.  

Elaine’s nightly visits to the kitchen had not ceased they simply became a solitary adventure and as the week reached its end, she was near desperate for the relief of her favorite companion would provide.

Having overheard Mor speaking to Feyre in the lounge she was able to confirm that he had returned to the estate sometime midday, though his meetings with his High Lord kept him out of sight much to her disappointment.

She did her best to tame the growing excitement that bubbled up when she thought about his return.

Tonight, for a change she made no attempts to sleep simply busied herself with brushing out her curls and spraying her favorite perfume, feeling silly for going to such efforts. Truthfully though she knew that beneath whatever crush she had formed it had little to do with her attachment to him, it was his companionship and friendship she coveted most, he was a true and loyal friend, a rare thing to her these days.  

She made a promise to herself not mare it with her growing attraction. She refused to lose another person she cared about.

Which is why when she finally made it down to the kitchen after holding off as long as possible only to be greeted by an empty room, she felt her heart twinge. Feeling silly for simply assuming he would be there, for not even questioning it. Not that she blamed him, the kinder part of her hoped he was getting a descent nights rest again, refusing to think on it for long she made herself warm cocoa and set off for bed.

Unsurprisingly sleep did not come easy to her but at least on this night it was not the terrible evil that plagued her, rather the piercing eyes of her favorite spy.

As the hours ticked on and she grew more restless her body wrenched itself out of bed as if on its own accord, and paced a way across their home, it was as she reached the West Wing she realized where she had unconsciously ended up. It was not hard through process of elimination to work out which was his, no light shone beyond the door and no detectable sound either, though she doubted she would know if he was moving about.  

It was silly to have come all this way and she was well aware of how embarrassing her need to visit him was but as she stood with only a large oak door separating them, she understood exactly why she had come, because in that moment she finally felt calmer than she had all week, the anxiety that weaved its way through her reseeded slowly.  

She figured that it couldn’t hurt to stay for a few moments to calm down a little more before venturing back, it would not hurt anyone what they did not know.  

Unaware of when it happened, she found herself sliding down against the door until her bottom hit the cold cobblestones, it was a rather strange feeling that simply being in proximity to him would bring her such small comforts but so was the case as she felt exhaustion slowly creep over and when it came, she felt safe enough to let it take her, she closed her eyes and drifted away.

~

Pheeeeew, That was long and still a little sad but i promise it is going to get less DEPRESSING™️ I just want to lay the groundwork for what is going to happen 😉 I would love any and all critique as always, it is what fuels me!

Also i was almost finished writing the chapter but the title and colourful glass is inspired by the book I am re-reading with that name.

As always anyone who wants to be added or removed just let me know 🖤

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[queenxxxsupreme]

I present u with a challenge: write a geralt x reader one-shot based on Black Moon Lovers' "A White Demon Love Song".

A/N: I accept your challenge. And I’m sorry, did you say angst? Also this is like the only time I will write Geralt being a personal heater. If you’ve read my shit before, you know I love the idea of Geralt being an ice cube and clinging to heat the same way a reptile does :) And I didn’t use the entire song because this thing got so far away from me sorry not sorry this is what I’ve been working on for the last three days

Warnings: pure angst, no happy ending :)

Word Count: 3.9k

Note: I’m not trying to shit on Yennefer. I love her with all my heart. She’s just a bitch by nature and that’s okay so am I

***

Your heart raced furiously within your chest. Your eyes were open, glued to the ceiling. Your fingers clenched the linens beneath you in some sort of feeble attempt to pull yourself from the nightmare plaguing your dreams.

It was the same nightmare you’d had over and over again, off and on for weeks now. You always dreamed of the White Wolf. It started out happily. You both were content, sitting side by side at a table. Beneath the table, his hand would rest upon your knee. He’d be whispering something in your ear, something you couldn’t remember when you woke up. But you remembered the very real feeling of happiness, pure, unadulterated happiness.

It was just after you would giggle at something he said when things went downhill. A woman you could never see the face of sat down on the other side of him, taking his attention away from you. Then his hand would leave you and he’d turn his back on you.

You’d wake up in a cold sweat, your stomach churning like you were ready to vomit. Rejection was something you were used to, but with him, it was foreign and excruciating.

The nightmare had long since become a reality.

You’d known Geralt of Rivia and his travel companion, Jaskier, for six months before the mage came into the picture. You’d saved Geralt’s life on a hunt and when the fighting was over, you found yourself staring into heavenly golden eyes. He offered to pay for a meal at the tavern he was staying at. Jaskier was quick to suggest that you join them. He secretly wanted someone to be able to watch over Geralt’s back should he need it.

It had been just a short three months since Yennefer came into the picture, since Geralt wished that she be forever tied to him. You weren’t certain of the details but you didn’t want to know either.

White demon love song down the hallWhite demon shadow on the road

Two Months Later

Even while you slept, you couldn’t stop thinking of the witcher. He was everywhere. In every reflective surface you passed, in every tired smile you saw. Hell, sometimes you’d hear his voice. It seemed like you always found something that reminded you of him.

Snow falling from the sky made you think of how his pale white skin was cold to the touch. But just like a snowflake, when you’d touch his arm or his shoulder with a soft hand, he’d melt. Though he wouldn’t allow anyone else to know it, he was a sucker for gentle gestures.

Anytime you’d pass someone with a cloak shielding their face from the outside world, you thought of the same way Geralt wore the hood to his cloak. He often used it to cover his head. His hair was a tell-tale sign of who he was, what he was. If he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, he’d just wear his hood.

“Y/N, are you even listening?”

You turned your head to Jaskier, raising your brows.

“I’m-I’m sorry?”

You’d been too busy watching the door, awaiting for the witcher himself to show. You sat at a table towards the back of the inn’s tavern with the bard. Geralt had gone to put Roach in a boarding stable and said he’d be back briefly. Surely that meant any time soon.

Jaskier sighed gently as he watched you look back to the door. Every time it opened, he could see the brief flicker of excitement cross your features. You always lit up whenever Geralt was around.

Deep down, you knew he wasn’t going to come join you and Jaskier. There was a brothel you’d passed coming in to town. His relationship with Yennefer was-at best-undefined, but it was there. They felt for each other and at any chance, they’d reconvene and fuck until they’d had their fill of each other. But lately, Geralt had been visiting brothels between his visits with the violet eyed mage. He was an insatiable man. Whether it be because of the need he had to be with Yennefer, or just because that’s who he was, he often used wenches and whores from brothels to pass the time.

“You and I both know he isn’t coming, Y/N.” Jaskier spoke softly. His words, though not meant to be hurtful, stung.

You dropped your gaze to your hands, your fingers tightening around your mug of ale. Your chest squeezed and you felt sick. You nodded your head, pressing your lips together in a tight line. You sniffled and took a shaky deep breath.

“Love, I hate to see you like this.”

“I’m fine, Jask.” You lifted your head, forcing a smile on to your lips. “Just thought…. I just thought it’d be nice for us to hang out. You know, like we used to. Just the three of us.”

You shrugged your shoulders softly, dropping your gaze back to your drink.

“Guess he doesn’t have time for us anymore.”

Jaskier moved out of his seat and slid into the seat next to you. His arm wrapped around your shoulders and he pulled you in for a hug.

“That isn’t true, Y/N, and you know it. He’s just…. he’s adjusting to having Yennefer around.”

“It’s been three months, Jaskier.”

“I can assure you, he doesn’t get attached to people easily.”

“Oh, I know.” You muttered under your breath. The ache in your chest hurt, but at least you felt something, right?

Back up your mind, there is a callHe isn’t coming after allLove this time

One Week Later

It was a chilling night spent between villages. You all had decided to settle down and make a camp just before the sun disappeared behind the trees. As the sun disappeared, a bitter cold took its place.

You sat around the campfire Geralt had built. He sat across the fire from you with Yennefer by his side, as always. Jaskier was just a few feet off to your left. You rubbed your hands along your forearms, your eyes studying the flames while your ears listened to Geralt tell a story to Yennefer. It was of one of his first Selkiemore hunts.

You weren’t really taking in any of what he was saying. You were listening to the sound of his husky, low voice. His voice was the first thing you fell in love with. He had a way of making everything that fell from his lips intoxicating. The deep hum from within his chest when he grunted was something you never wanted to forget.

You remembered feeling it for the first time. It was during a bitter snow storm that plowed through the village you had stopped in. Jaskier made his usual rounds at the tavern down the street from the inn. You and Geralt retired to a room and settled into bed. The fire in the hearth did little to keep you warm and Geralt noticed this. You were shivering in the bed next to him beneath your own set of blankets.

Without saying a word, he moved closer to you and wrapped one arm around your waist to pull you into his chest. Younstiffened up at first, unsure of what he was doing. But as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, you melted against him.

“Is this okay?” He asked you quietly.

“Yes. Thank you.” You smiled to yourself. “You’re nice and warm.”

He hummed softly, the vibration carrying through the shirt you wore. It was oddly comforting to feel it, to know he was so close to you, protecting you from the cold.

You used to share a room with him before Yennefer arrived in his life like a hurricane personified. Jaskier often had company of his own, so you and Geralt became accustomed to sharing a room.

She likes the way he singsWhite demon love song’s in her dreams

Two Weeks Later

You walked with Jaskier through the corridor of the inn. He laughed at something you said, a joke made about the rude old man running the place. As you both turned down the last hall that would take you to the rooms you’d be staying in for the night, you came to a stop.

Just down at the other end of the hallway, Yennefer and Geralt were embraced in a passionate kiss. He had one arm wrapped around her and the opposite hand holding her cheek.

You chest tightened unbearably. You couldn’t stand to watch them.

Your arm slipped from the bard’s and you turned, fleeing the inn. You ran and ran, unable to stop your legs. They took you as far away from Geralt as they could.

It was nightfall before he found you. You were sitting on a large rock next to a creek, your legs folded beneath you as you stared at the running water.

Surely what he felt for Yennefer wasn’t true. He made a wish. Their connection was through a magic tie. It was fake, a knockoff for love at best.

You knew the feelings you held for him were honest. You cared about him, hated seeing him hurt when Yennefer did something like spit mean and hurtful things during an argument–which they frequently had. You hated seeing the way his eyes would glaze over with a hardness when villagers said anything regarding him being a monster. It made you furious. Why couldn’t they treat him like the hero he was?

But he felt nothing for you.

White demon, where’s your selfish kiss?White demon sorrow will arrange

When he found you sitting on that rock, he could smell the salty tinge of your tears in the air. He could hear the way your heart beat in your chest, steadily and quicker than usual.

“Y/N?”

You swallowed down the lump in your throat and forced the tears away.

“Y/N, I’m sorry–,”

“No.” You cut him off sternly, shaking your head. “I-I don’t want to hear it, Geralt. I just-I don’t.”

He stopped a few yards away from you.

“It’s getting late. You should come back with me.”

Anger grew within you like gasoline being added to a fire. You stood to your feet and stepped away from the rock.

“I know you feel something for me, Geralt. There was a connection, a strong connection between us before she came along-,”

“Don’t bring Yennefer into this.” He warned.

“She is the reason I can’t stand to be around anymore, Geralt!” You shouted at him. “You are so blinded by magic, by a spell that made you fall in love with her-,”

“What do you want from me, Y/N?” His voice, usually warm and kind, was hard and stern. He was growing agitated with you.

Your fingers curled into fists by your sides and tears of anger pooled in your eyes.

“I want you to admit that you feel something for me.” You spoke through clenched teeth in an attempt to hold back the tears. “I know I’m not the only one-,”

“What do you want me to do, Y/N? How the fuck am I suppose to know if I feel anything for you?” He growled, taking a step closer to you. “I know that I care for you. I would never wish harm to come to you. I-I enjoy having you by my side, but how am I suppose to know if those feelings run as deep as you think?”

“Kiss me.” The words fell from your lips before you could stop them. You paused for a moment to gauge his reaction but he said nothing. “Kiss me, and you will have your answer.”

He was close enough that one more step put him toe to toe with you.

Your heart raced so loudly in your chest, you were sure anyone within a ten miler radius could hear its frantic and wild beating within your ribs. Your stomach twisted with butterflies as he placed one of his hands, massive and calloused, upon your cheek. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling and you unintentionally leaned into him.

His lips pressed to yours with such a softness that you could feel yourself melting into him. Your hand came up to hold his bicep and then the other went to his shoulder.

There was an underlying bitter taste to the kiss. This would either make or break your relationship with Geralt. This was your defining moment.

You were confused when he pulled away, your brows drawing together. When you opened his eyes, you saw the look in his amber eyes of disappointment.

He wanted to feel something for you, but it wasn’t there.

“You felt it, didn’t you?” You quietly asked, hope tainting your weak voice. You squeezed his arm to encourage him. The wrinkle between his brows that came when he was unhappy with something told you all you need to know. You just needed to hear him say it. “Tell me you felt it. Please.”

He softly shook his head.

“No.” The gentle word was uttered quietly. He retracted his hands from you and took a few steps away, almost like he couldn’t stand to be close to you anymore.

It was funny how one word, one small word, could crush you.

“I still want you by my side, Y/N.”

His words took too long to process. You were trying to focus on not vomiting or crying out. You wanted desperately to beg him to forget about Yennefer. You wanted things to go back to the way they were, when he didn’t choose her over you.

You blinked and nodded, biting your bottom lip.

“Okay.” You agreed in a hoarse whisper. You couldn’t just leave him be. Often times, locals were more willing to talk to you than the brooding Witcher. You were useful to him.

“It’s late.” He glanced around, needing to look at something other than your heartbroken eyes. “I’ll walk you back to the inn.”

You shook your head, still biting your bottom lip as you struggled to contain yourself. The dam within you was flooding and you were drowning, unable to save yourself and without anyone to save you.

“I-I want to walk-to walk back alone.”

He watched you for a few moments but you couldn’t look at him. Your eyes were fixated on the ground beneath his boots. He turned and headed back in the direction of the village.

You waited for a while, wanting him to be out of earshot when you broke down.

Your hand came up to your lips, brushing gently over where he’d kissed you. A mournful cry fell from tour lips. It was gut-wrenching and heartbreaking.

Your knees buckled and you collapsed to your knees. One hand covered your mouth while the other held your upper half up. Your nails curled into the dirt, fingers fisting around tufts of green grace.

Let’s not forget about the fearBlack invitation to this place that cannot change

Two Days Later

You sat alone at a table in the corner of the tavern. Your hands were loosely wrapped around the mug of ale you’d been nursing for the better half of an hour.

You could hear the boisterous crowd of patrons enjoying the night drinking, sharing stories, and laughing, but it was all muffled. It was as if you were miles away and could only hear the little noise.

Your eyes focused on hour cup of ale while your thoughts ran wild.

It had been just a short two days since you and Geralt kissed, and you hadn’t spoken to him since. You wondered if he was staying away because of how foolish you’d acted, how you let your emotions get the best of you. You should’ve just shut up and forced everything down like you always did.

Jaskier approached your table, taking note of the way your fingers slowly constricted around your drink. Your eyes were empty, void of any emotion. But there was a glossy tint to them, one that had been there for a few days now. It was like you were constantly on the verge of breaking down into tears.

“Hi, love.” The bard greeted you gently, turning the chair next to you around so he could face you. You looked at him very briefly, offering him a forced smile. “I’m worried about you. So is Geralt.”

“No he isn’t.” Your voice was hoarse and quiet. Your gaze flickered over to where he stood at the counter with Yennefer. His head was turned to face her, giving you a perfect view of the gentle smile on his lips as he looked down at her. “He has her.”

Jaskier followed your gaze.

“But he still needs you.”

You stood from your seat and finished off the rest of your drink.

“I’m leaving, Jaskier.” You sighed out gently.

“I’ll go with you.” He pushed himself out of his chair.

“No, Jaskier. I mean I’m leaving leaving.”

He furrowed his brows as he gazed at you.

“Like forever?” He murmured gently. “Love, you can’t do that.”

“Sure I can.” You nodded your head, trying to sound as excited as you were upset. “I’ve stayed far longer than I should’ve. I never meant to stay this long.”

“But you did, Y/N!” Jaskier followed you as you left the building and stepped out into the rain. It was coming down softly, slowly. There was almost a melodic tune to it. “You stayed! And because of what? Because-,”

“Because I thought I’d gain something from staying.” You snapped, turning to face him.

“You gained me, love.” He smiled but it wasn’t real. He was hurt from what you said. You were never harsh to him.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Jaskier.” You put your hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “I treasure your friendship, Jask, more than I could ever tell you.” You moved in to hug him, feeling the overwhelming need to be embraced by someone, anyone really.

He hugged you tight, afraid to let the woman he viewed as a sister go. He wasn’t prepared for you to leave.

“I can assure you that none of us want you to leave.”

In his arms, your facade crumbled and the tears left your eyes. You fisted his shirt, burying your face in his chest.

“It isn’t fair.” You cried quietly.

“I know, love.” He hushed you gently, brushing his hand over your back.

While strangely holy, come for a rainWhite demon, widen your heart’s scopeWhite demon, who let your friends go?

One Month Later

Your heart pounded in your ears. Adrenaline coursed through your veins the same way the rapids in a river moved.

You’d just finished slaying the werewolf after Geralt nearly killed himself. The beast left deep wound on the witcher’s chest, ones that were bleeding heavily. Why hadn’t he worn his armor?

He was on his knees when you reached him, his head hanging and eyes closed.

“Geralt!” You called his name, kneeling down in front of him. You tentatively reached out to move the shredded cloth of his shirt. He inhaled sharply and lifted his head. You retracted your hand, looking up at him. Amber eyes were focused on you.

“Why do you have to be so damned stupid?” You thought out loud, pulling off the cloak you wore to use the material to stop the bleeding. The blood could always be washed out later.

He said nothing to you.

Knowing you couldn’t do much until you were at the inn, you stood to your feet.

“Come on. We should be getting back.” You turned to walk away from him.

He could hear the anger in your voice. You were upset with him.

“I’m sorry.” He uttered out. You turned back to him.

“Don’t apologize to me. You chose to come out here without your gods damned armor. You are choosing to let your emotions guide you, Geralt. You’re going to end up dead.” You told him.

When he stayed silent, you started to leave.

“She left this morning.”

You stopped in your tracks. Sighing heavily, you turned to face him.

“I know.”

You’d heard the argument the witcher and the mage had at dawn. Geralt didn’t like that Yennefer was still endangering herself in an attempt to find a way to have children. They argued frequently, but never enough that Yennefer would leave.

“Come on. If you’d like to talk, we can talk once we get to the inn.” You didn’t want to talk about his issues with the mage. You didn’t even want to talk to him. You just wanted to make sure he would be fine before retiring to your own room for a sleepless night.

Jaskier talked you into staying when you told him that you wanted to leave. You stayed for him, doing your best to avoid Geralt. Yennefer never really spoke to you so avoiding her was easy. Geralt, however, still asked you to join him on hunts. You had learned to push your emotions down, to fight anything and everything you felt.

“I don’t deserve your kindness.” He whispered.

“You did nothing wrong. You can’t help that you don’t feel anything for me.” You murmured, shrugging your shoulders softly.

“I’ve pushed you away, haven’t I?” He met your gaze. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

“No. I chose to stay away.”

He nodded softly, his eyes falling to the ground just ahead of him. A few silent moments passed between you before he spoke.

“I care about you, Y/N.”

Your chest tightened but not from happiness. It was painful and made you feel as though he had just shoved his hand through your rib cage and tore yourself heart out. A surge of anger flew through your body.

“You don’t get to say that.” You spoke through tour teeth. “You don’t get to say that, Geralt. Just because Yennefer left doesn’t mean I should come crawling back to you-,”

“I didn’t say that because she’s gone.” He cut you off, rising to his feet. “I just need you to know that.

You shook your head and started to stomp through the woods.

“I never wanted it to be like this, Y/N.” He followed behind you. “There was a point in time where I wanted you.”

“And you’re telling me this why?” You spun around to face him.

He didn’t know an answer to your question. All he could do was gaze down at you.

“I have suffered an unbearable pain because of what you did, Geralt. The wish you made-,”

“I didn’t want her to die!”

You nodded understandingly. You hated that you understood him. You were angry that he had admitted what he did, that he cared for you. You’d been doing so well in healing, in recovering from the wounds brought on by such a heartbroking rejection. You had just recently started to fall asleep without crying. You were moving on. And here he was, opening old wounds.

“Tend to yourself when you get back to the inn. I need a drink.” You muttered under your breath, knowing he’d be able to hear you.

Taglist: @riviawitch3r @notyouraveragemochii @dev1lbella @rosyghosty @merendis @lalalalemonade11 @wayward-dream @whatanicepanohthatsjustme @tshuuls @havenoffandoms @queen-sands @crazzyter @katiejmac @bucky-did-nothing-wrong @jennylovelyheart @stretchkingblog97 @itsallyouhavegotinsideyourhead @hm-fck @mactho @msgeorgiarae @tragicmisfits @randomzxx @alwayshave-faith @rahdaleigh @lizliz3107 @turtlefordestiel @d14n4ol @asix122747483 @minervalavender @agniavateira @hina-chans-stuff @dressed-up-heartbreak @persephonehemingway

If you are in italics then it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

[sasha-chambers]

Short Horror Stories: The Empty Man

In the early eighteenth century, a young woman made her way across the sea to the developing Americas, seeking a new life for herself away from her home in London where she had studied and practiced medicine and had developed a significant measure of skill during her studies and as such wished to further expand her skills as well as apply them where they were needed.

After landing on the shores of her new world she made her way to a town where a doctor, which she had been in correspondence with for the past couple of years, had established a large hospital complex that had attracted many patients from both the town it was built as well as the surrounding settlements as well as said clients consisting of common and wealthy folk alike.

This young doctor immediately proved that the head doctor had made no mistake in giving her the time of day when he had first reached out to her after reading a paper that she had written back home in England. Every task she was given she performed to the letter with nary a step out of place as well as seeking to go beyond wherever she could by figuring out more efficient and cost-effective ways of conducting her tasks.

However, despite her competence and the satisfaction of the head doctor and even the patients with her performance, the other doctors and staff at the hospital came to look down on her for that rapid success, rumours soon even emerging that her ability was not due to skill, but rather witchcraft. Such rumours soon spread like wildfire to those of a suspicious disposition, culminating to a group of thugs, including those who’s ire she had earned at the hospital, chased her from the town with the intent of taking out their frustrations on her, not content with dragging her name through the dirt.

The woman stumbled across an old, decrepit chruch not far from town, one she had heard of from local stories that claimed it was haunted and given a wide birth as a result, a story she was in no mind to heed as she charged through the open doors and slammed them behind her before collapsing in front of the alter at the head of the hall, desperately muttering to herself in hopes that she would be delivered from her torment.

Unfortunately, her pleas went unheard as she was found within the ruin by her pursuers, beaten and violated for what felt like an eternity before she was left to her sorrow, curling up on the cold floor as the sun fell from the night sky and the pale light of the moon above lighting up the church through its crumbling roof. However, she was not left to her misery for long as she became acutely aware of eyes on her, eyes that did not feel natural as she slowly turned to look down the hall where a strange figure was stood behind the alter.

The figure was tall, it’s limbs long and body thin, wrapped in black, ragged robes with a hood that covered all but its hands and feet, which struck her as inhuman due to the skin being stretched thin over the bones like that of a corpse with scars like cracks in marble running over it as well as being a ashen grey colour. Then she slowly drew her gaze up to it’s face under the hood and realised that it was indeed not a person, or at least not a living one as its face was just as corpse like as its hands and feet, the lips pulled back, cheeks and eyes sunken, the nose now just the nasal cavity, its hair still black but thin and strangely while it’s eyes were completely black, empty voids.

She lay there, frozen in fear while her mind was frantically trying to rationalise what she was looking at and even for the briefest of moments she considered allowing this entity to kill her so that she could be freed from the hell her life had suddenly turned into. The creature slowly approached her, a thin layer of drool noticeably running from the corners of its jaws as it knelt down and slowly reached a hand out to caress her cheek. However, instead of trying to kill her, the creature seemed to be holding itself back from doing so, its muscles pulling taught as it kept itself in place, its head turning up to look at the door, a deep breath being drawn into its nose before a shiver ran through it’s body like the anticipation brought on by the scent of a favourite food.

Then an echoing voice began to ring out inside her skull. It was hard to make out in its entirety but she could understand enough to know it was asking something of her. That she venture down into the lower levels of the church and retrieve an object, an amulet that the creature was bound too, his ball and chain so to speak. If she took that and placed it around her neck, she could carry him out of the church and lead him to those who had wronged her, where he would take care of the rest.

After a short while of reflection, during which the creature's black eyes remained on her, never blinking, she looked back up to meet its gaze and uttered a single word of agreement, the creature gesturing towards a doorway off in the back corner of the hall. Entering and descending down the stairs to the basement of the church, feeling the creature following behind her despite the lack of any sound from it’s movements. The woman found herself in a strange chamber, symbols written across the walls, floor and ceiling in chalk. A stone slab of a table sat in the centre of the room with shackles bolted to it, but most chilling of all was the pile of bodies around the table, each one looking like a mummy with their skin dried out and bodies thin husks.

After finding the corpse with the amulet, a body dressed in particularly ornate robes compared to the rest, she removed ir from the corpse and held it in her hands, she could feel the creature looming over her beginning to grow restless and agitated and so quickened her pace, placing it around her neck and hurriedly making her way back up to the church hall and stepping outside into the cold night air. She turned back to see the creature standing in the doorway of the church, stock still as if in anticipation before it stepped forward out of the church and onto the soft dirt, to which it threw it’s head back and let out a blood curdling roar of joy.

The woman wasted no time living up to her promise, heading back into town and quickly locating the man who had led the group that hunted her down, one of the other doctors at the hospital, finding him stumbling home from his favourite drinking spot, seemingly having been celebrating the evenings events. Upon seeing the woman, the doctor gave a small smile, commenting on her being so eager to die before freezing in place as he became aware of the creature stood behind him, looming over him as it stood over a foot taller than the man. Before the doctor could even let out a yell of surprise, the creature wrapped it’s long fingers around his neck and threw him through the air into the shadows of a nearby alleyway.

The creature slowly stalked after it’s prey, the doctor babbling for mercy from the beast, his words falling on deaf ears before he resorted to turning heel and running, only to find the creature suddenly stood right behind him. It wrapped both of It’s hands around the man’s neck as he began to panic, a long black tongue snacking across the man’s flesh and once again the creature shivered in anticipation of it’s meal. The woman remained still and continued to observe, unphased, as the creature's jaw opened unnaturally wide and a light welled up under the skin of the doctor’s throat, leaving his mouth as a bright mist that flowed into the mouth of the beast.

As the creature fed it’s form became steadily less skeletal, regaining a more human visage with the exception of it’s gangly proportions and the cracks that ran across it’s grey skin as if it was barely holding it’s body together. In contrast the body of the doctor began to wither away as his pupils became wider and wider, leaving his eyes the same pitch black as the creatures. And strangely, as the creature regained it’s strength, the woman too felt her body rejuvenating, her wounds healing over and her muscles feeling light.

Once it had completed it’s meal. The creature released it’s grip on the doctor’s corpse and let it thug to the ground, turning it’s gaze to the woman now suddenly giving her a warning, that as long as she wore his amulet, he could not harm her or leave her side, but should she remove it and refuse to provide him with prey, he would claim her soul and simply wait for another to come and heed his call. Yet, even with that warning, the woman led the creature to the rest of her attackers and from there on she travelled all across the world, feeding the vilest souls she could find to the creature, her connection to it seeming to halt her aging, her mind twisting what she was doing as a violent version of a doctor’s work as she continued to feed the specter for decades to come.

[constantfluxx]

FAREWELL WANDERLUST BY THE AMAZING DEVIL FOR THE TUNE CRUISE * SCREAMS *

HI I AM THE ONE WHO REQUESTED FAREWELL WANDERLUST AND FORGOT TO SPECIFY WHICH SHIP. OF COURSE. GERASKIER OR JASKIER POV WHATEVER REALLY, OK? THANKS. ILU.

🎶The Evening Earworm Tune Cruise: The SS 200🎶

Port of Call: Geraskier! 🐺👨‍🎤Itinerary: Farewell Wanderlust by The Amazing DevilCaptain: @kiomaya 🧜‍♀️

Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh oh so kindYou brought me through this darkness but you left me here behindAnd so long to the person you begged me to be

He took in a deep, steadying breath. His fingers trembled around the neck of his lute. Eyes closed, he mentally coached himself, willing his nerves to settle at least long enough for his voice to sing true. It’s just another performance. How many times have you done this before? It’s no big deal.

Except he knew he was lying to himself.

This was hardly “just another performance.” Far from it. It took him forever to finally write a song sharing Geralt’s “defeat” of the dragon with the world. Even longer to perform it. And, when he finally did, it was… not his best work. One could hardly expect him to sing such a tale with such passion and intrigue when its epilogue was laced with a pain he couldn’t bring himself to bare. It was technically perfect, as his work of late usually was, but the emotion was missing. He was missing.

This song… This performance… This is where it had run off to. Where it’d been hiding ever since his return from that mountainside. It took him longer than he’d like to admit to finally recognize it as the problem - or perhaps he’d known all along, but refused to acknowledge it because it would reopen too many wounds, resurface too much hurt. Finally, the lacerations across his heart had begun to scar just enough for him to look, to examine, to embrace.

All that had happened… It was an indisputable part of him now, no matter how much pain it caused him, and would continue to cause him. He couldn’t move forward while leaving a part of him in the past - it was all or nothing, and he understood that now.

He doubted the unsuspecting townsfolk filling their bellies at the local tavern particularly cared to hear about his heartbreak. Songs of joy and adventure and triumph tended to draw far more coin than songs of misery and suffering and defeat. But this wasn’t for coin, not primarily anyhow. For this one song, this one performance, it wasn’t about the job.

It was bout reclaiming himself. About owning his life. About declaring his agony so irrefutably that he would have no choice but to recognize it as his own and finally, finally, start to address it head-on.

And wasn’t that a kind of personal victory, in its own, awful way?

He opened his eyes. He gazed out upon his feasting audience, upon their grumbling banter and stomping feet and clanking flagons. And he saw hair of white, and swords of silver, and eyes of yellow.

Delicate, flitting fingertips plucked away the beginning notes, deceptively light and whimsical. His voice followed in sweet accompaniment, painting the first syllable in a long, arcing embrace before twirling into its prancing opening measure.

“You look like I need a drink he winked as he slipped from my grasp to the barAnd you are?”

As he rounded out the opening lyrics, the catchy, playful tune drew those listening ears into a light nodding alongside his rhythm. Just as he’d once been distracted by Geralt’s splendor, so too were they taken by his light sing-song, and even as something more sinister began to sneak between his words they sooner suspected the start of some grand tale than the foreboding of tragedy.

Sooner just evidence of the Witcher’s social neglect than a pattern of distancing dissent.

“Every time that you fumble, I’m the laugh from the backWhen you think about him, my wings start to flapWhen you make a mistake, my feet lift from the floorAnd when you lie there awake every night love, I soar”

The notes were turning darker. The words weren’t turning towards a new tomorrow. Rather than circle back, they basked in their darkness, reveled in the furrowed brows and wary glances. His pace built, the ebb and flow of his song’s tide swirling into a tumultuous churning from shore to shore. Too late to swim to safety, the listening hearts searched for the sun - surely it was just around the corner, just after the next typhoon?

Surely, he’d come to his senses and warm up to the company?

“I’m the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shownAll those letters unsent and that garden ungrownI’m the captain of courage you’ve eternally lackedI’m the Jesus of wishing to Christ he’ll come back”

The wave crashed down upon them. Hope of survival glimmered in its wake, breaking free of the surface for a vital breath of precious air. A single ray of sunlight touched their faces… but it proved only to be the eye of a surmounting storm, one which raged more furiously than anything before it. It dragged them back down into his suffering, and like troublesome dogs their faces were forced to behold his wretched distress. But rather than recoil away from the filth, they stared, held in place by the voice that wrapped around their necks like nooses. They witnessed the unfolding of his wounded heart, the casting aside of the love that had poisoned it, and the thrashing of his despair in this pit he’d been left in.

How could someone so beautiful be capable of something so cruel?

“Come devil come, she sang, call out my nameLet’s take this outside cos we’re one and the sameOur god has abandoned us, left us, insteadTake up arms, take my hand, let us waltz for the dead”

The notes of his lute had slowed once more, heavy and trudging. Where once had been whimsy now there rang spite: a lesson learned, and with it the reckless abandon of love’s unburdened prisoner. Only here, at the very depths of his sorrow, could all his emotion at last gather into a crude ladder he could use to pull himself out. Because Love had cast him down, he stood up. Because Love had said he couldn’t, he did. Because Love demanded he stay, broken and defeated, he threw Love away, put himself back together, and reached for something new.

He didn’t know what kind of life could possibly come after Geralt, but he knew, at least, that he’d rather search and know than never even look.

“Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh oh so kindYou brought me through this darkness but you left me here behindAnd so long to the person you begged me to beHe’s down. He’s dead.Now take a long look at what you’ve done to me?”

It was hardly a happy resolution. It was ugly and gritty and tormented, but then what else could have ever come from this war? Nonetheless, as he led his audience into this final arch of their journey, his song blossomed into a kind of vindictive triumph, one that dared the world to try, just try and drag him back into the darkness. It would not, it must not, they collectively swore.

Perhaps, one day, Geralt would come back. It’d be splendid if he did - truly. For then, he could see the rotting carcass of the man Jaskier had to shed in order to forge himself anew. Then, maybe, he’d realize the sins he’d committed, recognize the way he’d sheared Jaskier’s heart to shreds and cast them off the mountainside.

But whether or not he ever did would no longer be a thing Jaskier concerned himself with.

“He’s down, He’s deadHe’s gone, He’s lostHe’s flown, He’s fledNow take a good long look at what you've all done to me”

As Jaskier declared his final words to the crowd, his fingers flew along the strings of his lute, releasing its last, swelling vibrato through the small tavern. The sound grew and grew, until at last it burst into an abrupt silence that swept in and suffocated what few lingering embers might still yet burn for the captivating Witcher.

For a suspenseful moment, not a soul dared disturb it, and even when the daily rumblings of the tavern began to creep back into place no one offered applause - such a thing just didn’t seem right after such an emotional experience as the one which had just unfolded all around them. Not even Jaskier himself offered any levity to the situation, trading his usual bow and playful quip for a simple nod of his head, more for himself than his audience. A small, silent affirmation of his deed, a thanks he afforded himself for finally releasing his pain to the winds of change.

He turned from them and retreated back to his sparse belongings, joining the rest in the tavern in a strange normalcy that pretended like nothing had ever happened. Not but a single soul challenged it, stepping towards him so quietly he hadn’t noticed them until a tiny, trembling finger touched the sleeve of his doublet. Startled, he turned to regard his visitor, a now-distant corner of his mind wondering if he’d find a calloused hand gloved in black.

Of course not. The touch had been too small, too flighty, too careful.

She stared up at him with a round, teary-eyed face, mouth hanging slightly ajar as she still searched for something to say. Studying him, seeing her own shaken state reflected in him, her brow furrowed, and in her eyes he saw an approaching understanding. At last, she murmured, taken with frightful awe, “That... was miserable... ?”

His eyes flickered down, catching the glint of a small trio of coins sequestered in her upturned palm. He knew well what her drifting, questioning inflection reached for, but he only smiled and shook his head, folding her fingers closed around her coin.

“Sometimes, my dear,” he whispered, voice still shuddering from lingering passion, “life is miserable.”

He paused. Chuckled. Hoisted his lute upon his shoulder by the strap of its case.

“And that’s okay.”

[mbtiofwhys]

Haru Okumura

INFJ

Functional Order: Ni - Fe - Ti - Se

Trigger warning

This article will contain spoilers about the main plot of the game and Haru’s confidant, as a way to provide the most comprehensive analysis.

On a side note, since Haru has a well-balanced stack, we didn’t focus our article on splitting her mourning from her cognition, due to how well she reacted.

Perceiving Functional Axis

Introverted Intuition (Ni) / Extroverted Sensing (Se) 

Haru isn’t a textbook INFJ, but her stack is well balanced. This is especially true considering how well she reacted to her father’s death, never falling into loops or grips. Even if she isn’t the stereotypical INFJ, her dominant Ni is sound and only improves during her confidant. When we first meet Haru, she doesn’t even take into account the option to use Ni as a tool to assess her future: since her father owns a big company in the food market, he planned an arranged marriage for her, thus preserving the wellness of his business. 

After her father’s death, though, Haru finds herself in a tough position. Talking about cognition, her Ni shows during her confidant, in which Haru understands how she can’t live her life following blindly her father’s will or, even worse, being under the influence of shareholders who only want to take advantage of her for the sake of mere profit. Therefore, Haru begins to question herself about what she really wants to do and her answer is to develop her passion for coffee beans and vegetables into a business, similarly to her grandfather’s café.

This is also a clear indicator of her well-developed inferior Se. Haru defines a concrete, plausible plan using Se as a tool to realize her wish. She doesn’t think about an abstract and intangible idea, she neither ruminates on future possibilities. On contrary, she listens to the protagonist’s advices, she clears her mind, and then she speaks to Okumura’s Food shareholders about her future in the company. So, in the end, she can follow her dream by taking concrete steps.

Haru’s inferior Se is initially less balanced though, she blindly follows Morgana without thinking about the consequences of her actions, and thus she finds herself questioning her behaviours. But as a healthy Se user, when the team tells her the truth she no longer lies to herself and accepts reality as it is. 

Haru further nurtures her inferior Se growing vegetables on Shujin Academy’s rooftop. This may seem a little detail, especially compared to how her Se plays a role in her search for a meaningful activity to do as a living. But practical hobbies that require to use one’s senses are in general a great way to nurture inferior Se and Haru does it in a surprisingly healthy way.

Judging Functional Axis

Extroverted Feeling (Fe) / Introverted Thinking (Ti)  

Haru is deeply concerned with the environment’s emotional state and her main focus is on the well-being of her teammates. When the phantom thieves help her to defeat Okumura’s shadow, she invites them to spend a night at Tokyo Destinyland, making a reservation for the entire park. Even in more trivial situations, Haru is always focused on people: she’s extremely polite, be it in face-to-face interactions or on the group chat, never stepping on someone’s toes, because breaking social harmony scares her and she really wants to get along with everyone. 

Haru also has a surprisingly balanced Fe, especially considering how she reacted to her father’s death. She initially suspected the phantom thieves but, to be honest, this is a human reaction to a tragic event that left her in sorrow and without a stable emotional support system. Yet, after few days, Haru apologizes with the group, thus she starts again to use her Fe in an healthy way. 

During her confidant, Haru’s Fe aids her dominant Ni when she tries to define a suitable and meaningful future for herself. Her wish to open a coffee chain like her grandfather did isn’t only a choice driven by Ni, as she also cares about how this activity will positively impact the life of her customers. Haru then uses her Fe to influence the emotional environment of Okumura’s Food shareholders. She takes action (Se) with a clear goal in mind (Ni), aware of her role in the company (Ti), to find a common ground for everyone (Fe).

Haru’s Fe is paired with tertiary Ti, although finding clues about her Ti isn’t simple. During her confidant, Haru takes her time to dissect Okumura’s Food, so she can understand “the rules of the game” and create an internal logical system to apply in her decision-making process. She then figures out the hierarchy in the company and the dynamics underlying it (this is also due to her Fe). So, even if the game focuses more on her tendency to ease the emotional environment and her research of a meaningful activity to do as a living, her Ti shows a little in her confidant. At the same time, Haru never makes choices based on the most efficient way to solve a problem and her approach is always people-oriented, which excludes Te from the equation. And given how we think it’s undeniable that Haru has Fe in a high position in the stack and that she’s an introvert, this implies tertiary Ti by a process of elimination. Finally, as a teenager, it’s common to have a tertiary function not so evident.

Also typed as: INFP, ISFJ

Another consideration about Haru revolves around how Ni and Fe may mimic Fi when placed in high positions in the stack. Haru’s auxiliary Fe is clearly visible in all her behaviours, but for the sake of discussion we would like to distinguish it from dominant Fi. 

Ni and Fi are both introverted function, thus they are subjective. The biggest difference between them resides in how Ni searches for a meaningful future, opposed to how Fi prioritizes activities which enhance and express one’s sense of self. Dominant Ni, even if subjective, operates as a perceiving function, thus the judgement stems from the auxiliary one: Te or Fe. As we stated above, it is clear how Haru aids her choices not with a logical and efficient approach (Te), but rather with one based on people’s well-being (Fe). Dominant Fi may lead an IxFP to pursue a people-based cause, but Haru does it as a way to create and maintain social harmony, not because she thinks it’s right or her duty. 

So, even if one doesn’t clearly see how Fe is Haru’s judging function, Fi can also be excluded since it implies Te and because there’s a difference between what is subjectively perceived as meaningful through Ni and what is subjectively felt as meaningful through Fi.

Another take on Haru’s type is ISFJ. We don’t think Haru is a Si-dom because her methods and motivations doesn’t remind of Si. As always, understanding the difference between two function is a process based on cognition rather than behaviours. Sure she is quiet and maybe one could say she’s traditionalist, but dominant Si means using the past and the information one gained as a constant comparison to find patterns that worked well and that can be applied to the present. Haru doesn’t do that, as her focus lays way more in the future and in how she envisions a meaningful outcome in her life.Haru doesn’t look at the future in a stereotyped Ni-dom way, something people may misinterpret as future forecasting or mind-reading. Haru, on the other hand, tries to unravel abstract patterns, thus finding what she really want to do as a lifelong activity. So, in a less stereotyped and more realistic process, Haru relies on her dominant Ni to delve into possibilities. Ni doesn’t only refer to the actualization of a single vision, since it’s tied to Se: a healthy Ni must consider more than one option and need to be flexible enough to adapt its vision to reality and its limits. What Haru does may seem simple: to open a business creating a pleasant environment for her customers. However, since society is complex and subject to constant change, this is a more tangled puzzle to solve. 

So, especially seeing how many people unfortunately mistake Ni and Si motives with stereotypes based on the future and the past, it’s easy to mistype an INFJ as an ISFJ or vice-versa. The real difference is between how and why Haru consider the past and the future, not the mere focus on one or both of them. 

Let’s look at both Makoto (ISTJ) and Haru’s confidant themes. 

Makoto lived her life in a box with a narrow-minded attitude. At first she asks protagonist for help because she feels she reached a limit and wants to broaden her horizons and be more open (inferior Ne), and in the process she finds the true meaning of her studies and learns to be less judgy (healthy tertiary Fi).

Haru, on the other hand, perfectly knows that marrying Sugimura isn’t what will make her happy, but she needs to build the confidence to speak about it to the company because she doesn’t want to damage other people with a choice perceived as selfish (a problem tied to auxiliary Fe). Haru also knows that she want to create a meaningful business which can be both expression of her ideals and a place where people can find comfort. She spends some time reflecting upon it, but the association with her grandfather’s café doesn’t come because it was a thing that worked well in the past and that can be replied (on contrary, the shop wasn’t profitable), but rather because it’s something that’s close to her personal idea of a nice place built around people.

[damienthepious]

oh, well, this is unexpected. Not a tuesday offering because... well, it’s not about that. Casey, Sky, & Ria, y’all are. partially responsible for this one. i love you sorry for the angst.

Mirrors Keep Our Reflections

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: n/a

Characters:  Sir Damien, Sir Damien’s Father, Original Male Character

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, (as usual i do not know how to tag), Damien's family, (i am mildly unpacking damien's father), (also i have given the boy a sibling), (whom i love now), (and... whooops.... uh), Implied/Referenced Character Death, (at least twice over actually), Loss of Parent(s), Family Dynamics, Siblings, Grief/Mourning, Angst

Summary: If there had been a third child, he would have been named Ferdinand.

Notes: Whoops. Context: there's a patreon bonus guide to the second citadel thing that talks about names and naming in the 'verse, and apparently it is very common for children to pick a new name for themselves. Combine this with certain headcanons I have about Damien's family and you get.... a mess. Title from Domino by Squalloscope.

~

It is a cruel anniversary for all three of them. Aaron is unsure what their father thinks Damien will accomplish in his studies today, but neither of them argue when they are each assigned their tasks before their father locks himself away again with his holy texts.

Aaron is unsure as well, if their father is mourning, in this way, or if there is some other answer he seeks in the words of the Saints. It doesn't particularly matter, he decides, if it means that he and Damien will be left to mourn on their own, in peace.

When Damien's shoulders sag over his own reading, when he rubs at his eyes, Aaron steps up beside him, reaches forward, and closes his book.

"Aaron-"

"Come down by the pond with me."

"But father said-"

"A few minutes, Damien. Clear your head, give your poor scholarly eyes a rest, inhale some air that isn't half composed of dust."

His brother glances back down to the closed book again, guilty and reluctant, and then he scoots his stool back. "… Alright. Only for a little while."

The walk is short, and though the day is oppressively hot, the shade and the breeze are cool enough to guard them from the worst of it by the water's edge. Damien settles on the moss with a sigh, and he closes his eyes for a long moment as Aaron stares out over the glassy surface of the pond, watching the lines rippling out behind the family of geese on the far side.

"Do you… remember much about her?" Damien asks, after what seems like quite some time. His voice is very quiet, and when Aaron blinks and glances towards him, Damien still has his eyes closed, though his expression is tight and anxious.

After a long moment, Aaron sinks to sit beside his brother. "… less than I once did," he admits, and Damien opens his eyes so that he may watch Aaron's face instead. "Less than I wish I did. Memory is an unreliable creature. If you look away from it for too long, it will transform, or decay. I remember… I remember that she had clever eyes, a rare smile but easy humor… I do remember that she enjoyed mornings just the same as you, Damien."

Damien's smile is noticeably watery, but it is genuine. "Did she shove you from bed as I do?"

"When I needed a good shoving," Aaron grins, "yes."

"I wish-"

Damien's words come too fast. Too abrupt, and they cut off into the silence of the thrumming hot day just as quickly.

"I know," Aaron says, when the silence has drawn long. "I wish too. I miss her, and… and I miss the man that father was, when she was still here."

"Was he… was he-"

"He was still himself," Aaron says gently. "But- happier. Less unyielding."

"I think… I cannot help but think, how it could have been, if-" he inhales sharply, his brow furrowing. "The four of us, together. Or- the five, I expect."

"Five- ah." Aaron presses his lips together for a moment. "Right."

Aaron, and Damien, and-

Their parents would not have named them as they did, of course, if they were not anticipating a third with which to complete their reverent set.

"Another brother," Damien says, both sad and wondering. "We could have had another… another piece to our family. Some brave little boy we never had the chance to know-"

"You cannot know what another child would have been like, Damien. Simply because father would have named him Ferdinand does not mean anything about who he would have been. Or she, for that matter. A name such as that…"

"A name such as ours?" Damien asks, one eyebrow raised and his lips pursed into a pout.

Aaron eyes his brother in return, considering, and then he nods. "A name such as ours. The more I think on it, the more I know that it is a wretched thing to do. If we had another brother, if they named him as they clearly planned- likely he would toss the name on the next fire as soon as he was old enough to choose one for himself. Saints know how often I've been tempted to do the same."

"You- you have?" Damien asks, obviously incredulous, his eyes wide, and Aaron attempts to keep his expression only wry.

"It's only... it's quite a lot for any child to live up to," he says. "You understand that, don't you?"

"I... I suppose so... but- but you do live up to your namesake! You are steadfast, sturdy-"

"Damien-"

"Resolute! And if you can live up to your name, certainly if I work hard enough, study long enough-"

"You shouldn't have to, Damien. Neither should I. No child should. If we had another in our family, it would be kinder to leave them free of such a weight.

Damien frowns, a delicate web of incomprehension. "Are you... are you going to change yours, then?"

Aaron looks aside, sighs. "I haven't decided. It's... it is a heavy weight, but... it means so much to him."

And their father's good humor is the unsteady framework upon which their home is built.

"... what... what would you even change it to, if you did?"

"I could change it to Damien, simply to annoy you," Aaron says with his wide, easy grin.

"Aaron. I am being serious."

Aaron laughs. "I could simply change it to Ferdinand myself, and then you could take a turn as the elder brother."

Damien huffs. "That," he says stiffly, "is not how that works. And besides- if you were Ferdinand, that certainly would not solve your problem. Your very first point was that bravery would be an equally heavy burden."

"That is true," Aaron says with a sigh. "So. Not another Saint name, then."

"Obviously not," Damien agrees. "That would limit you quite severely." He pauses, his uncertainty so poorly concealed that Aaron can't help but smile again. "Did... clearly you have put some thought into this... did you have any potential names in mind? Any that were not in jest?"

"Any..." Aaron echoes. "I suppose that is just the issue," he says slowly. "If I were not Aaron, I could be anyone."

"But were there any anyones in particular," Damien insists. "Come now, I don't think you would have brought it up had you nothing already in mind!"

"Perhaps I had some trouble, summoning potential names to my own mind. Perhaps I was far more curious to hear your suggestions," he says, tilting his head with a grin. "You are much quicker with this sort of game than I, after all.

"Oh!" Damien clasps his hands together, grinning, and then he schools his expression, his brow furrowing as he considers this task for a long moment. "You could be... hm, perhaps Lucan? No- Rience! Or perhaps Owain, or Claudas, or Balan-"

"Evaine is rather elegant," Aaron murmurs, and his face is very still as he watches the equally still water.

Damien pauses. "Wh-what was that?"

Aaron says nothing for a long moment, and then he stands, his easy smile spread across his face again. "It's past time we returned you to your studies, I think."

"But-"

"I will thank you for indulging me, and beg your pardon for distracting you for quite so long," he says. "But we should... we should return to where we belong, Damien."

Damien stares up at him, still unsure for a strange, stretched-out moment, and then he reaches a hand out so Aaron may help pull him back to his feet.

They do not speak, on the walk back to their home. They do not speak of names ever again.

They do not see another cruel anniversary together.

If there had been a third child, he would have been named Ferdinand. Unlike his namesake, Damien who will be Pious has only one brother, and his name was only ever Aaron.

After Aaron dies, Damien's father mourns this newest cruelty by packing up what remains of their lives and taking young Damien to the realm where death looms the closest. He takes them to the Western Wastes, the woods of death themselves, and there Damien's father proselytizes. The names of the Saints on his tongue, surrounded by death and nonbelievers. Their names, again and again, and echoed in and echoing his family, in his son who never was, in his son who no longer is, in his son who is not enough.

When Damien is old enough to choose his own appellation, he thinks of Aaron.

He thought of Aaron in the water, as well. He thinks of Aaron often, though he is discovering to his sorrow that Aaron had been right, about memory, and transformation, and decay. He remembers that easy grin, still, and sturdy embrace, but he has forgotten the precise pattern of his freckles. He has forgotten the name that he whispered like a secret beside the water. He has forgotten moments small, and large, and they have left him so easily that he will not even recognize their lack.

Damien could choose another name, but once beneath the water his namesake reached within him, and helped him breathe.

Damien could choose another name, but once a boy named Aaron had a brother named Damien, and Damien does not wish to be anyone else.

[virdityshattred]

[ Muses]    

  Name:  Micheal    

age:   primitive

creature:  Archangel  

height:  Tall, towers over others.  Varies based on context.  

Titles:   Prince of heaven.  Judge of souls.  who  most faithful.  Holy savior [ via ending the war in heaven]. Defeater of wicked.  Brother.  

reputation:  Machiavellian chess master.   Big intimidating leader who is always  victorious in every single battle and makes all their foes cower and beg for atone.  

Fc:  { In the present} Kit Harington { Pre war}  Gaspard Ulliel

Education: Learned to fend for themselves as a child self taught combat and  stealth,discovered weapons and takes an instant interest in them it becoming quickly apparent to them this may be a better tool for survival. Studies olden magic and how to wield it.  Knows elemental magic. Observes the heavens inside out and everything about the newly built world because was genuinely curious.  Reflects on past mistakes as to have current wisdom.  

Temper:   Has a firm calmness built up over centuries unsuspecting  often gets mistaken as being ‘ tame’ in reality is simply focused. Knows when to strike and when to not.  Not quick to anger their rage comes when it comes when others least suspect which tends catch others off guard.  Volcanic like rage and aggression.  As a child wasn’t obedient to God but only quietly observes on and off quiet, very fierce. Before the war was more stern then they’d be later because was in training to learn to lead.

In the present temper is  essentially the same expect has perfected their calmness more.   Wings:  They don’t shine like everything else in the heavens they’re dark grey and tend to be lost before it.  Feathers are not white they’re light grey and has no shine at all.  They are wide like other angelic wings but just looks alien next to the modern world. Abilities: Angelic strength and typical abilities healing etc natural talent to hold fire and control it.  Knows how to summon olden elemental magic [ thunder and lighting, the rain and the sun ]  to restore balance. appearance:

   appearance:   Their true form is an image of God in all their  splendor.Their grace is  comfortingly warm as a guardian yet fearsome an appearance, akin to a dragon/ lion and watchful knife like eye which towers over others, their flame benign and radiant. Until anger arises. Awe inspiring sight,Warmth to aid them in times of need and feel extra protected. As they cradle the angels who remain loyal to heaven and are so willingly to fight for them upon the battlefield, as well as off of it. Their warmth giving them peace to lull them off to an eternal the warmth giving them peace, lull off to an enteral  rest. Before swearing blood thirsty vengeance.

Fears: Shadows, puts him a bit on edge but stands strong. Confined spaces and darkness. Was a bit afraid of heights as a child.    

Likes:  Swords, has an extensive collection of weapons.  Reading books in their spare time. Beauty, has a great appreciation for it. Music.   Fair play in everything, is the one to break up fights.  Practice duel.    

Dislikes:  Demons. Humanity on and off it  depends. Sore losers. Being seen as  all together prim and proper.  Mistreatment.  Being underestimated but uses that as an advantage of course.

Background:   God spent many ages learning their purpose as the writer of life and death and fate, they craft worlds some which they deem excellent for their sharpness.  Others they despise for their flaws the structure isn’t as sharp as they’d thought despite careful thinking.  Wrong wrong wrong. They craft strange fearsome prototype creatures and destroys the weaker.  Wrong wrong wrong again.  

After so long they watch their own creations thrive and the weaker crumble of natural  causes and comes to truly understand their own purpose.   Eventually they craft another another world which compared to the others shall be much brighter.  In a flash of bright light they craft a divine paradise within the celestial space, among the other planets which is a home to their other creations.  

They get bored and start to crave to craft a new kind of creature they smile at the thought, an image of the stronger creatures  a creature which shall represent themselves for all they are.  Their new creation does not turn out the way they’d thought  necessarily.  They do not shine before the new world their voice is out of  tune.  However they do see the strength akin to their prototypes that being the only reason they hold faith in them and decides to call them Micheal and gives them a conscious and puts them to the test.  

Micheal had been brought into a world full of deprivation and is rough around the edges.   It’s full of strange creatures and beautiful things as well as dangerous.  The one strange about the child which God notices is that Micheal instantly builds  instinct for survival.  

The child had never cared about being saved they’d never been innocent all they’d ever cared for is survival.  They do everything in their ability to learn it quickly bit by bit becomes mature very quickly despite being young. The one shortcoming is that the harder they’d try the more they feel the darker side of their power creep upon them, seeming to whisper to them about how they can never escape.  

Their own demon within themselves that’s never far behind.  Micheal has built up a tough shell and stand strong in the face of and puts up fists. Consequently crafts their own fates. Apart from survival Micheal learns to protect the softer of the strange creations.  

The creator only sits back and observes.  They come to see the potential in them and the fate they’d crafted for themselves, they can’t help but smile at that they’d it was worth keeping them around.  

Although they also see Micheal can be very dangerous as well and needs balance.  

They craft another who shall be a gentle form of light they are bold and cunning, their voice is sweet and melodic instead of loud and commanding when they sing all comes to listen or stops what they are doing and takes time to listen. God calls them Lucifer.

Micheal doesn’t mind their brighter light and how different they are from themselves, as well as similar in little ways.  God gives them to Micheal to raise them to prove responsibility.  Micheal gladly does instantly holding a vast amount of love for their new kin, they are very excited to have company at long last and thanks their creator.

Micheal teaches Lucifer all the wisdom they’d learned and provides them with everything they’d possibly need.  They teach them the   essentials of the structure of world they’d been brought, teaches them how to fly  always willing to bend over backwards for their beloved sibling etc.

   Other angels come into creation in which Micheal finds it hard to open up to them,  Lucifer is their first friend and their entire world for so long.  Lucifer motives them to open up to others  and treat them just in the same way they’d done with them.    

In due time a new world is crafted which the creator calls Earth and declares it as something of a playground for their creations.  It’s very strange to them of course, an extensive world full of planets and such which are still being developed. At the same time is subtly similar to their own home.   The creator was subtly training their first angel to lead.

They gave them to task to keep everything in order alone, make all the decisions etc.  They’d chosen to act as a ‘ neutral big brother’ the one who breaks up fights etc.  

[ Note:  I acknowledge garden of Eden but I’m time skipping over it to make things more simple. yay for originality ]

Earth comes to be populated by strange new creatures the population is called humanity, it is ordered by the creator that all the angels.  “ Respect them in the highest degree and aid them” This creates conflict in the heaven among all the angels.  Some instantly dislikes humanity feeling they’d corrupted Earth which is loved by many. Others don’t mind them so much them and accepts them for what they are.

Micheal continues to being the      ‘ neutral big brother’   and only know has to step up a bit more as the conflict progressively becomes more and more. Micheal’s heart is very wide for being driven by ‘ selfless  compassion’  however is Lucifer they are the most concerned about knowing them inside out. It pains them to know there is.  The one thing that pains them the most is the knowing there is nothing they can do, nothing that can be said.   Lucifer just as they’d already known does rise in the war Micheal fights them ferociously it’s all they can do they can do to treat them fairly.  Lucifer is skilled but just not as much as them therefore reason why Micheal has the advantage and conquers them in the end.  

Micheal does not blame Lucifer for rebelling they only blame humanity for it thus becoming part of their reason for conflict about their feelings for humanity.   It takes Micheal an enormous amount of power and energy to cast down their beloved kin as well as their own siblings.

Micheal collapses onto their knees needing a minute, all around them they hear the other angels crying out in sorrow at the loss of the morning  star and the others.  At the same time hears the joyful cries appreciative of being freed of their sufferings during the war they sing out.   The combination is very loud and Micheal is very overwhelmed.    “ sancti salvatoris. Ave  sancti salvatoris!! “   [   Holy savior hail holy savior in Latin ]      

Micheal now more firmly understanding the crown they wear proudly embraces it with the plan the in mind to be the best leader they can be. They know their own purpose and fate and intends to follow that.  Make the world a better place beyond the heavens to the best of their ability therefore develops into a benevolent leader while keeping their role as ‘  neutral big brother’  

[[ Head canons]  

Hc:  They’d never been obedient to God only an observer. Father like son. Hc:  Their rage shows in three levels  

Hc:  Their rage shows in three levels.

1:   They are standing perfectly still yet the ground seems to be burning to ashes, as they are just starting to get angry.  Similar to a volcano showings of eruption.  

  2:  The ground continues  to be burnt to ashes now splitting open in places as it violently shakes.  A bitter taste in the air / surroundings.  With every step they take the ground sizzles under their feet as a result of their angelic power combined with rage.

3: Rage which is murderous and blood thirsty. Subtle but is similar to God’s wrath, their grace is comfortingly warm as a protector, now it burns with intent to get vengeance for either themselves or for those they hold dearly.  Intention to destroy the criminal who dares to harm those they care for.   To scour the world of sinners who commit in similar wrongdoings  as to assure nobody else suffers in the same way.  The flame is blood red and burns multiple times hotter then it ever did before, now an inferno.   God both smiles at it but also can’t help but cringe.  

Hc:   They are self destructive in the way that their own ‘ selfless compassion’ destroys them every time.  Their instinctive knowing they need to survive  destroys them too, sometime they can’t control. Nobody can. Hc: God almost destroyed Lucifer for their boldness they’d spent a long time carefully planning how they’d a mixture between bold and neutral like Micheal however Micheal begged them to give them a chance.   God hands  the light bringer to Micheal aggressively – like ‘ take this trash ‘  despite their lovely appearance.

– 

Name: Lucifer

age:   primordial

Creature: Archangel  height:    A foot shorter then Micheal  

titles:    Light bringer. Son of dawn.  Morning star. Prince of light.  Bringer of dawn    

Education:   Raised by Micheal who’d originally been given the task to smash down their boldness.  Micheal tries but can’t bring themselves to do that for they’d already deeply loved their kin already at creation.  It’s not their bold they are bold.   They teach them all the basics of survival teaches introduces them to weapons, not necessarily as a tool of survival.  Instead teaches them stealth and physical combat.   Provides Lucifer with all the wisdom they’d possibility need and advice.  took an interest in magic when was young and learns light manipulation and air.  

Temperament:  Has a unpretentious calmness towards the world can be mistaken being tame.  Micheal quickly learns to become savage as a child to for survival, they are the same way except via being very eager to impress Micheal by learning weapons etc and to express their undying love for them.   can have a  bit of a melodramatic/ diva like attitude.   Stubbornly  persistent and refuses to listen to anyone, only trusts in themselves ‘ holier then thou ‘  attitude.  Can be stern not afraid to be harsh.  Softer attitude compared to Micheal’s rough one.  

wings:  Pristine white wings which have a gentle glow about them in order to balance out their brightness, their feathers are beyond words soft.  They land in flawless pattern with their brightness as well.  A true work of art.  

Abilities:   Blessed ability to wield the sun to bring the dawn, blessed ability to bring back plants after they wilt and mold them into something different; gifts given to them because the creator favors their shine.  Talent with using thin blade knives.  

Appearance:   Slim figure their own light superbly outlines it  golden sun kissed long hair that trails down their back in perfect length from their wings.  Gentle light blue eyes with a glint of sun behind them which makes them fierce showing the power.  When they move every step they take falls into perfect harmony with the previous one, perfectly rhythmic.  

Fears:  Darkness and being alone. Feeling unwanted.  Thunder puts them a bit on edge.  Failure but won’t ever admit it.   Likes:   Seeing others happy. Dancing.  Knowing they are genuinely needed and loved.   Blades. Resting. Star gazing.  Gardens.

Dislikes:    Feeling on the spot due to pride will fight to not admit things.    being underestimated, and being infantilized.  

[  Head canons]  

 Hc: Feels that wearing anything at all is unnecessary because of their brightness, would rather  parade themselves about the heavens to everyone at all times.  Micheal doesn’t approve they thew  together a sheet like outfit, sheet like dress thing.   Lucifer isn’t having this because it’s useless and has a habit of just randomly having ‘ naked time’   every chance he gets.

Hc:   Is called ‘ Prince of light’ not necessarily because of their brightness but instead because at creation, the creator gave them a set of things to create with having taken interest in them.  They crafted the power of light while God is light

Hc: Other then playing music and crafting it.  Their other favorite thing to do is lay in the grass within the secret gardens of the heavens and muse idly about just about anything.  

Hc:  God won’t let them die. They won’t let their beauty fade with time, they have far too much potential which is worth while.  If they did happen to die they’d fade into a simple but beautiful flower than rise again like a  like a phoenix.

—    

Name:  Mikael      

age:   primitive    

creature:  Archangel

height:   Tall, typically towers over others.  

Fc: Eva Green  ( Pre war] Daenerys Targaryen  

Titles:  Queen of heaven.  Holy savior [ via ending the first war].  The most loyal.  Fair queen.  Judge of souls.  Defeater of wicked.  Protector of heaven.  Sister.  Our mother.  Mother of flame.  

Education:   Discovers weapons and gets curious,   self teaches themselves combat and  stealth, experimented with weapons when was young to learn  how to use them.  Discovered books on their own,  instantly  enjoyed reading studied magic etc because enjoys it. Learned magic knows how to summon elemental  magic,  lighting and thunder and sun.  Reflects on past mistakes to gain present wisdom.  Has a deep to the core habit of isolating themselves when gets a chance.

Wings:  Light grey  with a faint tinge of white in places like a flickering light bulb  about burn out, undimmed before the heavens.  A form of light grey which almost looks dark but there is a tinge of white in places—- but God just didn’t see that all.  Feathers were already a bit ruffled upon creation  and not as perfect as  God had thought.

Temperament: Has a not so much firm calmness towards not a firm attitude  simply quietly calm, unpretentious via isolation as a child. Persistent very much has a motherly attitude both stern and kind. Controlled aggressive especially on the battle field.  Insecure, seldomly lets anyone know the scope of it.  If at all is very private about it and keeps it hidden all together.  

Appearance :   Not necessarily an image of the creator  is very subtle but shows more in their rage, unsuspecting controlled aggression which strikes when foes least suspect; it is ruthless. Yet is merciful and willing to give due to those who deserve it despite if may be foe.  Their ‘ true form’  has the appearance of a lioness sharp watchful eyes like a blade ambition burns in their eyes always watching.  

Fears:  Darkness. Shadows, enclosed spaces. Solitude but chooses to stand and be strong.    

Likes:  Poems and songs, sometimes writes songs.  Dancing  and blades in all forms.  Learning, going on adventures.  Battle in all forms.  Spending time with others. Moon light, but also tends to feel melancholy   — but then there is the stars, likes to stargaze.  

Dislikes:  Unfairness.  Seeing others sad because it agonizes them on the inside.  Being thought of as ‘ soft’.  being overglorified  but remains  passive despite that.    

[  Head canons]

- Hc: She has a pet Phoenix named Nikita.

- Hc: Her favored weapon is a silver thin blade weapon,instead of a flaming righteous sword. She prefers thin blade weapons over thick. Has a collection of thin blade knives and such.

-   Hc: God didn’t reject her flaw of not being shiny physically   instead they saw her burning flame, which is how they knew she holds  potential to be something great.  They explained creation to her and then gave her a set of things to craft with, telling to craft something– anything.   Mikael   felt the most attracted  to heat and light and therefore crafting fire proving her worth God gave her the title.   ‘ Child of flame’   which became ‘ mother of flame’ which her ability  to wield it.    Gets seen as a fire goddess by those loyal to heaven.

-  Hc:  She’s loved romantically only once.  Mikael had a lover named Deweli  who was knight/ protector like herself  from another celestial world.  He was kind and charming strong and handsome, smart and protective etc  They shared lots of laughs together and lots of cuddles etc really deeply loved each other.  He was planning to propose marriage to her.  Before Deweli got a chance he was called to war,  Mikael offered to go in his place.  They know she’s strong she can fight but tells her.  “You are so strong my love.  I’d  rather die knowing you are safe. If i die, i would pass with a smile on my face for having you only on my mind.   “    Then he did die in war.  

At first it was hard for her to bring herself to move on after that she didn’t want to  believe it, wanting so much to go back to those happier times. The only thing she knows is that she will get vengeance for Deweli.  Eventually she then learns just who killed her knight, nobody can escape such vicious vengeance that holds capability of eluding fate.

That’s how much she loves  Deweli.  

 She finds them and kills them in cold blood.   Finally able to move on she swears to herself for honor towards her lover and eternal faithfulness. She asks God that when she dies someday that she may be joined once more with Deweli  again they agree to this.   For now she decides to hold onto their memory.  —   Name: Gabriel age: Primitive, third eldest to Micheal and Lucifer creature:  Archangel     height: Medium, one foot shorter than Lucifer.  titles: Messenger of heaven.  education: Learned stealth and weapons, physical combat from Micheal all the essentials. Learned music and poetry from Lucifer softer feelings that isn’t a bad to be bold and that mistakes are okay, introduced beauty to them etc. Learns from experiences as well gaining wisdom.  temper: Mild mannered calmness attitude towards the world but can be short and lacking in patience despite all efforts, very critical of others and outspoken which is explosive when they loose their composure. Hard working, prone to being a workaholic. Kindly, considerate, arrogant but tries to keep it under control. Has a solider like attitude, though can be mischievous at times because Lucifer influenced that in them.      abilities: Talented in physical combat, skilled with using thin blade swords but has a preference for knives. Typical angelic abilities healing etc. Skilled in knowing what to say, has always had a bit of a knack for it.  appearance:   Has a slender yellow figure with five arms has two heads of a dog joined together  their a soft shade of gold which shimmers with the essence of hope.  Their wings are both pristine white with tinges of light gold. three long thin dog tails and five eyes.  Seven  dark blue eyes one on the tip of their left wing  the other on the right side of their neck two upon their thin face another upon the tip of their right wing and another and an eye which parts of their true form but is apart from it and floats in perfect movement with it, an eye which floats above their the top dog head and the other in front of the second.   Has  long dragon like claws.     On Earth:  [ fc: Jake Gyllenhaal ]   likes:   Books and learning, also to read fairy tales in their spare time, listening to music, spending time around family.  The color dark green, admiring nature being a reason they love their job. Seeing others happy.   The general feeling peace.      dislikes: Disorder. Most of humanity, not all just certain humans.  Infantilization feeling vulnerable put on the spot due to pride. Bigoted people. Being late. Know it all people.   Bad manners Personality:  Earnest,  Dignified    Good-natured, neat would rather remain neat then make a make a mess of things. Can be prim at times.  Organized  Passionate, perfectionist. Judgmental, Perceptive.  Stubborn, self critical.  heroism,  Prideful.   Can seem humorless but does have a sense of humor can be a bit bashful about having one, private.  Loyal.    [  Head canons] - Hc: They struggle between being gentle and serious and balancing  the two out, has always been conflicted about it.  Hc: They have a mild mannered calmness towards the world but can be very impatient because often before the war, God would send him to deliver the word to prophets but they’d be rather too stoned or bigoted to actually listen. Which is why they can’t stand bigoted people. -  Hc: Has always idolized both Lucifer and Micheal but after the whole mess with the war, it becomes hard for Gabriel to not dislike Lucifer  to not turn away from them entirely. Does have inner turmoils about this,  they did betray heaven but doesn’t care if they did well if they did forsake them personally.  Gabriel does care about the fact that Lucifer did betray their family.  They do live in the shadow of Micheal’s glory, it’s not theirs for the taking instead chooses to be passive and keep their head down and not make a mess.   ----  Name:    Briathos     Age:  Centuries   { by human standard: Young adult}       Creature:  Angel,  Height:   Medium  Titles:  N/a  Education:   Self taught physical combat observing from a distance learns to fend for themselves when was young. Personally later on personally trained by Micheal to make his skills more firm taught them stealth  and the art in using weapons etc.  Learns based on interacting with others.    Temper:  Seems quiet is very observant, is very laid back and in most cases  doesn’t seem to be the one to be outspoken, the quiet kid who sits in the back of the room and watches. However when he gets angry he is very  expressive and blunt.   Has a very firm attitude towards the world in most cases a controlled sort of calm from years of being built up, then Micheal trained them which made it twice as much.    Wings:   Despite being an angel, typically messengers  or guardians  with white fluffy wings but theirs looks ’ weird ’   because they aren’t white or fluffy in fact they look devilish.   They are dark grey with a tinge of black yet are ’ angelic’  but in different way that nobody other then Micheal saw past.      Abilities:   Has a talent in knives and thin blade swords knows how to strike first can kill if he can kill if he is not stuck in return, if he can catch others by surprise and quickly gain the upper hand.  Both self taught physical combat skills as well as as trained.  Knows how to play two faces.  Appearance: As a young angel he was small they look weak and not what a typical young  angel should be, deemed as something of an  ’ abomination’  their eyes are watchful and cold  as if thinking. ’  die’. Nowadays has the build of a typical angel but he stands out in the way that, their grace doesn’t shine, it’s not not warm.  His eyes still look the same as they did as a young angel, wings the same.    On Earth he takes on the image of a young man, well built simple man with light brown hair and green eyes. Watchful green eyes yet a slight glint of a mysterious look behind them, always watching.    Fears:  Thunder and lightning. Being alone but masks it skillfully, getting too close to others emotionally and would rather remain solitary.  Enclosed spaces.   Micheal’s anger.    Likes:  Knives thin blade swords.  Books and to learn.  Practice duel.  Gardens and music is very drawn in by it.   Playing tricks.   Dislikes:   When those he cares for are insulted.   Being treated like a child, or generally being thought of as soft.  Humanity  Background;     Briathos knew he wanted to be a fighter of some sort  from day one. He could feel it within themselves, a knowing feeling a spark deep within himself. It was as if god was standing by him whispering to him what his destiny would be. As a youngling grew up, alone for the most part.  Only because  he wasn’t exactly raised by anybody. He was rejected by world because he looked ’ weird’ by heaven standard. His wings don’t shine before the divine world, because he was small and looked weak and not worth the time of anyone.  Briathos taught himself to fight based off of observing other angels practice fighting,  how they handled weapons and how the weapon was used as well as attempting to try the weapons too when others weren’t around. When things in heaven were completely calm and would sneak into the training room to learn to fight.   In time Briathos in time his wings had developed and as well he’d grown taller, keeping mostly to himself being the ’ anti social’ type. Besides wasn’t going to stand to be mocked anymore. Eventually that’s exactly when the young angel met Micheal they by random chance happened to run into together,  while on their way to practice train.   Briathos asked them if they’d like to duel with them why not?    Nobody else is around in which they do.  Micheal had before from a distance seen this angel self training themselves they saw their boldness and   strength.  ‘  angels’  are normally only messengers consequently soft and meek.  This angel is unique, they are fierce  which all stood out to them.  Interested but didn’t want to force themselves upon him  and so the archangel decided to wait.    They two fought but Micheal knew already based on watching how this angel’s skills are not so firmly established, they have the strikes of the techniques  of ‘ hit and hope for the best’   but still they take their time in getting the upper hand.  In due time Micheal did very easily  of course, as soon as they do kindly smiles and offers to be their mentor in learning combat more firmly.   The young angel agrees to this.    After sometime in being taught by Micheal the two begun to become not just a student and teacher but also very close friends as well. Micheal learns about their skills and thinks them rather impressive however could be improved.  Briathos looks up to Micheal to no endings they teach them  stealth and all the essentials, while being both kindly but also stern too.   Now having a better sense of direction, more firm skills.  Briathos comes up with an idea as to what kind of ‘ fighter’ they want to be.   They wanted to  express gratitude to Micheal for taking time to teach them therefore swears their undying loyalty to them. They declare they want to help the army be strong,  that they want to help the archangel in some way too as well.  Briathos  tells them they aren’t willing to interact with other angels that they want to be different from your everyday fighter of heaven.    They reveal their idea of ‘ all purpose’    not  necessarily a warrior  a sleazy spy who gets involved  in everything, willing to bend over backwards would do awful things but means well.  

[saokpe]

EPISODE 7 IS OUT!

STORY SUMMARY

Ducktales (2017) AU set about a decade after the show’s canon, a future in which Webby, HDL, Violet, and Lena have picked up the adventuring torch Scrooge has since abandoned in his earned retirement. Unfortunately more has changed than they would like to admit, and other forces have evolved since their time adventuring as kids.

After so many years of adventuring, Webby Vanderquack and her group of childhood friends have experienced most everything together. They’re the most efficient adventuring posse a duck could ask for! That was… until a few months back. They rarely speak of what happened that day, but since then they’ve adventured one Duck triplet short and more than a few secrets kept. But that’s in the past, and there’s new treasures to find! And this might just be their most ambitious find yet! Hopefully no complications come from it

EPISODE SUMMARY

Finally the group gets some time to relax, talk amongst each other, enjoy their own company, and make some shocking discovery about their closest friends..... They've been through worse together, I'm sure they'll be fine, or at the very least pretend that's the case.

KEEP READING FOR A PREVIEW OF THE EPISODE (SPOILERS)

“Welcome-” A gitty Webby lands roughly over her cushioned chair, her back bouncing before the tall backrest of the red adorned furniture, “TO THE WAR ROOM!”

The enthusiastic leader looks ahead to the opposing adjacent sides of the beautifully carved, circular, oak wood table she sat by, her team studying the foreign scenery in astonishment. The room, air conditioned, benefitted from the privacy of ink walls and no windows. Maps spread across the enclosed space, its size comparable to a classroom. Behind Webby, her body proudly demonstrating the poorly lit room, is a collection of dimmed computer screens, a collage of graphs, charts, diafrimes, and even more maps helping illuminate whatever was left invisible by the single light bulb that hung unconfidently over the table.

 The crew, sitting clockwise from Vanderquack in the following order: Huey, Dewey, Louie, Lena, and Violet, allowed themselves to carefully scan the obscured details of the room.  

“And you built this whole room this morning?” Lena, still bouncing her sight from set piece to set piece, asks.

“Yerp!” The excitable roommate proudly responds.

“Where did you even get the money for a whole underground war room?” Huey inquires.

“Louie’s credit card.” A mischievous smile creaks onto the duck’s face as she answers.

“WHAT?!” Louie quickly turns his face towards Webby before looking over his body as he begins to pat it down, coming to realize the horror of his missing wallet, “WHY!?”

“Well someone needed to pay for it.” 

“Ok, but why me?!” Louie’s cracking voice rabidly protests.

Violet intercepts, “I think the real important question is why you decided to make this room in the first place”

Louie averts his sorrowed stare towards the calming presence of the Sabrewing sister, a look of utter disbelief washing over him, “I beg to differ!”

“Well I just thought that since we were fighting secret spy agencies with fancy computers and stuff, WE needed fancy computers and stuff!” The still overjoyed Webbigail justifies.

“Does our landlord know about this?” Lena forces a remorseful and calm attitude as the project’s repercussions dawn over her.

“We have one of those?” An honest innocence peers through her words, her eyes gazing curiously at the bedmate.

“Right, thought so…” 

“Well I think this is AWESOME!” The mostly silent Dewey finally breaks into a scream, “We’re like real spies!” The duck throws himself over the table, allowing the sheen of jittery joy to reflect upon Webby’s equally excitable mannerisms. His stare almost proving jarring as his face shot but inches from his friend’s, her neck pulling back in the process. 

Webby stares for a second before returning the bright smile with her own, the adorable display turning into a laugh between the duo. The room’s designer responds, “Yeah! If those S.H.U.S.H. whatevers want to get through us, they're gonna need more than just guns and helicopters!” 

[rockislandadultreads]

Check out these history books from our bottom shelf! All these titles need some love, so check them out today!

Summaries and Ratings from goodreads.com

Conquistador: Hernán Cortés, King Montezuma, and the Last Stand of the Aztecs by Buddy Levy

4.19/5 stars

It was a moment unique in human history, the face-to-face meeting between two men from civilizations a world apart. Only one would survive the encounter. In 1519, Hernán Cortés arrived on the shores of Mexico with a roughshod crew of adventurers and the intent to expand the Spanish empire. Along the way, this brash and roguish conquistador schemed to convert the native inhabitants to Catholicism and carry off a fortune in gold. That he saw nothing paradoxical in his intentions is one of the most remarkable—and tragic—aspects of this unforgettable story of conquest.

In Tenochtitlán, the famed City of Dreams, Cortés met his Aztec counterpart, Montezuma: king, divinity, ruler of fifteen million people, and commander of the most powerful military machine in the Americas. Yet in less than two years, Cortés defeated the entire Aztec nation in one of the most astonishing military campaigns ever waged. Sometimes outnumbered in battle thousands-to-one, Cortés repeatedly beat seemingly impossible odds. Buddy Levy meticulously researches the mix of cunning, courage, brutality, superstition, and finally disease that enabled Cortés and his men to survive.

Conquistador is the story of a lost kingdom—a complex and sophisticated civilization where floating gardens, immense wealth, and reverence for art stood side by side with bloodstained temples and gruesome rites of human sacrifice. It’s the story of Montezuma—proud, spiritual, enigmatic, and doomed to misunderstand the stranger he thought a god. Epic in scope, as entertaining as it is enlightening, Conquistador is history at its most riveting.

The Story of Tibet: Conversations with the Dalai Lama by Thomas Laird

4.18/5 stars

The Story of Tibet is a work of monumental importance, a fascinating journey through the land and history of Tibet, with His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama as guide. Over the course of three years, journalist Thomas Laird spent more than sixty hours with His Holiness the Dalai Lama in candid, one-on-one interviews that covered His Holiness’s beliefs on history, science, reincarnation, and his lifelong study of Buddhism. Traveling across great distances to offer vivid descriptions of Tibet’s greatest monasteries, Laird brings his meetings with His Holiness to life in a rich and vibrant historical narrative that outlines the essence of thousands of years of civilization, myth, and spirituality. His Holiness introduces us to Tibet’s greatest yogis and meditation masters, and explains how the institution of the Dalai Lama was founded. Embedded throughout this journey is His Holiness’s lessons on the larger roles religion and spirituality have played in Tibet’s story, reflecting the Dalai Lama’s belief that history should be examined not only conventionally but holistically. The Story of Tibet is His Holiness’s personal look at his country’s past as well as a summation of his life’s work as both spiritual and temporal leader of the Tibetan people.

Country of My Skull: Guilt, Sorrow, and the Limits of Forgiveness in the New South Africa by Antjie Krog

4.09/5 stars

Ever since Nelson Mandela dramatically walked out of prison in 1990 after twenty-seven years behind bars, South Africa has been undergoing a radical transformation. In one of the most miraculous events of the century, the oppressive system of apartheid was dismantled. Repressive laws mandating separation of the races were thrown out. The country, which had been carved into a crazy quilt that reserved the most prosperous areas for whites and the most desolate and backward for blacks, was reunited. The dreaded and dangerous security force, which for years had systematically tortured, spied upon, and harassed people of color and their white supporters, was dismantled. But how could this country--one of spectacular beauty and promise--come to terms with its ugly past? How could its people, whom the oppressive white government had pitted against one another, live side by side as friends and neighbors?

To begin the healing process, Nelson Mandela created the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, headed by the renowned cleric Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Established in 1995, the commission faced the awesome task of hearing the testimony of the victims of apartheid as well as the oppressors. Amnesty was granted to those who offered a full confession of any crimes associated with apartheid. Since the commission began its work, it has been the central player in a drama that has riveted the country. In this book, Antjie Krog, a South African journalist and poet who has covered the work of the commission, recounts the drama, the horrors, the wrenching personal stories of the victims and their families. Through the testimonies of victims of abuse and violence, from the appearance of Winnie Mandela to former South African president P. W. Botha's extraordinary courthouse press conference, this award-winning poet leads us on an amazing journey.

Highway to Hell: Dispatches from a Mercenary in Iraq by John Geddes

3.62/5 stars

Present-day Iraq: a crucible of torture, chemical warfare and Islamic terrorism, and straddling over it all the mighty US Army and its allies; but there's another western army in Iraq that dwarfs the British contingent and is second only in size to the US Army itself.

It's a disparate and anarchic multi-national force of men gathered from twenty or more countries numbering some 30,000. It's a mercenary army of men and a few women with guns for hire earning an average of $1,000 dollars a day. They are in Iraq to provide security for the businessmen, surveyors, building contractors, oil experts, aid workers and, of course, the TV crews who have flocked to the country to pick over the carcass of Saddam's regime and help the country re-build.

Not since the days when the East India Company used soldiers of fortune to depose fabulously wealthy Maharajas and conquer India for Great Britain, and mercenaries fought George Washington's Continental Army for King George, has such a large and lethal independent fighting force been assembled. Once upon a time such men were called freelances, mercenaries, soldiers of fortune or dogs of war, but today they go under a different name: private military contractors. There's a far more fundamental sea change, too, as women have joined their ranks in significant numbers for the first time, bringing a new and interesting dynamic into the equation.

In Iraq today the majority of their number are men who come from 'real deal' Special Forces units or former soldiers from regular units and regiments; all of them know what they're about and rub shoulders together more or less comfortably with at least a shared understanding of basic military requirements.

One such man is John Geddes, ex-SAS warrant officer and veteran of a fistful of hard wars who became a member of the private army in Iraq for the eighteen months immediately following George W. Bush's declaration of the end of hostilities in early May 2003. Now, for the first time, John Geddes will reveal the inside story of this extraordinary private army and the private war they are still fighting with the insurgents in Iraq.

Please Enjoy Your Happiness by Paul Brinkley-Rogers

3.56/5 stars

Please Enjoy Your Happiness is a beautifully written coming-of-age memoir based on the English author's summer-long love affair with a remarkable older Japanese woman.

Whilst serving as a seaman at the age of nineteen, Brinkley-Rogers met Kaji Yukiko, a sophisticated, highly intellectual Japanese woman, who was on the run from her vicious gangster boyfriend, a member of Japan's brutal crime syndicate the yakuza. Trying to create a perfect experience of purity, she took him under her wing, sharing their love of poetry, cinema and music and many an afternoon at the Mozart Café.

Brinkley-Rogers, now in his seventies, re-reads Yukiko's letters and finally recognizes her as the love of his life, receiving at last the gifts she tried to bestow on him. Reaching across time and continents, Brinkley-Rogers shows us how to reclaim a lost love, inviting us all to celebrate those loves of our lives that never do end.

A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It by Stephen Kinzer

4.19/5 stars 

A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It is the story of Paul Kagame, a refugee who, after a generation of exile, found his way home. Learn about President Kagame, who strives to make Rwanda the first middle-income country in Africa, in a single generation. In this adventurous tale, learn about Kagame's early fascination with Che Guevara and James Bond, his years as an intelligence agent, his training in Cuba and the United States, the way he built his secret rebel army, his bloody rebellion, and his outsized ambitions for Rwanda.

[born2battle]

NDA Saga~ Spectacular Sixth Term

  The commencement of the Spring Term in Jan 1970 heralded our final Term. The feeling of being a Sixth Termer cannot be described adequately since it has to be experienced. Afterall, NDA was in our DNA. I was privileged to be appointed as Squadron Cadet Captain while five of my coursemates were appointed as: Divisional Cadet Captains, Cadet Sergeant Major & Cadet Quartermaster Sergeant. All six of us constituted the core Team of leadership of Echo Squadron & reported to the academy one week prior before the beginning of the Term.

   As Sixth Termers, we looked forward  to some more privileges such as a reserved corner at the Dining Table in the Cadets Mess, exemption from the morning Muster Parade, permission to visit Pune on all Sundays & holidays etc. However, the most important privilege was to replace the sticker of DLTGH (Days Left To Go Home) by DLTPO (Days Left To Pass Out). Alongside privileges came the responsibilities. In my personal role as the Team Leader, I had to motivate the entire Echo Squadron towards pursuit of excellence. It gave us great pleasure to take the initiative, evolve plans & implement them to attain the overall goals.

  In the Sixth Term, practical training in service subjects was stressed upon. Army cadets refined their skills for handling & firing of weapons, basic battle drills & tactics at platoon level. Naval Cadets  practised finer details of seamanship. Air Force cadets practised gliding at the gliderdrome. In addition, central lectures we conducted on jointmanship giving examples from previous battles. We had to give group presentations about winners of gallantry awards( Param Vir Chakra, Maha Vir Chakra & Ashoka Chakra), which proved to be source of inspiration. Bayonet fighting competition was conducted at the end of the capsule of service subjects. I was among the top 24 cadets who were awarded the ‘Bayonet’,which had to be displayed on the uniform.

  Meanwhile, the tempo of academic sessions also picked up with a view to complete the Syllabus & the final exam before Camp TORNA. We had to submit several projects & assignments & give presentations on area studies. Personally, I had to double my efforts towards studies to improve my record of academic achievements.

  After the mid- Term break, Camp TORNA was conducted in the vicinity of Torna Fort. This fort is located 65kms from NDA & has a special historical significance as it was the first fort captured by Shivaji Maharaj at the age of 16. The camp was conducted as an interesting two sided mock battle over 5 days. Six Squadrons(A to F) represented the Defender while the remaining six Squadrons(G to L) represented the Attacker. The traditional campfire, a sumptuous dinner & the favourite Tipsy Pudding which was a specialty of the Cadets Mess, signalled a farewell from camp life. Next followed, the Josh Run back to the Academy which was another gruelling test of endurance. On termination of this Cross country race of 65 kms wearing FSMO, we were immediately tested in marksmanship competition. My Squadron secured Third position in this camp which proved to be tougher in comparison to  Camp Greenhorn ( Second Term ) & Camp Rover ( Fourth Term ).

    On return,we realised that DLTPO had reduced to 30.It evoked mixed feelings of elation as well as sorrow since we were in the last month, of the last Term of our NDA saga.The Academy had taught us so much in the process of out transformation.I wish to summarise the key learnings --- in fact, the life lessons in retrospect.PT constantly improved physical fitness while Drill instilled discipline.Swimming & Riding honed our skills & built up our courage.We developed our table manners & etiquettes in the Cadets Mess.System of ragging & punishments strengthened our resilience.Periodic rewards & recognition were morale boosting factors.Outdoor training and Camps enhanced our confidence as well as endurance.All the activities in a tight daily routine followed in each Term taught us the techniques of Time mgmt & Stress mgmt.

     Most important factor was the conducive environment & the cadets of the Eagle family which made us feel at home --- always and every time!! It helped in nurturing the Squadron spirit & building ever lasting bonds.We experienced the value addition of this camaraderie as an ex-NDA throughout our career in the Armed Forces and even after retirement !!! It is amazing as to how all ex- NDAs create a symbiotic relationship in just one dialogue ----- Ex NDA? Which Course? Which Squadron?

   Yet another monument in NDA which is a symbol of reverence is the Hut of Remembrance.It is situated behind the Sudan Block & is respected as the ‘Holiest of the Holy’. It enshrines the spirit of those NDA Alumni who made the supreme sacrifice in the highest traditions of the Armed Forces. Interestingly, the Hut was constructed through Shramdaan by cadets of 10th to 17th Courses.It was formally inaugurated  on 01 Jun 1957.

   Rehearsals for POP & related activities began with the usual gusto. We felt sentimental with each passing day as we reflected on the days gone by. We were surely going to remember all the ups and downs during our nostalgic innings at the Cradle of Military Leadership. The Academy Dinner Night set the ball rolling when I was awarded several book prizes & yet another academic Torch.

 Next evening we had a poignant farewell from Echo Squadron Each one of us spoke briefly & conveyed our gratitude to all our professors, instructors, Ustaads & the administrative staff. In the end, I exhorted the cadets from 39th to 43rd Course to carry forward the legacy. I concluded with a message “Deep within my heart I hear an Echo~ Echo yesterday, Echo Today, Echo Tomorrow & in fact, Echo forever....” Next morning, we assembled at the Hut of Remembrance & paid homage to the martyrs in a sombre wreath laying ceremony. None of us could even visualise that some of us would have their names inscribed on the Roll of Honour displayed inside the Hut !!

  We welcomed our parents who had started arriving since morning. They had been invited to attend all ceremonies commencing two days prior to the POP. Their stay had been organised in the Cadets cabins by vacating one Squadron per Battalion. This gave the parents a feel of staying as a Cadet, in a facility which we still relate as our Home.The first event was the Parents Dinner in the Cadets Mess. It was an opportunity for social interaction between the Parents & the Instructors of the Academy who shaped our future. Commandant of the Academy gave his congratulatory message and compliments to all cadets of the 38th Course. It proved to be yet another nostalgic evening. 

   Next morning, we escorted our Parents to the Bombay Stadium to witness the PT & Equestrian events, Motorcycle display & a magnificent Para drop demo. This was followed by a guided tour of the entire Campus which reminded us of our cycle tour in the First Term to familiarise us with each & every nook and corner of the Academy. In the evening, we enjoyed the Variety Entertainment Program in Habibullah Hall. A musical mime on the theme “Yaadein” was the grand finale of the Show.It reflected on our journey down the memory lane !!

   06 Jun 1970... the D Day finally arrived. It was the much awaited day of the POP, a day which would always be cherished by the 38th Course & a day when we would get the prestigious designation of an ex NDA !!! We assembled at the QM Fort well in time before the commencement of the Parade.Meanwhile, the Parents & other guests were seated in designated enclosures to witness the POP. The Parade marched onto the hallowed Drill Square to the tune of “Sare Jahan se Accha” & formed up to await the arrival of the Chief Guest. Air Chief Marshal P C Lal who was the Chief Guest arrived upto the Drill Square in a horse drawn carriage, as per the tradition. He took the ceremonial salute from the Quarter Deck & reviewed the Parade in an open jeep. This was followed by the main march past around the periphery of the Drill Square. Thereafter, was the much awaited moment for me as well as my parents... the Awards Ceremony. I was privileged to be awarded the President’s Silver Medal for being first in the order of merit. I am certain my parents gave me a standing ovation with moist eyes at that moment while the spectators applauded all the medal winners.

    Thereafter, the Chief Guest gave his farewell address. Then began the solemn final march past to the traditional tune of Auld Lang Syne. With a heavy heart, my course marched onto the Quarter Deck, saluted the National Flag on top of the mast & bid farewell to the prestigious NDA.Magnificent fly past overhead & the cadets of 43rd Course on the mast, wished us the final Au Revoir !!! Finally, with Diligence, Determination & Devotion, we felt blessed on achieving our Dream. We looked forward to achieving our final Goal, in respective training institutions, next year. However, we can never forget that NDA is in our DNA. I am and will always be proud of being an ex NDA/ 38th Course/ Echo Squadron !!!

[chaosbrewing]

vitamin d

The sun had risen some time ago, but bright purples and pinks still remained in the gorgeous Swiss sky, setting it ablaze with a myriad of colors. It was as if someone had dipped a fan or aquarelle brush in a series of pastels and haphazardly darted it across a pale blue canvas back. The day thus far was particularly clear, with a few puffy clouds dotting the otherwise empty horizon. Dappled light fell upon the snow-covered alps that formed the backdrop to the picturesque scene presented by Mother Nature to all who chanced to see it.

The Frankenstein family home stood in stark contrast to this image of gaiety and peace. Although the outside was trim and quite appealing to the eye, the inner halls of the manor were quiet and dark—spare a few servants moving from place to place. For the most part, however, it was silent. Every room was plunged in darkness; human life seemed to be entirely gone from the place, beyond the few scurrying about to do their daily duties. One of the few people walking through the halls, dressed in the uniform of one who has dedicated their life to the service of a family, was walking room to room and throwing open the heavy brocade curtains. As the fabric parted, the gilded ceilings of each room glinted and gleamed with reflected light. This did little to combat the encroaching darkness of the rest of the unhappy house, which seemed to actively repel all that which sought to bring joy to the dwelling.

There was one force that could not be stopped, however. The very mention of it brought delight and warm smiles to the faces of all the household servants—and even the master of the house. Like a warm summer’s breeze, it swept through the home and brought color and livelihood back into every corner, nook, and cranny. It was impossible to feel bad; at the very least, one’s spirits were lifted greatly by the force, and from there it was not a far journey to sheer bliss. Whenever it appeared, it was welcomed wholeheartedly. The servants had a particular affection for it, as very little seemed to hold sway over their master’s mood beyond the miraculous force.

Upon the front door came a familiar tap-tap-tap; the maid who was dusting the front parlor immediately snapped to attention. Her duster fell to the floor as she hastened to confirm her suspicions. A quick glance out the window and the acknowledgement of a carriage drawing away prompted her to quickly rescue the fallen cleaning tool and rush off to locate the butler.

“It’s Master Clerval!” she cried out, bursting through the doors into the servants’ quarters. “Master Clerval has arrived.”

The butler, who had been enjoying a cup of tea at the table, rose to his feet and strode off towards the front door. He was followed eagerly by the young maid, who was nursing quite the attraction to young Master Clerval and was sore for any attention from the man.

“Master Clerval! Thank you for coming,” the butler hummed, opening the door.

Henry beamed, running a hand through his thick auburn hair and further messing up the already-tangled curls. His warm brown eyes cast a fond glance upon the inside of the grand foyer, idly taking note of the fact that naught had changed since his last visit. The young man was clad in a smartly-cut suit of a pale tan silk, with a crisp white linen shirt and a finely tailored vest in a shade two tones darker than the tailcoat. His collar was high and wrapped with a baby blue cravat, again cut from fine silk.

“‘Tis no trouble at all!” he replied merrily. “In all circumstances, I seek to do the best for my dearest friend. In which room has he sequestered himself now?”

“His study, sir,” the butler sighed, stepping aside and holding the door so Henry could enter the home. “He shut himself up again after your last visit. I had hoped it would be a passing fit, but…”

“With Victor, it never is,” Henry sighed softly, shaking his head. “He is quite intelligent, but he really is not wise.”

The maid was standing behind a column, occasionally peeking out and gazing at the handsome young man standing in the doorway. It was after several such attempts that Henry caught notice of her. She squeaked and jumped about a foot in the air; her starched white petticoats were visible for the briefest of moments as her black skirt came up. Immediately she began to retreat, cheeks bright red and hands clenched against the white ruffles of her apron.

“Now, now, don’t be afraid,” Henry chuckled. Quite smoothly, he stepped forward and managed to grab her hand, which he then raised to his lips.

The maid practically fainted as he brushed his lips across her skin. She turned redder still, mortified that she had been caught but pleasantly surprised that her youthful fantasies had been indulged.

Henry laughed softly, the sound carefree and light, before turning back to the butler. A sad little smile played upon his lips, teasing the corners of his mouth slightly upward but not masking the sorrow in his eyes.

“I shall see to Victor now,” he hummed, offering the man a nod before quickly heading towards the stairs.

The butler nodded back before approaching the maid and admonishing her with a stiff hand.

“Your fantasies are hardly of importance when it comes to the master’s health,” he said sternly. “That being said, Master Clerval would never feel that way for you. He has a...particular kinship with our master.”

“Kinship, sir?” the maid frowned.

She paused.

“...ah.”

“Not a word outside of the house,” the butler ordered her. She nodded meekly in response. The two quickly headed back to the servants’ quarters.

Henry had begun to ascend the stairs to the higher floors of the manor. His well-shod feet were light upon each stair tread, barely prompting a creak from any of them; many years of visiting had schooled him in regards to which steps produced louder sounds than the others. His ascension was smooth and quiet, perfectly suited for the temperament of the house.

The second floor was equally dark as the first floor, if not moreso. The curtains here had not yet been opened; the amount of activity on this floor was even less than that on the main floor. This was no deterrent to Henry, however; he glanced around and sighed before continuing through the house. Mahogany paneling rose halfway up the walls, lining the hall as if it were a tunnel. The floors were covered with wool rugs, each one woven with the utmost craftsmanship; oriental silk rugs were used only where very little foot traffic was received, as they wore at a much quicker pace than the woolen rugs.

At the end of the hall was a small oak door. Henry quickly approached this door and opened it to reveal a spiral staircase. It was this staircase that he began to climb, breath hitching slightly with each step. He was not out of breath; rather, he was slightly winded, but he was in excellent physical condition and thus paid no mind to it. His pale, freckled cheeks were tinged with the slight blush of exertion.

By the time he had arrived at the top of the staircase, he was quite flushed. There was a short, dark hallway leading to another door; this was his intended destination, as evidenced by the slowing of his steps upon approach. Pale knuckles rapped against polished wood. The honeyed voice spoke again.

“Victor? Victor, are you there?”

Behind the door was a personal study belonging to the master of the house, Victor Frankenstein. It housed, among other things, a desk, scientific apparatuses, bookshelves, and dozens of miscellaneous papers scattered with no system of organization whatsoever. To order it all would require the creation of some sort of massive catalogue to keep track of each item’s location amidst the controlled chaos. It was rare that guests were allowed in; Victor preferred to keep to himself, and to keep his projects and experiments to himself. For that reason, the room was filled with dust and general debris from the lack of a proper cleaning for god knows how long. Although several windows were built into the walls, all of the shades were drawn and there was only a bit of dwindling light from a sad stub of a candle sitting on the desk.

Victor groaned. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced; the black locks had become greasy, as he had not bathed for some time. A few gray and black strands dropped in front of his eyes, temporarily obscuring his vision. The young man stretched against the back of his chair—upon which his tailcoat had been discarded—, wincing as his spine cracked multiple times, and blinked a few times in a half-hearted attempt to wake himself up. Indeed, not only had it been some time since he had bathed, but it had been ages since he had slept properly—falling asleep and drooling all over his papers did not count as proper sleep.

“Victor? Victor, answer me!” came the voice again. It was only this second time that Victor realized it was from beyond the door, meaning that he was still alone in his study.

“Go away,” he muttered sourly, picking up his quill from where it had fallen on the floor. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, a crisp white against the strangely bright aquamarine hue of his irises, and scratched at his neck behind his jabot before attempting to refocus on the papers before him. This task proved challenging, however, because Henry had begun to pound on the door.

“Victor, if you do not open this door, I will have to force my entry!” Clerval cried. His throat felt fuzzy from all the shouting, but he deemed it important enough to remain straining his voice—after all, Victor was his dearest friend.

Frankenstein had not expected this. He had assumed that, being spurned, Henry would turn away and leave him in peace. However, it was clear that his friend had other actions in mind, and if he wanted to avoid having to replace the door to his study he needed to haul himself to his feet and unlock the door.

Sighing, Victor pushed himself up by leaning on the desk. He turned to take a step and was caught off-guard by the fuzzy feeling that filled his lower limbs; having been seated for so long, his legs had fallen asleep. He took one shuffle of a step forward and promptly fell onto the floor with a rather loud thump.

“Victor! Are you alright?!?” Henry cried, hearing the sound and automatically fearing the worst. He quickly began to fiddle with the lock, trying his hardest to get the door opened without damaging it.

“Schieße,” Victor spat. “I am fine, Henry! Do not—”

The door flew open.

“Victor!” Henry cried, rushing to his friend’s side. The latter could do naught but lie back against the wool rug in mild agony and internally sigh.

“What are you doing on the floor? Did you fall?! I heard you’ve been locked up in here for some time. Do you ever listen to me?”

Clerval’s chastising comments went unnoticed by Victor, who was busy staring into the other man’s dreamy brown eyes. A soft sigh of longing escaped Frankenstein’s lips.

“When was the last time you bathed?” Henry continued. “God, Victor, must I constantly be around to mind you? Let’s get you into the bath.”

Victor suddenly found himself in the arms of his friend. He immediately attempted to free himself, squirming in Clerval’s grip. Secretly, really, he didn’t want to move; his ear was against Henry’s chest, and he could just barely make out the beating of the other man’s heart. It was warm and cozy, too, a comfort he had been lacking for some time.

“I’m not letting go, Victor,” Henry said sternly. He shook his head disapprovingly, auburn curls flying every which way, and continued to carry Frankenstein down the hall and to the spiral staircase.

Victor watched Henry’s face with a sense of fond amusement, letting his limbs dangle limply over his friend’s arms. It took him several seconds to realize which room they had entered.

“Henry, I thought you weren’t serious!” he cried, voice squeaking in alarm.

“You require bathing, Victor, and it seems the only way that will be accomplished is if I myself aid in the completion of that task,” Clerval muttered, setting Victor on a chair and beginning to undo the man’s jabot.

Despite Victor’s protests, it was clear that Henry would not budge from his position on the matter. Some time later found Victor in the bathtub, face red from embarrassment. Henry was casually ogling him.

“Please look away,” Victor muttered.

“Nope,” Henry replied cheerfully.

Victor sighed deeply, trailing his fingers along the edge of the porcelain bathtub. The clawed feet rested evenly on the floor, an easy place to rest his gaze.

Anywhere away from Henry.

“Cheer up, Victor,” the man in question said softly. “Let’s get you outside and into the sun.”

Eventually, Clerval managed to get his friend into a fresh set of clothing. The old garments were quickly collected by a maid to be put straight into the wash, as they were in sore need of a cleanse. He took Victor’s hand in his own and led the way outside.

“It’s so...bright,” Victor mumbled, shielding his eyes as he glanced up at the sun.

Henry rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Victor, that’s called the sun,” he said patiently. “It gives us light. Or, at least, it gives light to those of us who don’t hole ourselves away in dark, dingy rooms.”

He set off in a specific direction, dragging Frankenstein along with him. Victor’s feet trailed through the grass with no small lack of enthusiasm.

“Where are we…”

The young scientist never finished his question. Henry was gesturing, beaming, to a blanket and basket set beneath an ancient-looking tree. A small brook lay between them and the idyllic scene; this his galant friend did splash through with quite a deal of gaiety.

“Join me, Victor,” he smiled, sitting down upon the blanket.

Victor did not need to be told twice. He hurried to cross the stream and seat himself next to Henry, where he picked up a book and began to read in the comfort of the quiet countryside. After some time, he became aware that he was leaning against Henry. He shifted to look up at his friend, who was wearing a content smile.

The kisses came easily. The simplest of thoughts produced a slight shift in body position; lips pressed against lips, soft and gentle as a lamb’s wool. Long, slender fingers tangled themselves around black locks, caressing and stroking Victor’s hair. The young man stretched and leaned into it approvingly, letting out a happy little sigh.

“Victor?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” came the simple response.

“But for the love of god, don’t make me pull you out of that study again.”

[lokis-lady-death]

Slither Pt 8

Loki x Reader

Reader is a museum curator is put in charge of a Viking/Norse exhibit at the Smithsonian Museum. While going through all the artifacts, she comes across a strange relic that seems to have a mind of it’s own. She accidentally stumbles into an ancient world of gods.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Slither Part 8

It was early afternoon when Loki reappeared back in his bedroom in Asgard. His eyes closed while he grunted in frustration, the Chains of Sigyn lying uselessly lifeless his feet on the floor.

You waking up from the dream not only cast him out of your vision, it also was enough to undo the necklace's latch. He was about to curse out loud when something caught his attention.

"So the prodigal son returns," came a deep, aged voice from behind him. Loki's jaw tightened as only his eyes rolled at the realization that Odin was in his room at the most inopportune time.

Forcing a grin on his face, Loki spun around, hands open and eyes bright as he greeted, "Oh, Father, I was actually hoping for an audience with…"

He froze when he saw Thor was also standing there, mimicking his father's stance. Arms folded over their chests, backs straight, golden armor, even their stare of disappointment was a reflection. Aside from Odin's missing right eye, they resembled each other from their squared jaws to their broad shoulders and built physique.

And both were equally as undesirable guests.

"Loki, we need to talk," Thor commanded, "I've told Father about your meddling in his study."

The god of mischief Inhaled through his nose as he shot a quick disgruntled look towards his brother before smiling innocently at Odin. "Actually, there's an explanation for that, I was merely-"

Odin raised a hand and his son went quiet. Closing his one good eye to take in a breath before undoubtedly starting one of his infamous guilt speeches.

But what came from his mouth was not at all what Loki expected. "I have failed you, my boy."

"Come again?"

Looking into his one good eye, Loki saw a trace of sorrow. "I have failed you. I had hoped by destroying the Bifrost that I would prevent any further damage from other realms, however, when Thor told me you had been in my study, I knew you had been searching for just another way to sneak out." He looked down to Loki's feet just seconds after the god of mischief flicked his wrist and made it vanish. "Well, my boy? Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?"  At that, the son had no response. He looked away, only making Odin press further. "So what was it like? Going off on your own?"

The now solomon god of mischief quietly answered, "It was worth whatever punishment you see fit to bestow upon me.”

Odin shook his head while Thor brought up, "Are you referring to the Midgardian in your bathroom yesterday?”

At that, Odin’s eyebrows rose. “You left that part out? That didn’t seem like impertinent information?”

“She's of no concern, I was merely plotting my escape from this wretched place when she stumbled into our realm. She's of little consequence,” Loki answered shortly and the three men were quiet.

It wasn’t until Odin cleared his throat that the silence broke, “Loki, you know you cannot continue  going to Midgard? That place, it’s full of pestilence, famine, and death. Not to mention that the type of magic that is required to go there is extremely potent!”

Loki slowly looked up to his father then towards his brother. Just as he opened his mouth opened, ready to argue his case, he felt a sharp pain in his head.

The agony was so abrupt that it etched into his face as he fell over with a grunt. “Brother!” Thor cried out as he kneeled in front of him, “Father?”

“You foolish child, what have you done?” Odin watched as Loki laid, eyes closed, still clutching  at his head. . “Guards? Guards! Call the medics!”

*****

You stared, dazed and confused, at your phone as you replayed the voicemail for the upteenth time.

“Hello, this is Chris Hemsworth with the Edinburg Museum? I’m just returning a call to a Miss y/n, I’m sorry I missed you but if you could please call me back, my extension is 496. I believe you received an artifact from my office by mistake.”

In this short amount of time, how had you been so ignorant as to forget the Chains of Sigyn weren’t yours? They were property of the museum, and apparently not even your own Smithsonian. Your chest felt so cold at the realization. Quieting that subsequent ache, you tried to find comfort that you could go back to your normal life.

That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?

Your life to be normal again?

As if in response to your own self torment, the chains began to rattle from the safe in your coat closet by the front door of your apartment. Swallowing and rubbing the mixture of sleep and tears from your eyes, you stood at the side of the bed.

Picking up the phone, you hit redial, feeling a stronger ache build in the pit of your soul when a woman’s voice answered, “Thank you for calling the Edinburg Museum, how may I direct your call?”

“Hi, may I have extension 496?”

“Mr. Hemsworth?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The line went into dull elevator style music before you heard a man with a thick australian accent pick up, “Hello, this is Chris.”

“Hi, this is y/n, I just missed your call about-”

"The Chains of Sigyn? You have them?"

"Um, yes. Yes, I, uh, have them. Could you just-" The rattling stopped, only to be replaced by a low, threatening hiss "-hold on, one sec?" In your small apartment there were not many places you could go, so to quieten the background, you opted for outside. Opening your window, you slipped out on the thin escape. "Okay, yeah, so about that necklace-"

“Did you put them on?”

You choked on your words, your mind drawing a blank at the accusation. “I’m sorry?”

“The chains, did you put them on?”

At their mention they sparked back to life, shaking and hissing on the other side of the closet door so loud that you could hear it even out on the window’s ledge.

“I hear them,” he said dryly and all you could do was gulp.

“Yes, I wore them, but only for a second-”

“That doesn���t matter,” he interrupted urgently, “What matters now is that you keep them off. Where are they now?”

“I…” you looked at the closet door, hearing the safe begin to bang against it. “I have them secure.” Taking a moment to realize how improbable this was, you pressed, “What exactly do you know about them? How did your museum get them? What makes them work?”

The line was so quiet you thought you lost connection until Hemsworth answered, “I’ll start with those aren’t just some artifact for a museum, they’re actually a family heirloom. Look, all I can say is that you need to keep that necklace away from you. I’ll be there in two days to take it back-”

“Two days?” you exclaimed, realizing that would be the big premier of the viking exhibit at the Smithsonian. “I can’t meet you with it then, I have a project-”

“The Viking Exhibit?”

You went silent.

“Yes, I know about your project, that’s kind of how the chains got accidentally sent there… I was preparing a different artifact and they just…”

“Let me guess, slithered in?” you asked with a roll of your eyes.

“No, they told me to send them to you.”

Your teeth clenched, certain you heard him wrong. “They told you?”

“It’s really a long story, but my family is extremely upset that it got sent to you,” he finally answered, the sound of rumagining, books falling, and something crashing in the background while he hurried off the phone. “I will be there in two days. I’ll come by the Smithsonian and answer your questions, Ms. y/n. Just don’t put that necklace-”

The phone disconnected.

Holding your cell in your hand, you stared down at it even more confused than before. You only had a few seconds until the phone dinged with a new message.

It was from Chris at work.

~Hey just checking in Tom told me we are hanging out tonight SOOOOOOO EXCITED we will pick you and your friend up at 9~

His inability to use punctuation was always an annoyance to you, but that's not why seeing the text made you stomach knott.

At the knock continuing at your closet from the chains going wild, you ran a hand over your face to try and gather your thoughts.

The thudding got louder, making you angry while you tried to take in everything. "What do you want from me!" you yelled at them through the door. "You wanna just take me there, is that it? Is that why you're going CRAZY, because you want to take me to Asgard? To Loki!" At that, the pounding stopped. You froze in place, looking in disbelief at the quiet closet, unsure how what you said could have simply powered them off. Rather than dwell, you took in the silence while checking the time on your phone.

"Shit it's already seven," you realized. Sighing, you resided to go ahead and take a shower while you sorted everything out later.

Walking into the bathroom only made you madder when you realized the shower curtain was still torn down from the last time the chains dragged you to Asgard.

With a role of your eyes, you settled, "Guess I'll be taking a bath."

*****

Several hours had passed in Asgard before Loki finally began to stir. He was laying in his bed with two nurses at his side speaking gently to him but he couldn't understand their words. Raising a hand to his head, he tried to squash the dull throbbing he felt behind his eyes as someone else started speaking to him.

"You'll never learn."

Blinking away the blurred vision, he was able to make out Odin standing at his side. Letting out an annoyed scoff, Loki scooted into a seated position. "I would say I have learned quite a lot, such as-"

"Enough!" Loki stopped his words, his head lowering while his eyes met with his father. “Leave us,” Odin commanded of the medics who made a hasty retreat from the room.

He took in a deep breath, readying himself before he cursed. "I am sick of this constant fight to keep you safe, Loki. You know traveling beyond our world is dangerous, you know the risks! You know this is why the bifrost is closed! So why do you continue looking for new ways to-"

"Escape?"

Odin frowned. “You are supposed to be my intelligent son, but that seems to be wavering these last few years.”

“How awful for the great and powerful Odin to have such a wayward son,” Loki snickered. “Come all and bear witness to how his own ambitions are shattered by a son who wishes to live life.”

Odin locked onto Loki's fierce eyes, sucking in while he realized his words fell on deaf ears. "If you won't listen to reason, at least listen to your body," he warned. "Going back and forth is doomed to tear you apart and judging by the pain you're in, you know it to be true. A being is meant to live in one world, not jump across it."

The god of mischief cut his eyes away, unwilling to meet his father's gaze. The king simply shook his head, his resolve unshaken by the defiance. "I know this isolation has been difficult for you, but I am right. This, this is right. Our people almost met their end when we consorted with others, and now we are finally outside of their reach."

"No one is trying to reach us!" Loki exclaimed. “To the other realms we are nothing but old stories, fables told down from generations! Your legacy means nothing because you have let fear drive you into hiding! The world has kept going, father, it has moved on without us and I’m not alright with that! I want to move on-”

"You don't grow old. You don't get sick. No one here dies. We are always at peace. What more do you want from this old king? Can’t you be satisfied that you’re living?"

Loki's brow cringed at the reasoning, feeling that the answer was so obvious. "This isn't living, Father! This is limbo! We are merely suspended between life and death, nothing changes, nothing progresses! We are frozen in time, never allowed to fully live our lives!”

“I gave my people eternal life!”

“You gave us eternal damnation! What is this existence if we have nothing to gain or lose?”  

Odin’s words could have shaken the portraits in the hallways when he bit back, “I have buried my brothers, my sisters! My mother! My father! My children! My wife! I have known more pain than any man ever deserved and I have created a place to keep you, Thor, and my people from having that same burden! Yet instead of showing gratitude, this is what I'm met with? This obscene ungratefulness?"

"That wasn't your choice to make!"

"I don’t remember you arguing when this decision was made?” Odin roared, to the point that the nurses outside the bedroom door jumped. “I don’t remember you feeling so disconnected with your fellow Asgardians that you would rather cripple yourself with dark magic than stay here and simply be!”

Loki rose from his bed, eyes raging as he spat, “You wouldn’t have heard any arguments, father. You made this decision for everyone, but from now on, I shall be making my own.”

Odin huffed and puffed, his face red, his fists tight. Though Loki expected another barrage of shouting, the king merely dropped his head. "I watched your mother burn for practicing the same magic as you, Loki. Don't you understand, I'm trying to protect you…"

Closing his eyes, the god of mischief calmed himself enough to remark, "Midgard isn't the same place it was all those years ago, father. My magic is no more threatening to the people there than a slap on the wrist here.

The two stayed there in tense silence before Odin finally turned to leave, enraged and defeated. As the nurses started to come back to tend to their patient, Loki bellowed, “Out!” They lowered their heads, following his command in a rush.

The god maneuvered around his room, mumbling to himself while he calmed down. Cracking his neck, Loki raised both hands and in grand display, sent a golden light rolled over him. Where he once was wearing loose fitted tunic and pants, now he wore a black on black suit, tailored perfectly to his long, muscular form.

Pulling at the sleeves, inspecting it’s style, Loki had to admit the Midgardian attire you dreamed about him wearing had a certain appeal to it. Giving himself a once over in front of the mirror, he nearly missed Thor coming into his room.

“You can’t be serious,” his brother wondered, eyes combing over the strange clothes. “You can’t be going back?”

“I made plans to see someone,” Loki answered with a dry tone. “I intend to keep them.”

Thor shook his head, asking, “Is it worth it? Arguing with Allfather, breaking Asgardian law, that pain in your head, just to have a little bit of time with someone who will live and die in the blink of your eye?”

The god of mischief stood  still for a moment, his eyes taking in another view of him in his suit.  

"I don't intend to just pop in and out of her life, Thor," he spoke bluntly, "And I’m done following his rules, all they do is guarantee I will never have my freedom. So-” Loki took a breath, “-do not expect me to be returning to Asgard."

That made Thor scoffed with a wide grin, "No? What?" Loki didn't return the smile, simply stared forward. "You jest?"

"I do not."

Thor furrowed his brow, asking, “Won’t it kill you? Going back?”

“No, it’s going back and forth that causes the-” Loki cleared his throat to regain thought from the thumping beneath his skull, “-the pain. But that’s no longer an issue, as I’ve discovered a way to stay there, permanently.”

The air went stale between them as Thor watched his brother reveal his method of transporting out of Asgard with a twist of the wrist. The Chains of Sigyn gave a slight hiss in pleasure at being called, appearing in his hand out of thin air like they had always been there. Taking a breath, Thor stared at the necklace. "I could stop you," he threatened quietly. "I could beckon Mjolnir, I could-"

"Yes, but you haven't," Loki shot back. He locked eyes with his brother, neither ever known to back away from a fight. In fact, it wasn't long ago that Thor did in fact raise Mjolnir against Loki, but that was mere disagreement.

Now, Loki was defying law.

Defying Odin.

The god of thunder Inhaled hard before making his choice. While Loki readied himself for the elder brother to call upon his hammer, he was rather surprised to instead receive a hug.

"This place will not be the same without you," he said with a final pat on his back before backing away from the stunned Loki. "If father ever repairs the Bifrost, I will come find you, brother." His blue eyes sparked with sincerity as he offered one last smile towards him. “Just know you will be missed.”

"You're letting me go?" he couldn't help but ask.

Thor nodded. "You were never at peace here and if you found somewhere that makes you happy, I will not stand in your way. I only ask one thing." He held an arm out to shake hands, finishing with, “Stay out of trouble.”

Loki inhaled, taken aback by the gesture. He took his brother’s arm, nodding courtly, “I certainly will try.” They both shared another smile before letting go. Loki looped the necklace around his neck and vanished from Asgard.

*****

You had just wrapped yourself with a towel when you heard a very sharp, very loud thud in your apartment. Running to the door, you pressed your back against it trying to run through the scenarios you had played out in your head for if someone ever broke into your home.

“Lady y/n?”

It was Loki, which at first sent a wave of relief through you before shocking you into a cold sweat.

You were in your towel and he was in your apartment.

“Yes, I’m, uh, I’m getting ready!” you yelled through the door as you locked it, hoping he didn’t hear the click. “Just, uh, give me a minute and I’ll finish up.”

Loki stood on the other side of the door, his hands folded behind his back as he stared down at his feet, replaying the argument from his father and farewell from his brother.

“Take your time, darling, I’ll be here,” he reassured her, shifting around the room to her book shelf.

You sighed in relief, thanking the heavens that your clothing closet was in your bathroom. Trying to calm your nerves, you felt a spike in your blood pressure when a text lit up on your phone’s screen.

~Gonna head that way in a min can’t wait to see you PARTY TIME~

High fiving yourself in the face, you realized what your night was about to partake. Letting out a groan, you went on getting ready.  

After nearly thirty minutes, you finally felt adequately prepared to face the god of mischief. He was sitting at your desk reading one of your books when you opened the door, feeling a bit silly for the trouble you went through.

But when his eyes came up to meet yours, the jump your heart did into your throat was worth it.

The little black dress from you bachelorette party was long gone, but you did have a pencil skirted black silk dress you had worn to a few galas. It was thin enough that it was comfortable, but fitted enough that it highlighted your curves in a way you actually appreciated. It was as close to dressing up as anything in your closet allowed for outside of trendy pant suits, but that wasn’t what you wanted for tonight.

Tonight, you didn’t want to look professional.

Tonight, you wanted to look sexy.

And judging by the way Loki’s eyes drank up your daring fashion choice, you made the right call. He closed the book, making his way to you in only a few long strides. “You. Look. Positively. Exquisite,” he told you through an oversized grin.

“Thank you,” you answered sheepishly, looking away and hoping your face didn’t expose the flutter your chest felt.

Loki turned himself towards the door, holding his arm out for you to take hold of. “Well, shall we go, darling?”

“Actually, there’s something I need to tell you,” you were about to explain when a knock came from the door. Loki’s brow scrunched as you walked over, going on, “That’s actually what I wanted to tell you about...”

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[darkpoisonouslove]

“Gold and Purple”

Summary: Griffin has a gift-tears of gold and roses blooming on her lips-that draws the attention of the Dragon King and he wants to marry her. She's not exactly willing to give herself to the man whose obsession with gold is destroying the land, but that is the least of her problems when a person she trusts stirs the flow of things in an attempt to drown her.

This was inspired by a Bulgarian folk tale called "The Girl on Whose Lips Bloomed Roses" (which is about one of the two details I kept from it). I really like that tale and I hope you'll like my retelling of it in an AU of Winx Club. (Also, if it seems dark, know that this version is actually lighter than the original).

I tried to make it sound the way folk tales sound in Bulgarian and I think I succeeded (more or less, considering I am operating with a completely different set of words).

Once upon a time there was a woman named Griffin. Her eyes were golden in color and when she cried, drops of pure gold fell from them instead of tears. Her hair was purple and when she smiled, roses in the same shade bloomed on her lips. She gathered them and sold them to the nobles traveling through her village and with the money she looked after her two sisters and helped the other villagers.

Their land was dying under the rule of the Dragon King who only cared about fulfilling his needs. He was said to be a descendant of a dragon and hoarded gold like it was the only thing on his mind, like he was obsessed, and he didn’t care his people were dying out all over the land, scorched by his greed like he’d drained all the water out of it. And flowers could hardly bloom in the desert.

Griffin’s roses kept blooming on her lips every time she looked at her two sisters, though. Even if the memories of their parents who’d died an untimely death, leaving them mourning and alone, threatened to leak out of her eyes the moment the thought surfaced in her mind. She never let her sisters see her cry, though, and only did so when they’d gone to bed and she went out to admire the stars on the night sky that didn’t burn with their light like the sun of their kingdom did. She let them flow like her hair was falling over her back and down to her ankles and then gathered them to sell them the next day. And as long as she had her sisters and the stars, she knew she would be okay and she’d have enough to take care of what was dear to her.

The king learned about the roses and the golden drops all of his court was parading with, though, and instantly desired to see her and if her gift turned out to be true, he wanted to marry her. He sent word to the village, announcing the arrival of his three younger sisters who were supposed to make sure she wasn’t a fraud. With their hearts of ice and storm, and opaque darkness, the young princesses were feared by all across the kingdom and outside its borders. They were their brother’s trusted conquerors and he knew there was no one better to send to bring his future wife to him.

The news lay heavily on Griffin’s heart as she didn’t want to leave her sisters behind even for a second, and especially not when it was him she was being brought to. The two of them convinced her to give it a chance, though, since her gift was strong enough to feed even the hunger for gold of the king and could save their whole land. She agreed then but it was still hard to accept her fate. She’d wanted to travel the world and use the stars to navigate, study different herbs and find a cure for the plague that had taken her parents away, not become a prisoner of the king in the Tower of Fire. And she had no doubt that he would never let go of her and she would suffocate in his embrace. But for her sisters and her land she would give up every last piece of her heart.

Her friend noticed her low spirits and offered that they go to the stream near the village where she could clear her head. Moving water was always of help when trying to let go of negative emotions. Griffin agreed, not knowing that her friend’s intentions were anything but pure.

They went to the stream where Griffin couldn’t see her reflection but she didn’t really need to. She knew what she looked like. With her purple hair and eyes of gold, she was like nothing anyone had seen before. She was different and she didn’t know why. She only knew that was the only thing that allowed her to take care of her sisters and that was enough for her. As always, a rose bloomed on her lips at the thought of them, but she didn’t get the chance to take it out of her mouth.

The current sped up, driven by the spell of her friend who secretly practiced witchcraft. She’d reached to the depths of her soul that was darker than her black hair and harbored envy enough to drown three kingdoms worth of dragons and used her emotions to connect to the darkness lying in the bed of the stream, stirring it up and causing it to grab Griffin and drag her deep into the water where the sun couldn’t reach and bury her in the eternal blackness resting there.

The woman then returned to the village where she told her lying tale of terror about Griffin’s death. The whole village mourned the loss of their protector, and Griffin’s sisters cried so hard that parts of their souls shed away and out of their eyes, charring the ground and leaving them into monsters that disappeared into the forest to cry their pain to the herbs Griffin had used to gather at dawn when she said they had most power as charged by the first rays of the sun. That was the only connection they had left to their sister. Even if it wasn’t enough to get her back.

Griffin didn’t drown, though. The current dragged her to the bottom of the river but the blossom on her mouth didn’t allow any water to get past it and invade her lungs. Her life force kept the roses alive inside her and now they were returning the favor, keeping her alive in the water.

The current kept tossing her around, still controlled by the spell aimed to take her life. It wouldn’t let go until she was dead. It carried her far away, through mountains and plains, and different kingdoms, until finally, one day, her hair tangled into the branches of a willow that had bent over the water as if weeping.

She remained there, the water furiously pushing and tugging at her and trying to drag her back down to the depths and drown her, but the willow didn’t break under the destructive force of the current, as if powered by the connection of the tears that lay in both their cores.

A woman found her there and pulled her out of the water in her frantic panic to save her life. The rose fell off of Griffin’s mouth the moment she was safe in the woman’s hands and her lungs filled with air again, letting her wake up. She was alive but she’d lost her sight, her eyes wrapped in the merged darkness of the river and her friend’s soul. The light of her golden eyes was lost and she couldn’t cry no matter how much she wanted to.

The kind woman who was named Faragonda took her in and brought her to the home she shared with her brother Saladin. Their hospitality touched Griffin but, again, she couldn’t cry. Not even when Faragonda told her she was in the kingdom of Alfea – a place she’d never heard of before. She’d studied the lands that surrounded her kingdom and the Tower of Fire, and she’d studied the lands that surrounded those lands, she’d exchanged her tears for maps from far away places with travelers, but she’d never heard of the kingdom of Alfea. And all her hope of finding her way home hardened and died in her chest when even the sorrow of being so far away from her sisters didn’t bring her tears out. She was blind and she didn’t have her tears to trade for essentials. She didn’t have the funds to find her way back home.

Faragonda and Saladin kept taking care of her, sharing their food and roof with her even when she was just a burden that they didn’t have to take on. They both said they’d never abandon her and even helped her establish herself as the village’s healer. Without her sight, she could smell scents even better than before and she could tell herbs apart without even seeing them. Faragonda was her eyes when they went out to the forest to look for herbs and Saladin helped with the gathering and deliveries. And she built a new life along with them. But the tears never returned and neither did the roses as she couldn’t find it in herself to smile, knowing she would never see her sisters again, she would never get to hold them because she couldn’t reach them.

She couldn’t even see the passage of time for herself since night did not differ from day to her anymore, the sun and moon, and the stars were lost to her, too. And it was only Faragonda and Saladin’s support and friendship that made sure the darkness still in her eyes couldn’t get its job done and kill her. They were her life now that the roses were gone and the tenderness and kindness they treated her with didn’t allow her heart to turn to stone.

She kept helping the people of the village even when she couldn’t help herself and asked them about information about her old kingdom. She was afraid of what had happened to the land after she’d disappeared. Their king had not been known for mercy and she didn’t know what he’d done after he hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted. She just hoped her fate hadn’t doomed more people to suffering.

None of the people she healed had the answers to rest her heart, though. Very few of them had even heard of the Tower of Fire and only from old legends saying it’d been built from magic that had turned into tangible matter and it was the last known domain of the magic that had been lost. Rumors of practicing witches were going around but nobody believed them. Except Griffin who’d lived through that nightmare and still had her fate controlled by the magic she could feel in her eyes, making her want to carve them out, Faragonda’s warm hand on her shoulder and her hopeful words in her ears the only thing keeping her from mutilating herself. Not that it was of any use.

It was her seventeenth month in Faragonda and Saladin’s cottage when she had a traveler brought in to heal. The moment she entered the room, she felt a familiar pull. It was the same plague that had taken her parents, and she knew there was nothing she could do about that. It was a disease of the soul and sucked it out of you until you didn’t have enough left to live. The traveler did bring her news of her kingdom, though. There were two monsters on the loose that the king couldn’t deal with no matter how many times he sent his sisters after them. It had been the monsters who’d infected the traveler with the plague when he’d ran into them unsuspectingly. They didn’t spare anyone and people were afraid to go out of their homes, even if it was well known that the monsters never left the forest. They hid there and guarded the forest herbs so that no one would dare pick them. The three princesses were safe because they rode on monsters themselves but they still couldn’t catch the two creatures that no one knew how to deal with or where they’d come from.

The man died in her hands as if to confirm how dire the situation was. But Griffin still felt a spark of happiness to have news of her home, especially when she was told her disappearance hadn’t wrecked the kingdom with the king’s rage. He seemed to finally take interest in his people and their well-being and she felt a small smile pull at her lips even if she knew she would never marry him so it didn’t matter whether she could love him or not.

A rose fell from her lips, a small one, just a bud that haven’t even bloomed at all yet, and Faragonda told her it was pale violet instead of the purple of her hair, but it still gave her hope that she could get her roses back, that she could find some reason to smile again.

She sent Faragonda to sell the rose at the village market, and the money they used to buy a kind of tea that couldn’t be found in these lands, only at the corner of the world Griffin came from. It had been her favorite and she hoped it would help her reconnect with home and not crush what little joy she’d managed to find when the memories of her lost family inevitably filled her mind.

When the moon was full–Griffin still kept track of that since it was important for some healing practices, even if she had to use Faragonda’s sight to do it and it broke her heart–she asked Faragonda to take her out to a close by clearing in the woods to connect with the stars again. If she’d felt the traveler’s illness, then perhaps she could feel the light of the night sky as well.

The moment they stepped out of the shadows of the trees, she felt the light of the moon on her skin, seeping deep into her bones and filling her with shiny happiness that she’d never thought she’d feel again. It overflowed from her eyes, making tears fall down her cheeks, but those were water and not gold. She marveled at the unfamiliar feeling on her skin but didn’t reach to wipe them away, still in awe by the sensation she’d never felt before.

The moonlight gathered in her tears and they turned into tiny lakes of light, shining radiantly and obliterating the darkness in her eyes to leave only the gold beneath. She looked at Faragonda and saw her friend for the first time. She hadn’t been blinded by the reflected light since her own soul was made of light and Griffin hugged her, feeling the tears draining from her skin.

Flapping of wings and screeching startled them apart. They found three big creatures in the sky flying towards them. And even though Griffin had never seen them, she recognized the steeds of the three sisters of the Dragon King. She’d heard many stories about the royal family experimenting on animals, trying to draw out the dragon essence from their own flesh and give rebirth to the race of dragons. They were said to have failed in their mission every time but they’d created unseen beasts that the three sisters controlled and rode on during their conquests.

The monsters landed in front of them and she would take the time to look at the princesses but her attention was drawn by the man who jumped off the back of one of the monsters and quickly crossed the distance between them. He had ice blue eyes–much like his sister that he’d been riding with–and wore her violet rosebud strapped to the lapel of his coat. It was him – the Dragon King. Valtor.

“Purple hair and eyes of gold,” he murmured as his eyes took her in, reaching a place deep inside her soul, and he stepped closer. “It’s you, isn’t it?” He ran his fingers over her cheek and the heat of his skin pulled tears out of her eyes that seemed to cool him off as his flesh soaked them up. And she felt a calm wash over her that she’d never felt before because it was her, the other part of their shared soul.

It was the wholeness of soulmates as they balanced each other out now that they’d finally met. Fire and water. Elements of magic. It wasn’t dead. It just wasn’t what everyone thought. It lived inside people and Griffin had had it ever since she’d been born. It fed on emotions and her will for life had made the roses inside her bloom and her hair grow long, reaching to hold her into the world even when she’d felt like giving up. And her desire to take care of her sisters had turned the sorrow in her heart into tears of gold. Valtor’s touch brought out her pure essence, though, since he was her soulmate and her opposite, and so the tears were of water. It was what she was woven from, just like he was made of fire. The rose had reached him and he’d set out to find her, the moonlight mirrored by her tears like a lighthouse in the darkness of the night.

Valtor wrapped his arms around her and from his back sprouted dragon wings. Much like her tears of water, the dragon wings were part of his purest essence that he could only reach when Griffin was around. They flew into the night sky and back to their kingdom, reaching the two monsters in the forest just at the break of dawn.

Griffin recognized her sisters when she saw them and they wept when Valtor returned her to them. Their souls pieced back together and the tears that fell from their eyes turned into a herb charged with the energy of the rising sun while they turned back into humans. The new plant had magical powers that allowed it to heal the plague of the soul that had taken their parents away when they’d tried to protect them from it. It had come from Griffin’s friend whose own broken soul had sought to swallow theirs and so their mother and father had sacrificed their own to save them. And her sisters’ souls had shattered apart when they’d thought her dead so they’d become a home to the plague as well, infecting everyone they met in their despair to feel whole again.

Griffin and Valtor paid a visit to Zatura as well whose magical tricks couldn’t work against them when the magic was woven in their souls and she was just stealing it from the essence of everything around. Valtor’s heat reached inside her and drained all the water from her body, leaving her all dried up and dead just like she’d been on the inside from the start.

His heat couldn’t hurt Griffin who took his hand and pulled him back into the calming depths of her soul. The fires had burned into him, driving him to want obsessively, and gold was the one thing that had always calmed him down. And when he looked into her eyes, he finally knew why that had been.

And this fairytale has no end just like their souls are tangled into eternity.

Ediltrude and Zarathustra are Griffin's sisters (in case it's not clear), the Trix are Valtor's sisters, and Zatura is the "friend".