#Arrow Passage Recovery

[doctentaclesrpg]

Reflections on the Realm’s Military Prowess

Transcript of letters by Nurbolatov Ironeye, RY 766, mercenary captain and military historian. 

Of the Superiority of the Realm's Military Forces

The legions of the Realm are endowed with manifold advantages over the levies, mercenaries, and military contingents of the Threshold. These advantages encompass superior logistics, rigorous training, standardized kit and gear, and the presence of mythical generals, saboteurs, sappers, and champions—collectively known as the Dragonblooded—each of whom can match the strength of entire regiments. Furthermore, the Realm's war-sorcerers possess the capability to obliterate regiments with a single incantation or to compel a river to part for their passage. Their healers expedite the recovery of the injured to a mere fraction of the usual time, and the presence of their commanders imbues the Imperial legions with an extraordinary valor that is seldom seen.

Perhaps the most formidable weapon in the Imperial Legions' arsenal is their reputation. It is not to suggest that the prowess of their troops is exaggerated; indeed, the Realm's military is widely acknowledged as the finest professional force in all of Creation. However, it is hard to truly quantify how immense the morale impact of a Realm Legion upon opposing forces actually is.

This is further compounded by the obvious fact that commanders who engage the Realm seldom survive to impart their knowledge. Those aware of the Imperial Legion’s reputation—marked by rapid deployment, overwhelming force, and victories against improbable odds—or who have previously encountered them, are often rendered hesitant in battle, fearing to take bold actions or press advantages, lest they suffer humiliating defeat. On the battlefield, troops frequently break ranks, disobey orders, or flee at the slightest sign of the battle turning against them, mentally defeated before the first arrow or onager is fired.

On the Shattering Illusion of Invulnerability

The true impact of the Battle of Frozen Blood was the shattering of the Realm’s illusion of invulnerability. Though the Bull of the North's losses were severe—estimated at anywhere from equal to double those of the Tepet Legions—the Realm suffered its most humiliating defeat since the era of Jochim, whose memory lingers only among the Chosen and the divine. Jochim is remembered more for his malevolence and ultimate downfall at the hands of the Realm, which, ironically, served to enhance the Realm’s fearsome reputation.

Although the Bull’s campaign has been halted, and the feared anathema general recuperates in his new capital of Plentilune, with Tepet saboteurs and Legion remnants continuing to harry his forces, the undeniable defeat of four Tepet Legions has fractured the once-impenetrable armor of the Realm’s invulnerability.

Ambitious warlords and generals now view the Legions with a newfound perspective, contemplating their possible vulnerability. To date, most who have tested this theory have met their demise, serving as cautionary examples. However, the merest whisper of an approaching Realm Legion no longer guarantees an immediate retreat to fortifications.

It remains to be seen what measures would be necessary to restore the Realm’s tarnished armor of invulnerability. Should a punitive expedition achieve a decisive victory over the Bull or his successors, the defeat at Frozen Blood may be consigned to the annals of history as a cautionary setback and testament to the wickedness and power of Anathema. However, the tide of morale is a living entity; another defeat may cause even the battle-forged legionaries of the Realm to question their own prowess, a circumstance that could spell disaster for the foremost military power in Creation.

[middleearthpixie]

Living Proof ~ Chapter Twenty-Two

Summary: When he puts himself between the Uruk-hai and Merry and Pippin, Boromir knows it means sacrificing himself. But it also means redemption for his near betrayal of Frodo and the Fellowship, and so it is a price he is more than willing to pay.

Kaia has been on her own for as long as she can remember, having escaped a terrible life in a village not far from Mordor. When she hears the sounds of battle, she knows what it means and when she ventured forth and finds a gravely wounded man lying amongst the leaves and debris, she takes him in, not knowing he is actually the son of the steward of Gondor.

Angry at himself and faced with a long road to recovery, Boromir does not make things easy on Kaia and it is only through her own sheer will that she does not give into the urge to hit him over the head with something on a daily basis. That refusal to give up brings about changes neither one of them could have foreseen.  She just wanted to save him. She never thought he would save her in return…

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (AU, Boromir lives)

Pairing: Boromir x ofc Kaia 

Warnings: None

Rating: T 

Word Count: 4.9k

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Previous chapters can be found here.

Boromir hesitated at the threshold of Tower Hall, his stomach knotting as he caught sight of Aragorn for the first time since they were in the clearing at Amon Hen. Aside from Frodo and Kaia, Aragorn was the only one who knew what he had done. 

But Aragorn was not the only one in the room, for Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, and Éomer of Rohan were with him as well. As he hovered on that threshold, Gandalf said, “Frodo has passed beyond my sight. The darkness is deepening.”

“If Sauron had the Ring,” Aragorn replied, “we would know it.”

“It’s only a matter of time. He has suffered defeat, yes. But,” Gandalf told him, “behind the walls of Mordor, our enemy is regrouping.”

“Let him stay there.” Gimli said, his voice low with disgust. “Let them rot! Why should we care?”

“Because ten thousand orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom. I’ve sent him to his death.”

“No,” Aragorn said. “There is still hope. He needs time and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth We can give him that.”

“How?” Gimli broke in.

“Draw out Sauron’s armies,” Aragorn told him, “empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.”

Taking a deep breath, Boromir crossed into the Tower Hall. “And I will march with you, if you will have me.”

With those words, each man swiveled in his direction and both Gimli and Legolas visibly stiffened. “What are… wait… how…”

Aragorn’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes did slightly widen. “Boromir? But I thought… that is… you were dead…”

“No,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. “Close to it, but not dead, as you can see.”

“But you were riddled with arrows.” Aragorn closed the gap between them, his hands coming to rest on Boromir’s shoulders. “I saw with my own eyes.”

“As the battle moved, and I moved away, a girl found me.” Boromir managed to smile as Aragorn’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “She dragged me from harm’s way and nursed me back and here I am.”

Aragorn’s look of surprise slowly gave way to a hint of a grin. “Here you are. And it is good to see you.”

As Aragorn embraced him warmly, the last of Boromir’s doubts drained from him. Aragorn did not hold what he’d done against him, and with that, Boromir returned the hug, saying, “And I would once more offer my aid, for whatever you might need me to do.”

“Are you certain you are in condition to do so?” Aragorn stepped back, shaking his head. “I know not the extent of your injuries, but—”

“A bit of stiffness from time to time, but Kaia has skill and a gift and because of her, I am here almost the same man I was before we landed at Parth Galen.” He met Aragorn’s eyes. “But not exactly the same.”

A brief bob of his head, and Aragorn said, “I wish I could meet this girl and thank her.”

“You can, actually,” Boromir replied and it was his turn to grin as he added, “She is here, with me, and to make the story sweeter still, we are not only going to be married, but are expecting our first child this coming summer.”

He bit back a brighter smile at the looks of astonishment on all but Éomer’s face. Aragorn’s grin widened as he said, “Is that so?”

“It is. And it only makes my desire to defeat Sauron that much stronger. So, if you all will have me, I will ride to the Black Gate with you.”

Éomer stepped up. “We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms.”

“Not for ourselves,” Aragorn agreed, “but we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron’s Eye fixed upon us.” He turned to Gandalf. “Keep him blind to all else that moves.”

“A diversion,” Legolas replied.

“Certainty of death,” Gimli said through a cloud of pipe smoke, “small chance of success, what are we waiting for?”

Gandalf’s expression grew even more somber. “Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait.”

“Oh, I think he will,” Aragorn replied softly and although he could not be certain, Boromir thought a hint of the devil showed in the Ranger’s pale eyes. 

“And if he doesn’t?” Gandalf countered.

“We have to make certain he does,” Boromir replied with a casualness he didn't quite feel. But, he would make certain this time, to do whatever it took to keep that blasted Eye off Frodo.

Éomer came over to him then and extended a hand. “I’ve heard tell of your bravery at Amon Hen, that you willingly came between halflings and the Uruk-hai.”

His first instinct was to correct Éomer, but as he caught Aragorn over Éomer’s left shoulder, subtly shaking his head, he thought better of it. “I’d grown fond of the hobbits,” he explained softly, holding Éomer’s stare, “and could not let anything happen to them.”

“But, it sounds as if it’s been worth it,” Aragorn came up to them, his hand coming to rest on Boromir’s shoulder. “A child, you said?”

Despite the enormity of the task that lay ahead, Boromir couldn't help but smile. “Kaia told me only a short while ago. It still has not sunk in yet.”

“I’m sure it will in time.”

“Oh, no doubt,” he replied. “But for now? I find myself being surprised each time the thought comes to my mind, and it comes to mind at least five times an hour.”

“Come, walk with me.”

Boromir nodded and fell into step alongside the Ranger and as they strode down toward the door, Aragorn said, “I’ve not told the others what you’d confessed to me, nor will I.”

“And I appreciate your discretion.”

“It is no matter of discretion, Boromir. As far as I am concerned, you repaid your debt when you tried to protect Merry and Pippin. But, are you certain you should come with us? Your place is here, with your soon to be wife.”

“My place is where you wish me to be,” Boromir told him solemnly. “As my King, you get the final say.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I am no king. Not yet and even if I was, the final say belongs to you, as I intend to keep you as the Captain of the Guard.”

As they came out into the grayish sunlight, Boromir stopped dead in his tracks and turned to Aragorn. “What?”

Aragorn nodded. “You heard me. Unless you find you’d rather resign your commission.”

“N-no… not at all. I simply did not think you—”

“I told you at Amon Hen, you have not failed us or your people. I meant that. And when this war finally ends and something close to normalcy resumes, we will revisit this but I see no reason to appoint anyone else when you have done nothing but put the people of Gondor before everything else.”

Boromir’s throat tightened unexpectedly, for those were the last words he ever thought he’d hear Aragorn speak. Not after what happened, after what he’d done. But to hear otherwise, it gave him a sense of hope much like the one that filled him when Kaia confirmed what he’d guessed when she’d told him they needed to talk. 

He met Aragorn’s stare once more. “And I will continue to do so. I will not let anyone down this time.”

****

Kaia set down her teacup as Éowyn said, “So, tell me, where do you call home?”

“I grew up in a village between Esgaroth and the forest of Mirkwood, one so small, almost no one has heard of it.”

“What was it like?”

“Peaceful, for the most part.” Kaia bit back a wistful sigh. “My father died when I was only a baby—not quite two—and my mother remarried, to a wonderful man who loved and treated me like I was his from the start. I had stepbrothers, but always wished for a full-blood brother, one who remembered the bits of my life that I cannot quite recall.”

“Oh, it can be a blessing and a curse, for they tend to tease you mercilessly when you’re children.”

“Why do I think you speak from experience?”

“I have a brother, four years my senior, and when we were children, he would tease me until I cried.”

“Oh, my stepbrothers did the same.”

“Then they were truly your brothers.”

Kaia chuckled. “I did not think of it that way. I thought they weren’t fond of me at first and then it had become habit.”

“You should ask one of them. I’ll wager they love you as if you were fully their sister.”

Kaia’s smile faded and a heaviness sank into her heart, one she hadn’t felt in ages, not since that night the orcs tore through her village. “If only I could. They were slaughtered by orcs a year ago this summer past. I am the only one left.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that, Kaia.” Sympathy wove through Éowyn’s voice as her hand came down upon Kaia’s. 

“Thank you. I miss them so much at times, I almost cannot bear it,” Kaia replied as her throat tightened. “Some days, I’ve forgotten what my mother looks like or what my stepfather sounded like, and then when I do recall it, the guilt is almost as bad.”

“I understand that,” Éowyn replied softly. “I lost my mother and father when I was but seven and on the battlefield beyond these walls, I lost my beloved uncle, Théoden and I know not what’s become of my brother.”

“We could find out,” Kaia said, and it was her turn to cover Éowyn’s hand, which still lay atop hers. “Someone will know.”

“Ah, here you are!”

She looked up as Boromir came up behind them in the Great Hall, where tables had been arranged to feed the soldiers coming in off the battle field and from the infirmary. She and Éowyn were at the far corner, near one of the white stone hearths which crackled with fire that danced merrily on its grate. The hall was relatively quiet now, with most of the men having been and gone and were now interested in being reunited with their families. 

“You say that as if you’ve been hunting high and low for me.” She looked from him to Éowyn. “Éowyn, this is Boromir, Boromir, Éowyn. She was with the Riddermark and took down the Witch-King himself.”

“The Witch-King?” Boromir waited for her to nod, then let out a low whistle. “Now, that is impressive. Well done, indeed.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

His expression grew serous once more. “We have another of the Rohirram here as well. A man called Éomer.”

“Éomer?” At once, Éowyn’s eyes widened and lit up. “Éomer is here?”

Boromir nodded. “He is, indeed. He was in the Tower Hall, with Aragorn and Gandalf the White.”

Her eyes, wide and blue, grew shiny with unshed tears and her smile was the widest Kaia had ever seen. “He is alive and that is the best news I could have.”

She rose from the bench. “If you will but excuse me, I simply have to see him with my own eyes.”

“Oh, of course. Go and find him at once.”

Éowyn bent to give her a quick hug, and then was gone in a flash of dark brown and green. As Boromir sank into Éowyn’s vacated seat, Kaia said, “She was worried for him.”

“Her husband?”

“Her brother, actually.” She smiled, but that smile faded at the seriousness in his blue-gray eyes. “What is it?”

“We need to talk, Kaia.”

The pit of her stomach fell away. “We do?”

He nodded. “Come, take a walk with me, if you’re up to it.”

“I’m pregnant, Boromir, not dying.”

“I know, but…” He rose and held out his hand. “Walk with me?”

Despite her apprehension, she laid her hand in his and let him help her up from the bench. He then linked his fingers with hers, and leaned over to brush her lips with his. “Worry not, Kaia.”

“Worry not, he says, knowing full well nothing good has ever come of those four words.”

“Of course it has,” he said as they made their way out of the Great Hall, “as you spoke similar words before telling me about the baby.”

“Boromir.”

“What? You did?”

Her stomach curdled sharply and a sour taste flood her mouth. A hint of nausea rose, one she fought to tamp down although Ioreth warned her this could happen. It was but a symptom of pregnancy, the healer had told her, and nothing to worry about, despite how awful it could make her feel.

She waited for him to say something as they strolled down the corridor toward the main doors, but all he did was let his thumb graze hers and with each pass, she felt both a soft jolt and another wave of nausea. 

They stepped out into the courtyard, where the sun fought to break through the clouds, spitting through them here and there to touch the earth. In the middle of that courtyard stood a large fountain of white marble. It was quiet now, no water running through it, but she wondered if it would resume now that the war had come to an end.

At the fountain, he paused. “When I was a boy, I used to splash about in here. It drove my mother mad because no matter how she’d scold me, I could not resist it.”

She smiled at him. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“I’m going with Aragorn and the others to Mordor,” he said softly, sinking onto the wide lip of marble and drew her into the space between his spread knees. 

“What?”

“I have to do what I can to offer Frodo as much safety as possible and that means drawing Sauron’s Eye as far from him as we can.”

“But…” Her protest died on her lips. She knew no matter what she said, he’d have a counterpoint, and she knew that no matter what she assured him about what happened in the clearing, he felt he had not yet repaid his debt. So, arguing with him would be pointless. 

Instead, she let her hands come to rest on his shoulders. “Are you certain?”

He held her gaze, his hands curving about her hips, the warm from his fingers seeping into her through the heavy trousers she wore. “I think you know the answer to that, Kaia.”

“I do, yes.”

“I will be back, you know. I have two very good reasons to return.”

“You say that as if it will matter to Sauron.”

“No, but it matters to me.” He drew her closer, craning his neck to gaze up at her. “And I will be back.”

“I know you will. And if you think I would be of use—”

“You are not getting within ten leagues of Mordor.”

“How did I know you would say that?”

His eyes softened. “You are doing something far greater than I ever will and so you need to be here, where it’s safe.”

“Do not put me up on a pedestal, for I do no more than any other expecting woman.”

“To you, perhaps. But to me? There is no contest.” His fingers pressed gently into her. “I love you, you know.”

“I know, and I love you, too, but—”

“No but, Kaia,” he cut her off gently, shaking his head, “I have to do this. You know that. I owe this to Frodo, to the rest of the Fellowship, especially after what I’ve—”

It was her turn to cut him off and she did, covering his mouth with her hand to quiet him. “Do this because you think it is the right thing to do, Boromir, not because you feel you’re repaying a debt you no longer owe.”

“Kaia, I do owe this, to Frodo if no one else. He knows not what happened after he and I parted ways and I was never able to apologize to him.”

She sighed, lowering her hand. “Very well. I don't suppose I can argue that point at all. But, please, be careful.”

His hands slid around to the small of her back and he rose to pull her firmly against him. “Of course. I will do what I can to ensure I will return.”

“You’d better,” she murmured. “I’d rather not raise this child alone.”

“We should marry before I leave,” he said softly, his expression grave. “That way, should something happen to me, you will be taken care of.”

“You’re coming back, Boromir.”

“Kaia, we don't know that. And I would rather know you and the baby had the protection of my name.” 

She swallowed hard at the low seriousness in his voice, the same seriousness reflect in his face. He was right. There was no guarantee he would return from Mordor and no matter how much she hated the very thought, it was also a very real possibility. 

So she nodded even as her throat tightened. “You’re right, of course.”

He bent to her, his lips soft and teasing as they met hers and despite her apprehension and growing worry, Kaia wound her arms bout his neck and held on to him as if the would keep him safe. 

****

At the door to his flat, Boromir grinned as he bent slightly and swept her up into his arms to carry her over the threshold. “A silly tradition, but I don't mind a bit of silliness right now.”

She smiled as she draped her arms about his neck. The heavy gold ring on her left hand felt so odd, as did the realization that she and Boromir had actually married. He was hers now. She was his. And for the first time in nearly two years, she was no longer alone in the world.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked softly as he stepped into the flat and with one foot, gently booted the door closed behind him.

“Six months ago, I was living alone, in a purloined cabin in the woods. And now…” she smiled, brushing several honey-gold wisps of hair away from his face. “I’m here, in this beautiful city, with you…”

“It is not so beautiful now, but it will be once again.” He spirited her through the sitting room, toward his bedchamber without pausing. “And when I return, we will raise our children here, and they will never know the threat of war the way you and I knew it.”

“Our children?” She couldn’t resist teasing him arching one brow as she did.

“Absolutely. This one will need at least one brother or sister to look after or drive mad.” As he spoke, he bent to press her down into the mattress. 

Wrapping her arms about his neck, Kaia drew him flush against her, smiling as he captured her lips in a soft kiss. She felt his smile in his kiss, felt his love in it, for it was unlike any kiss they had ever shared. His lips, soft and teasing, caressed hers, moved gently against hers, parting as his tongue slipped forward to stroke hers, to tangle with it and draw it back into the welcoming heat of his own mouth. 

He slid a hand along her thigh, along the back of it, came up to cup her backside and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her hips moved of their own, rising to meet him, to meet growing thickness of his arousal as he responded to her. Heat swept through her as that hand on her backside slid about her hip, along her waist, as it eased beneath her tunic and swept along her side. His fingertips brushed the outer curve of her breast and she shivered. A fiery tingle followed in his wake, one that had her sucking in a hard breath as if it was their first time together.

Boromir moved slowly, kissing his way down over her chin, along her bowed neck, into the neck of her tunic. He pulled back, offering up a seductive grin as he swept her tunic up and off and his eyes visibly darkened, even in the low fading light of day, as they crept over her. “You are so beautiful, Kaia,” he murmured, shaking his head. “And you are now mine.”

He rocked back on his knees, which were on either side of her hips and gripped his own tunic to strip off As he let it fall to the floor alongside the bed, she reached for him, her fingertip just brushing along the firm muscle of his lower abdomen. She swept over the scar left by one of the Uruk-hai arrows, and gazed up at him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, coming down over her once more. This time, he captured her  lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle and was instead filled with fire and need. Her eyes closed as that fire sank into her, as it sent the most delicious heat swirling through her. He swept his lips down over her collarbone, down along the rise of her left breast, which seemed far more sensitive than it had in the past. She shivered as he captured her nipple in demanding lips, as he teased and tortured it into a hard bead with a not-so-gentle swirl of his tongue. 

The sensations coursing through her were hot and sweet, knots tensing deep within her core with each pass of his lips, each scrape of his goatee against her oh-so-sensitive skin. With each caress, he brought her body to life, ignited her desire like a spark to kindling and as the sensual flames licked her, she threaded her fingers through his hair and whispered, “Mine…”

He lifted his head then, regarding her with passion-smoked almost gray eyes. “Yours, indeed,” he whispered back. Then, he winked and added, “Mine,” before dipping back to press a teasing kiss into her belly. 

He moved to his right, feathering kisses along her stomach, down to her hip, where he drew back once more and held her gaze as he slowly unlaced her trousers. She bit down on her bottom lip when he winked once more, and a hint of a smile played at his lips when he eased the fabric down over her hips, down her thighs, over her knees to her ankles, and swept her trousers from her body to let them fall to the floor as well.

The motion stirred the air, sending warmth from the fire on the hearth swirling about the room. Boromir said nothing at first, just let his gaze wander over her until she felt a heat that had nothing to do with the fire swept along her cheeks. 

“Why do you stare?” she finally murmured.

“I know it’s silly,” he whispered, sounding almost dazed, “but I keep thinking I will see a change with you, but I know it’s far too soon.”

“I will be round soon enough,” she told him with a grin. “Let’s not rush it, shall we?”

He looked up then and smiled. “I look forward to seeing you that way.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yes.” He nodded, then bent over and pressed a light kiss just above the fluff of russet curls he’d bared. “If I think you beautiful now, you will be even more so then,” he murmured, brushing those curls now. 

Her eyes closed of their own as he moved lower still, each gentle kiss moving into more sensitive territory. She sucked in a hard breath at his first stroke, and lost herself int the sensations he sent rippling through her.

They came gentle at first, but as her arousal grew, so did his strokes. No longer gentle and teasing, they became serious caresses, swift and steady, and without thinking, she thrust her hand into his hair once more, gripping the pillow beneath her head with her free hand as the fire filled her. 

He treated her to sensations unlike any she’d ever felt, the teasing knots in her belly tightening as they sank into her core. A warm, steady ache crept over her, one that had her arcing to meet his caresses and when she twisted her fingers harder in his hair and tugged slightly to the left, he moved. She sucked in a hard breath at the thunder of sensation that tore through her, flooding her body with an fiery bliss she’d never felt before. He moved faster now, his strokes harder and determined now and her fingers went numb around the pillow as he brought her to the edge of madness and then shoved her into the abyss.

The knots ruptured, fiery pleasure exploding deep within her core to fill her with white-hot tingles sharper than any sword or dagger. She jerked toward him, almost pleading with him not to stop, her voice husky and raw as his name rose to her lips. 

She sank back into the bed, trembling from the force of her release, her head spinning wildly and her fingers still twisted into his hair. He gently pulled from her grasp, lifting his head to smile at her as he whispered, “Breathe, love… breathe…”

“I’m… trying…” She smiled back, her head lolling from side to side, “but my lungs… they’ve forgotten their job.”

He winked once more, then bent to sweep a light kiss along her inner thigh. It was lighter than air, but the sensation was too much to bear on her already overly-sensitive skin. “Please,” she shook her head, “don’t…”

“As you wish.”

He came up over her then, covering her body with his, catching her one hand in his to link their fingers, then pressed it down into the bed. As he bent to her and their lips met, she forgot about being too sensitive to be touched. Her legs parted of their own and when he arched in to the apex of her thighs, she couldn't hold back her soft moan. 

She had to touch him, had to let her hands skim along his back, over the various scars both small and large that marred his skin. Thick slabs of muscle that felt like rock lay beneath that damaged skin, and heat wafted from his back to sink into her fingers, into her palms, as she explored him as best she could. 

He rose enough to allow her hands to slip between them, to unlace his trousers, and then she shoved them over his hips. Cool air skittered across her body as he rose to shed the trousers, but then he was back, settling in between her thighs once more. 

“Roll over,” she whispered. 

“No,” came his breathless reply as he caught her hand in his once more. 

He captured her lips in a deep, slow, teasing kiss, his fingers tightening about hers. She wound her free arm about his neck, threading her fingers once more through his shaggy hair. 

His hand slipped free from hers, sliding down along the slope of her waist, over the curve of her hip, and he drew away once more to reach between them.

Her fingers sank into his back as he filled her and gave a slow thrust. Kaia bit down hard on her bottom lip at the feel of him, at the way he filled her so perfectly and moved so silkily inside her, as if made for her and her alone.

They moved together in perfect rhythm, rising and falling as one as he bent back to capture her lips with his. His fingers laced with hers once more and she caught his soft moan as he shuddered against her and gave a hard thrust. 

He brought her back to the edge, but this time, she took him with her, smiling at the tension winding through him, in the way his thrusts came faster and deeper, the way his breath hitched and his fingers tenses about hers. 

“Kaia…” Her name was a breathless whisper on his lips as he surged hard inside her. She tightened around him, her thighs pressing hard into his sides, the most delicious heat swirling through her. Her fingernails sank into his skin. Her back bowed. She tightened all around him, shivering beneath him, clinging to him, desperate for him to send them both out into the abyss once more.

He thrust hard and that was her undoing. She quivered around him, the knots bursting once more to flood her with tingly pleasure that had her wrapping about him, dragging her fingernails along his back, over the raised ridges of old scars, as she cried out her pleasure even as she surrendered to him.

“Oh!” He surged deep, tensing, then shuddered as he reached his peak and spilled into her. He arched hard again and a third time, and then sank gently against her, his head coming to rest in the slope of her shoulder.

His fingers loosened about hers and she slipped her hand free to wind that arm about him as well, smiling even as her eyes closed and a sated drowsiness washed over her. “Mmm…” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, “I love you…”

“I love you—you, too,” he breathed back, an airy laugh bubbling to his lips as he shivered against her once more. 

Little by little, his breathing slowed and he shifted to stretch out beside her. Kaia curved up against him, her head tucked against his chest, her arm draped over his hips, and she closed her eyes to savor the peace of just lying there in his arms. There was nowhere else she would ever want to be, and now, she did not have to worry about that changing. 

For now, anyway. 

[theartofdreaming1]

As usual, my thoughts regarding this week’s prompts and random thoughts on chapters 25-27 are below the cut.

heart

The imagery that really caught my attention this time was Peeta pointing out the changes in the moon to Katniss: The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again. - So for one, we see another example of Peeta focusing on the small details in life (which I’ve previously hypothesized to being an important element in his recovery from his hijacking) as well as Peeta being the one to give Katniss hope, even if it’s just for a brief moment. Also, it’s a nice parallel to Katniss looking at the moon and desperately wishing for it to be “her moon” back in chapter 23. As a nocturnal person, I also love watching the moon from my living room window🌙

mind

Hmmh, I don’t think that Katniss and Peeta’s win was predetermined - although I do believe that by introducing the romantic angle, they significantly improved their odds. A Career winning the Games is not really that special and exciting, since it happens so often (although Careers generally satisfy that excitement for violence/blood/gore, that plenty of Capitol people seem to share). As a volunteer from District 12, who achieved an extremely good training score and proved herself to be very capable in the arena already, Katniss definitely had an edge by playing into the classic underdog story, which offered another exciting “narrative” for the Capitolites to follow - that, coupled (heh) with the romance angle Peeta introduced? Katniss (and Peeta) definitely had the entertainment (and excitement through novelty) factor on their side. Ironically, Cato’s chances of winning were not as good as he expected, precisely because he was playing it by the book.

soul

Poor Peeta (and Katniss), it hurts that their relationship was in such a rocky place by the end of the book. Especially those weeks right after the end of Book 1, when there were still cameras around District 12 and they had to pretend while hurting must have sucked big time🥺

Chapter 25

Ugh, the muttations are just so unsettling... *shudder*

Honestly, I’m just so impressed by Peeta’s presence of mind to draw that X on Cato’s hand, after he had just most of his calf ripped off, only to be grabbed and put in a headlock by Cato! He and Katniss work insanely well under pressure

God, Cato’s death is just so gruesome and awful... In the end, his “gift” from the Feast doesn’t help him win at all, but instead ends up prolonging his suffering a cruel amount... I wonder if in general these “gifts” come with a string attached (aside from the expected danger of trying to get them, I mean) - because the Gamemakers also intend for Katniss’s “gift” (medicine for Peeta) to force an even more cruel outcome on her - saving him from blood poisoning only to be forced into killing him herself... 🤔

I’m not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I’m terrified that if he drifts off he’ll never wake again. “Are you cold?” he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. - Katniss is terrified of the idea of Peeta dying; at the same time, Peeta worries about her freezing - I can’t with these two 😩

Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I’ll go completely insane. He’s fighting it, probably more for me than for him - Katniss can’t lose any more people she cares about 😢; on a different note, Peeta fighting his unconsciousness “probably more for [Katniss] than for him” points out one of the crucial elements Katniss brings into Peeta’s life - she is that someone for whom he will fight - including for his own life and well-being - even when it feels easier to give up... Having that person in your life that keeps you going can make all the difference - if Katniss hadn’t had Prim and promised her “to really, really try” to win (and later also made Rue the same promise), I’m not sure she would have made it this far; it’s the thought of Prim anxiously watching her after Rue’s death, that forces Katniss to keep going, to not give in to despair after that particular traumatic event - Peeta, on the other hand, didn’t really have that kind of person in his life, as he will point out on the beach in CF (and Katniss acknowledges herself that the only person who will be devasted if Peeta dies is her)... that is not to say that neither Katniss nor Peeta aren’t fighters on their own - but it helps to have someone that inspires you to not give up

the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can’t let him go. I just can’t. - We’ll see the mirrored version of this by the end of Mockinjay 

Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into [Cato’s] skull. - Another act of rebellion, technically (sure, this can be spun as Katniss killing Cato so she and Peeta may win - before Peeta dies from blood loss - but we know better - Katniss’s motivation was compassion for her supposed enemy)

We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Peeta even move? - Peeta is tough as nails, yo!

Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart [...] I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame. “No,” he says. “Do it.” [...] “I can’t,” I say, “I won’t.” - In spite of her initial reflex, Katniss chooses Peeta/ chooses not to kill him; it’s a recurring theme in their relationship (despite her wariness of others, she chooses to open up to Peeta eventually; although she vowed to never marry and have children, she’ll choose to have a family with Peeta); also, my psychology-brain just noticed how this moment illustrates how harmful thoughts/impulses don’t have to determine your actions and are not an indicator of who you are - it’s about what you choose to do

“You’re not leaving me here alone,” I say. Because if he dies, I’ll never go home, not really. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this areny trying to think my way out. - Again, makes me think of MJ; also, I think that from this point onwards, Katniss and Peeta are officially linked together forever; the bond they forged during this traumatic experience will connect them to each other until the day they die

“On the count of three?” Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. “The count of three,” he says. - My heart😭

Chapter 26

... while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta’s leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious  [...] Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration [...] I’m not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. - Peeta was in such a bad shape by the end of the Games; I’m still kinda salty that the movie really glossed over this fact :/

... they’re taking Peeta but leaving me behind the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair - it must be Effie, it has to be Effie coming to my rescue - when the needle jabs me from behind. - Oh geez, in Catching Fire Katniss will also get sedated in a hovercraft because she’s upset about being separated from Peeta 😢 (also, Katniss thinking that Effie is coming to her rescue 😭)

While she [Lavinia, the avox] adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. “Did Peeta make it?” She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship. - Katniss is so considerate of Lavinia’s situation, and Lavinia’s giving her a gesture of comfort and support; they’ve never been able to have a proper conversation (Katniss doesn’t even know Lavinia’s name), but still they managed to build up such a bond - compassion certainly is a strong thing to behold 😭 (and this whole scene is just through and through about compassion, with Katniss asking how Peeta is doing!)

Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought of Prim’s scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home! - Katniss is so excited to see her home and her loved ones again

I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna - Aww, the two people she grew closest to over the course of the past weeks (Haymitch will be added to that list in just a smidge)

Or do I hear a man’s voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can’t help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me. - Thank God for Haymitch! 

And behind one of them [doors] must be Peeta. Now that I’m conscious and moving, I’m growing more and more anxious about him [...] “Peeta!” I call out, since there’s no one to ask - Katniss is sick with worry over Peeta; romantic feelings or not, she cares so fricking much for him by now!

I run for them [Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna] and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch’s arms first. When he whispers in my ear, “Nice job, sweetheart,” it doesn’t sound sarcastic. - These reunion scenes are so intense and heartwarming! And then Katniss asks about Portia and Peeta because their presence would make this scene complete 

when I asks for seconds, I’m refused. “No, no, no. They don’t want it all coming back up on the stage,” says Octavia, but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she’s on my side - It’s moments like these that help humanize Katniss’s prep team - they might be shallow, they might be completely oblivious and ignorant, but they aren’t that bad [of course, the prep team chattering about their mundane lives while talking about the event that ended with the deaths of 22 children shortly after, leaves a bad taste in our mouths]

I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My hands go to my chest and I frown. “I know,” says Cinna before I can object. “But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise.” - God, the idea that the Gamemakers wanted to give a boob job to an unconscious, malnourished 16-year-old girl makes me sick 🤢 (Also, what’s the flipping deal about boobs?! As a pretty flat-chested gal, I’ve always been annoyed that there are barely any bras my cup size that are not push-up ones; I’m not self-conscious about it, so stop making me pretend that I’m bustier than I actually am!)

“I thought it’d be something more... sophisticated-looking,” I say. “I thought Peeta would like this better,” he [Cinna] answers carefully. Peeta? No, it’s not about Peeta. It’s about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the audience. Although I do not yet understand Cinna’s design, it’s a reminder the Games are not quite finished. - Ugh, that sinking feeling when Katniss and the reader realize that the Games are still not over... Sidenote: Peeta flirted up a storm with grimy, bloodied Katniss and complimented her when she wore Cinna’s first, absolutely badass costume (”You should wear flames more often”)... Katniss’s girlish outfit  has nothing to do with Peeta and she knows it... Cinna could have dressed Katniss up in a trash bag and Peeta would have been smitten - although a trash bag by Cinna would probably still look pretty good ;)

“How about a hug for luck?” Okay, that’s an odd request from Haymitch but, after all we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. - Aww, Katniss actually wouldn’t have minded giving Haymitch a hug just because - sadly, this is about survival tips instead :/

But what was it Haymitch said when I asked it he had told Peeta the situation? That he had to pretend to be desperately in love? “Don’t have to. He’s already there.” Already thinking ahead of me in the Games again and well aware of the danger we’re in? Or... already desperately in love? I don’t know. I haven’t even begun to separate out my feelings about Peeta. It’s too complicated. - Poor Katniss... she didn’t have the time and peace of mind to sort out her feelings regarding Peeta before they all got tied up and muddled with her need for survival. Now she’ll be having an even harder time trying to untangle that mess :(

Chapter 27

Then there’s Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms [...] He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He’s kissing me and all the time I’m thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we’re in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his choulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. - Man, their reunion here always gets me - it would be so fricking good if Katniss didn’t have to worry about their potential doom 😒😔 - she barely has time to just be happy to see Peeta alive and well before slipping back into survival mode while Peeta is just genuinely thrilled to have her in his arms, completely unaware of the pressure and immediate danger Katniss experiences in this moment... It hurts so bad

I’m with Katniss - How did the previous victors endure rewatching those horrible moments from the Games?! I guess because they had to, but oof... I think I’d just completely shut down, blocking out the footage shown, ugh

But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her [Rue] in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion. - In such a callous and cruel place as Panem, any act of compassion can be regarded as rebellion, it’s crazy. In a place filled with apathy, hedonism, greed, and cruelty, the most radical things you can exhibit are love, kindness, and respect!

A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta’s name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it’s my best moment all night. - Again, another instance where Katniss’s genuine feelings/reactions to Peeta are get muddled with her need for survival

The one thing I never do is let go of Peeta’s hand. - irrevocably linked with each other

Despite Haymitch’s running interference, I’m determined to see Peeta privately. - Katniss just wants to have an honest and open talk with Peeta 😢 (I get where Haymitch is coming from, and maybe in this instance it’s the right call, but we’ll see a similar situation in the beginning of CF when Haymitch advises Katniss not to tell Peeta about President Snow’s visit and that time, it doesn’t go so well...)

Then Peeta’s there looking handsome in red and white - for someone who isn’t sure whether she’s into him or not, Katniss sure mentions how good Peeta’s looking a lot 😏

“Well, there’s just this and we go home. Then he can’t watch us all the time,” says Peeta. - 👀👀 Peeta is so thirsty here; reminds me of when he pulled Katniss close to him in the cave before they set out to hunt... He clearly believes she’s also “already there” regarding their relationship; he’s never this “suggestive” (can’t think of a better word right now) with her once she lets him know that she doesn’t really know how she feels about him - I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there’s no time to analyze why - Katniss totally isn’t averse to what Peeta’s suggesting here, either (though there’s probably also a healthy amount of fear mixed in with the thrill of being wanted - letting people in can be terrifying)

I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, “So now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?” I turn in to him. “Put you somewhere you can’t get hurt.” And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh. - It’s me; I’m people 🙋🏼‍♀️ (also, the “turn in to him”?!?!! it just suggests such a closeness, I can’t-)

Katniss burying her face in Peeta’s shirt when she’s afraid she might cry learning that he lost his leg 🥺 (how awful it must be to be constantly on display while you’re dealing with your private feelings, ugh)

“... The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind... hm?” [...] It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentences. “I don’t know, I just... couldn’t bear the thought of... being without him.” - It might not be a super eloquent way to put what she was supposed to say, but this way, Katniss is being perfectly honest (and frankly, if she’d had the chance to properly process her feelings, she would have been able to voice this sentiment with less hesitation)

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there’s nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. - For one, Katniss didn’t think of that pin (again), but also - was the pin returned to her simply because it’s standard procedure or did someone (like Plutarch, for example) arrange for Katniss to get the pin back, to keep her connection to this symbol going?

I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. - Poor Katniss! She’s been through so much, experienced so many traumatic events in short succession recently (aside from the trauma she already had), already had problems defining her identity beyond sheer survival, and now the Capitol also keeps pushing an identity onto her and a romantic relationship, when she hadn’t even had the chance to figure out how she felt about that yet

“... Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn’t make it worse,” I say. “Coaching you? But not me,” says Peeta. “He knew you were smart enough to get it right,” I say. “I didn’t know there was anything to get right,” says Peeta. - Oh boy. It’s always so painful to see Peeta realize that he’s been completely out of the loop; again, we’ll see how Katniss and Haymitch adopt a similar strategy in the beginning of CF: banking on Peeta’s good social skills and eloquence and keeping him in the dark. In a way, it’s a sort of compliment they pay to Peeta for being good with people, but, by not telling him, they are also using him for their purpose (which is motivated by caring for and wanting to protect Peeta, but still). Peeta is right to be upset about it - he has always been very clear about not wanting to be used as a piece in anyone’s games, really. And, as we will see later in CF, they are way more effective as a team when they are open and honest with each other.

“It was all for the Games,” Peeta says. “How you acted.” “Not all of it,” I say, tightly holding on to my flowers. “Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?” he says. “I don’t know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get,” I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none’s forthcoming. “Well, let me know when you work it out,” he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable. - It’s just so goddamn painful😢 They’ve both been done so dirty by that forced star-crossed lovers of Distrct 12 routine. (Sidenote: I appreciate that Peeta actually gives Katniss the chance to explain herself here - still, it’s too much to deal with on the spot so I can understand why Katniss ended up dropping the ball, even though it’s frustrating to read.)

That it’s not good loving me because I’m never going to get married anyway and he’d just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn’t matter because I’ll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we’ve just been through? - Oh Katniss, you certainly are skipping a couple of steps here; I’m pretty sure there are some options in between dating and being married with kids you could look into. Also, she’s just assuming that this is what Peeta wants, but she doesn’t know that at all - As someone who also has this stupid habit of imagining how whole conversations could possibly transpire and then resigning myself to the hypothetical outcome of said imagined conversation instead of actually having them: Don’t do that. ‘Never assume - it makes an ASS out of U and ME.’ 

I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. “One more time? For the audience?” he says. His voice isn’ t angry. It’s hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding it tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go. - Ma babies! They are both so hurt and both just want to be with each other 😭 But they’ll need some time apart, to figure things out before they can do that.

[ms-circely]

✨Dream Symbols✨🌌

A's:⭐⭐⭐

Abundance - desire for independence

Accident - something unplanned

Actor//Actress - desire for recognition

Adultery - guilt

Airplane (Transportation)

Altar - self sacrifice

Anchor - stability. Sometimes a desire for a permanent home

Anniffil - the feminine aspect of the individual. Guide to the inner world. Receptive, prospective, and nurturing.

Animal - defends on your feelings for the particular animal. A helpful animal normally represents the instinctive self.

Animus - the masculine aspect of the individual. Uncompromising conviction. Force.

Apple - desire

Arrow - pleasure, festivity

Auction - promise of abundance

Automobile (Transportation)

B's: ⭐⭐⭐

Baby: Crying - frustrated plans, Laughing - plans fulfilled, Sleeping - waiting period, patience

Balloon - frustration

Basement - a place of refuge or retreat

Battle - inner conflict

Bells - fulfillment of plans, joy

Bicycle (Transportation) - hard work will bring plans to fruition

Birds - usually transcendence from one being to another

Birth - transition to new phase or new aspect of self

Bridge - overcoming difficulties, a change

Broom - the ability to sweep or clean up

Bull - animal nature, stubborness

Burial - end of a phase, time to take a new direction

C's:⭐⭐⭐

Candle - constancy

Cane//Crutch - the need for support

Capital (City//Town) - the center

Castle - ambition

Cave - a place of retreat or refuge, a need for time to think and meditate

Circle - totality, perfection, infinity

Cities - gatherings of consciousness

Climbing - the self mastery process, rising consciousness

Clock - the passage of time, the need to take action

Clothes - attitude, personality

Coffin (Burial)

Cradle - potential for advancement

Crossing a River - a fundamental change of attitude

Crying - emotion, usually a sad event

Crystal - union of matter and spirit

Curtains - concealment, adornment

Colors🌈🌈🌈

Red - strength, health, vigor, sexual love, danger, charity

Orange - encouragement, adaptation, stimulation, attraction, plenty kindness

Yellow - persuasion, charm, confidence, jealousy, joy, comfort

Green - finance, fertility, luck, energy, charity, growth

Blue - tranquility, understanding, patience, health, truth, devotion, sincerity

Indigo - changeability, impulsiveness, depression, ambition, dignity

Violet - tension, power, sadness, piety, sentimentality

D's:⭐⭐⭐

Darkness - the spirit world, the subconscious, turning inward

Death - the end of something, opportunity for new beginnings

Dog - loyalty, laziness, anger

E's:⭐⭐⭐

Eating - need for new interests, stimulation

Evening - descending into the subconscious world

Eye - perception, self-examination

F's:⭐⭐⭐

Falling - failing to live to expectations

Fish - transcendence from one state of being to another

Fire - anger, purification, abundance of energy

Flowers - contentment, pleasure

Flying (Transportation)

G's:⭐⭐⭐

Girl - immature feminine aspect

Glass - perception, being able to see (sometimes in the future)

Graduation - initiation, completing a phase

H's:⭐⭐⭐

Hair - thought, grey or silver hair indicates wise thought

Hammer - power to drive forward

Helpful Animal - the instinctive self

Highway - the path, the way ahead

Horse: White Horse - symbol of life, prosperity; Black Horse - change of fortunes; Wild Horse - uncontrolled instinctive urges; Winged Horse - transcendence from one state of being to another

House: The symbol of personality and conscious interest from the spiritual view. The particular room represents particular interest >> Bathroom - cleansing, elimination of the undesired; Basement - place of refuge, retreat, concealment; Bedroom - place of rest and recovery; Dining Room - place of sustenance, refortification; Kitchen - a place to prepare the sustenancen; Living Room - place of socializing

I's: ⭐⭐⭐

Ice - coldness of character, frigidity, rigidity

Illness - boredom, delay

Individual Self - the "real" you, the inner you, the all-wise, all-powerful spiritual self

J's:⭐⭐⭐

Jail - confinement, frustration, inability to act

Journey (Transportation)

Judge //Jury - your conscience

K's:⭐⭐⭐

Key - the answer to a problem

Kiss - satisfaction, completion

L's:⭐⭐⭐

Ladder - ability to climb (note the length of the ladder)

Left (as in side of direction) - the subconscious side, sometimes the wrong side of direction, the logical side, the scientific side

Light - hope

Lines: Broken lines - represents the feminine aspect; Solid lines - the masculine aspect

Lizard - transcendence

Lock - frustration, security

M's:⭐⭐⭐

Man//Male - animus, the masculine aspect, the age indicates the maturity or lack of it in the individual

Mask - falsehood, deception, concealment

Mirror - need to reconsider

Mother - heaven, comfort

N's:⭐⭐⭐

Nakedness - real, true, without false attitudes, exposed, natural

Night - greatest strength of the super-consciousness

Noon - the greatest clarity of consciousness

Numbers 💯💯💯

Even Number - signify balance and harmony

Odd Number - signify imbalance and discord

The beginning, the source, the ego

Duality, the male and female, positive and negative

Father, mother, and child; past, present, and future

The material universe, consciousness, reality, and law, physical power, initiative, religion and spiritual evolution

It represents materialism, expansion, change, understanding, and change

The number of cooperation and balance. It represents interaction between the material and the spiritual, mental and physical. It signifies psychism, peace

Completion, old age, endurance, evolution and wisdom. The seven stages of spiritual transformation

The number of dissolution and separation. The law of cyclic evolution and invention

Rebirth and reformation. Intuition, travel, karma

0. The circle, infinity, the universe

O's:⭐⭐⭐

Ocean - opportunity, spirituality

Owl - wisdom, need for further evaluation

P's:⭐⭐⭐

Pearl - joy; Broken string of pearls - misunderstanding

Pirate - suspicion

Pyramid - thirst for knowledge, seeking

R's:⭐⭐⭐

Railroad - a set path to follow

Rainbow - great happiness, opportunity

Reading - learning, gaining in knowledge, perceiving

Riding (Transportation)

Right - the consciousness, correctness, the artistic side

Ring - completion, loyalty

River - spirituality, a boundary

Rocket (Transportation)

Rocks - the unchanging self

Rodents - transcendence or a less-than-nice person, distrust, betrayal

Roller Skates (Transportation)

Roses (Flowers)

Ruins - failure of plans

S's:⭐⭐⭐

Sacrifice - overcoming pride

School - a need to learn

Scissors - distrust

Sea (Ocean)

Self-image - the inner or spiritual self

Shadow - the subconscious, insubstantiality

Ship (Transportation)

Skeleton - the basics, the root of a problem

Snake - spiritual wisdom, transcendence into a state of wisdom

Snake-bites - infusion of wisdom

Soldiers - force, power, regeneration

Spade - cutting, tough work lies ahead

Sunrise - clearing of consciousness, awakening

Sunset - need to protect assets

Swan - beauty, comfort, satisfaction

Sword - conflict

T's:⭐⭐⭐

Table - support, a platform for presentation

Telescope - need to get closer to a subject

Thief - loss or fear of loss, insecurity

Thunder - anger

Touching - healing. On rare occasions it may mean a curse. Can be comfort, security. The manner of touch and your feeling about it is important

Trains (Transportation)

Transcendence - achieving full realization of the individual self

Transformation (Transcendence)

Transportation - spiritual advancement. The more efficient the mode, the more effective and rapid is the advancement

Tree - the life principle, psychic growth and development, progress

Tunnel - hiding, being afraid

Turning - changing or developing. Turning in a circle represents lack of progress

Twins - ego and alter ego

U's & V's:⭐⭐⭐

Umbrella - shelter

Veil - insecurity

Volcano - emotions

W's:⭐⭐⭐

Wall - frustration, inability

Water - spirituality, emotion

Wedding - culmination of plans, happiness, success

Witch - supernatural ability, wisdom

Wreath - self pity

[soldiermom1973]

N7 Month day 9 - Respite

You can also read this on AO3 . . . . . . Liara sends Allie something unexpected to help with her panic attacks.

It was hard for Allie to find things to occupy her mind that didn't have anything to do with the Reapers or the war they brought with them.  Every channel on the TV was filled with news reports about recovery efforts, casualty lists, and relief organizations scrounging for donations, supplies, and volunteers. The Alliance had to set up a screening protocol on her omni-tool to filter out media requests, which numbered in the hundreds.

Every day, Allie would lay back in her hospital bed and close her eyes, wishing for just a moment's respite from the reminders of the war.  If she wasn't being assailed from the outside with news reports on the TV, gossip in the halls, and messages on her 'tool, her mind beat her up with memories of her friends dying and nightmares filled with Reapers and their minions.

Once the Normandy made it back to civilization and her friends found her in the hospital, her days were much more cheerful.  They regaled her with tales of their crash landing on a previously undiscovered and unexplored moon, the struggle to find food and water they could all eat, Tali and Traynor working to get EDI back online, and how Kaidan managed to keep everyone focused and calm while delegating the tasks that needed to be done to get the Normandy airborne again.  They talked about the things they did to fill their time – crafting bows from saplings and vines and pathetic attempts to fletch their own arrows; reading the same books and articles dozens of times; seeing the same movies often enough to be able to quote them line for line.

Still, the hospital had visiting hours to adhere to, even for the Savior of the Galaxy, and it was in those moments after her friends left for the day Allie found her mind wandering again to the war she'd successfully ended and miraculously came out the other end, pretty much unscathed.

The Sol relay, like all the relays in the galaxy, was heavily damaged, so her friends stayed nearby for a few months.  Kaidan was the first to leave – he went to the family orchard to help his mom out there. Allie wasn't surprised he left quietly – it was four days with no visit before Garrus finally told her where he'd gone.  She was a little hurt he hadn't said goodbye, but not surprised.  After all, there really was no reason for him to stick around and she had no one to blame for that except herself

A few weeks later, Garrus and Tali left, having secured transport on an outbound turian freighter.  Wrex and his remaining troops found passage back to Tuchanka on whatever ships were headed that way. Joker, Steve, and Sam remained on earth with the Normandy to help oversee repairs.  Liara also stayed on the ship, more to secure her vast information network than anything else.  James requested a temporary transfer to Major Coats's company to help with recovery and rebuilding and Javik, having nothing better to do, tagged along to help.

The friends that stayed behind tried to keep up their visits, but with their other, new duties, it was difficult.  Allie understood – there was an entire galaxy out there to rebuild – but it only meant she was back to having time on her hands to think about the war all over again.

Did she wait too long to hit Cronos Station?

Could she have moved faster on Mars and prevented Dr. Core from erasing all that data?

Could she have done more to keep Kaidan from getting hurt?

What if she...?  Why didn't she...?  Could she have....?

Her brain would race from one thought to another and before long, Allie found herself on the wrong end of a panic attack, pushing the call button for a nurse and hating herself for feeling weak and inadequate.  Sure, therapy helped.  Meds helped.  But it wasn't enough.

She found herself talking to Liara a lot more often.  The young asari still managed to be Allie's most frequent visitor and listened with a sympathetic ear as her friend cried and vented about the things that troubled her.  They both knew Allie needed another distraction, but she wasn't cleared yet to leave the hospital, so Liara started sending her messages with silly videos of puppies and kittens, of people rebuilding, of articles with new recipes she thought Allie might like to try.  Anything to give the commander something positive to focus on.

One day, when Allie's 'tool pinged with a new message, she smiled, wondering what Liara sent her this time.  Her heart hammered in her chest when the message held a picture of Kaidan and an accompanying article about how the Second Human Spectre was getting his hands dirty, helping overhaul and restore the damage the Reapers left behind in Vancouver.

His hair was a mess but his 'biotic bump' was still there.  She was surprised at how long his hair was and the beard...  she chuckled at the memory of his constant 5-o'clock shadow and wasn't surprised he finally grew out some facial hair.  If she had to be honest, it looked good on him.  His t-shirt was soaked with sweat, a testament to the hard work he was doing, but he was smiling.  A real, smile, too – one that made his eyes crinkle and shine.  It had been a long time since she'd seen him smile like that and she was happy he found a reason to smile like that again, regardless of what that reason might be.

Allie sighed and thanked Liara for sending the article her way.  And in the days that followed, she found that if her anxiety started flaring, looking at that photo of Kaidan was enough to help get her mind back on track again.

[arrowpassagerecovery]

Arrow Passage Recovery

Addiction and Dual Diagnosis Treatment. Our levels of care are designed to best meet the needs of each patient. Our admissions team will work with you to identify the proper level of care, and our clinical team will support you as you step down into more independent levels of care.

Address: 721 Lincoln Way E, Massillon, OH 44646, USA Phone: 844-347-0543 Website: https://www.arrowpassage.com

[lavender-hemlock]

Trust NPC | Muses

Selection: “Let me do the thinking on this one.” 

Job: Dread Summoner (Ranged DPS) 

Weapons: Tome, Carbuncles, Dreadwyrm Trance.  

AI Behavior: While being an aggressively competitive DPS, Haine specializes in positioning, debuffs, and aiding the healer of the party in resurrections. Despite her competitive nature, Haine will prioritize mechanics over the amount of damage she deals by lashing out with fester. If Haine accumulates enough damage, her passive Dread Awakening activates. 

Battle Lines (generic):

“Let’s not do anything stupid, shall we?” - Starting Attack Line “There isn’t a cure for this!”- Using Specialty Skills, Variation 1 “Move aside!”- Using Specialty Skills, Variation 2, to allies.  “Oh.. Is that so...”- Assisting an ally  Battle Lines (party member specifics): If Kazex Voss is in the party as a DPS:

”Voss! I have a gift for you!” - Seizes aggro from the tank to run at Kazex.  “Your two left feet couldn’t keep up with me if you tried!” - Challenged to a race “Let’s get ready to finish this!” - Using Specialty Skills, Variation 1 “I’ll just do it myself.” - Using Specialty Skills, Variation 2 “Woah- Getting a little too cocky, are you?”- Assisting an ally    

If Q’donis Devrahn is in the party as a TANK: “We can do this.” - Starting Attack Line “I’ve got your back!”- Using Specialty Skills, Variation 1 “Hope this helps!”- Using Specialty Skills, Variation 2 “Hey.. Thanks for that.”- When Q’donis blocks damage

Limit Break: Calamity’s Remnant

“Finders Keepers~!”- Using limit break with 1 bar “This is the end!” - Using limit break with 2 bars “Oh...This is mine.” - Using limit break with 3 bars

KO’d:

“I’m.. Sorry..” - Variation 1 “Mis...Calculated...” - Variation 2

Revived:

“Whew..That hurt a little.” - Variation 1 “I’m... going to feel that tomorrow.” - Variation 2

Bonus: 

Selection: “Stand behind me.”

Job: Wood Warder (Warrior)

Weapons: Great Axe

AI Behavior: Jesa is a patient Tank that does not rush her party to the point of stress. Often she will adjust bosses and enemies to positionally suit her comrades. Any shift in the earth or addition of new enemies is noted and prioritized to keep any attention off of her teammates. Depending on how many enemies surround Jesa, she will scale in mitigation to all oncoming attacks upon activation of Wood Warder’s Will. 

Selection: “L-Let’s do our best!”

Job: Light’s Sparrow (White Mage)

Weapons: White Oak Cane

AI Behavior: Suzume is attentive to the needs of others. She is aware when others fall under debuffs and restores recovery buffs in place of the ones that expire. Yet, when Suzume takes damage, she has a 25% chance of receiving a knocked down debuff. However, if a teammate recovers her from a knocked down state, Suzume gains a potency increase on all healing and damage outputs under her activated ability called Soaring Heart. 

Selection: “Try to keep up!”

Job: Arrow’s Song (Bard)

Weapons: Bow

AI Behavior: Pelle charges into battle ahead of the tank and maintains holding aggro until she falls below 55% HP. Once she falls below 55% HP, Pelle is able to use her back-step to break vision and restore enmity control to the tank. When Pelle is restored to 100% HP, she gains a buff on all AOE abilities regardless of enemy count under the activation of Dance of Arrows. Pelle maintains constant damage output but only has a 5% chance of ever using Limit Break. 

Tagged: @ember-arrow, @kazexvoss, @hingan-fox, @kyrie-silverwings, @palaceofthedeadmemes. 

Tagging: @sangria-fangs, @impure-ivory, @akaiwakizaka, @moonlight---melodies, @eviloblivion, @xaniban, @ofloveandaether, @mischiefandmystics, @passage-of-arms, and whoever else!

[lunariaa]

symbols in dreams

here’s a list of spiritual/witchy meanings for symbols in dreams. this took me four hours to make so please enjoy, and message me if you need help interpreting :)

there are sooo many universal symbols, so here’s a list of some common ones

abundance: desire for independence

accident: something unplanned

actor/actress: desire for recognition

airplane: see transportation

altar: self-sacrifice

anchor: stability. sometimes a desire for a permanent home

animal: depends on your feelings toward the animal (for typical meanings see the specific type). a helpful animal normally represents the instinctive self

apple: desire

arrow: pleasure; festivity

auction the promise of adundance

automobile: see transportation

baby: crying: frustrated plans. laughing: plans fulfilled. sleeping: waiting period, patience

balloon: frustration

basement: a place of refuge or retreat

battle: internal conflict

bells: fulfillment of plans; joy

bicycle: hard work will bring plans to fruition; also see transportation

birds: usually transcendence from one state of being to another

birth: transition to a new phase, or new aspect of self

bridge: overcoming difficulties; a change

broom: the ability to sweep or clean up

bull: animal nature; stubbornness

burial: end of a phase; time to take a new direction

candle: constancy

cane or crutch: the need of support

capital: the centre. also see cities

castle: ambition

cave: a place of retreat or refuge; a need for time to think and meditate

circle: totality; perfection; infinity; the all; the collective unconsciousness

cities: gathering of consciousness

climbing: the self-mastery process; raising consciousness

clock: the passage of time; the need to take action

clothes: attitudes; personality

coffin: see burial

colours: colours have many symbolic meanings so here’s a basic idea

red: strength, health, vigor, sexual love, danger, charity

orange: encouragement, adaptability, stimulation, attraction, plenty, kindness

yellow: persuasion, charm, confidence, jealousy, joy comfort

green: finance, fertility, luck, energy, charity-growth

blue: tranquility, understanding, patience, health, truth, devotion, sincerity

indigo: changeability, impulsiveness, depression, ambition, dignity

violet: tension, power, sadness, piety, sentimentality

cradle: potential for advancement

crossing the river: a fundamental change of attitude

crying: emotion; usually a sad event

crystal: union of matter and spirit

curtains: concealment; adornment

darkness: the spirit world; the subconscious turning inward

death: the end of something; opportunity for new beginnings

dog: loyalty, laziness, anger

eating: need for new interests; stimulation

evening: descending into the subconscious world

eye: perception; self-examination

falling: failing to live up to expectations

fish: transcendence from one state of being to another

fire: anger; purification; abundance of energy

flowers: contentment; pleasure

flying: see transportation

girl: immature feminine aspect

glass: perception; being able to see (sometimes into the future)

graduation: initiation; completing a phase

hair: thought. grey or silver hair indicates wise thought

hammer: power to drive forward

helpful animal: the instinctive self

highway: the path; the way ahead

horse: white horse: symbol of life (the Keltic goddess Epona was often depicted on a white mare); prosperity. black horse: change of fortunes. wild horse: uncontrolled instinctive urges. winged horse: transcendence from one atate of being to another

house: the symbol of personality and conscious interest from the spiritual view. the particualr room represents particular interest-

bathroom: cleansing; elimination of the undesired

basement: place of refuge, retreat, concealment

bedroom: place of rest and recovery

dining room: place of sustenance; refortification

kitchen: a place to prepare the sustenance

living room: place of socializing

ice: coldness of character; frigidity; rigidity

illness: boredom, delay

individual self: the “real” you; the inner you; the all-wise, all-powerful spiritual self

jail: confinement, frustration; inability to act

journey: see transportation

judge or jury: your conscience

key: the answer to a problem

kiss: satisfaction; completion

ladder: ability to climb (note the length of the ladder)

left: (as in the side or direction) the subconscious side; sometimes the wrong side or direction; the logical side; the scientific side

light: hope

lines: broken lines represent the feminine aspect. solid lines, the masculine aspect

lizard: transcendence

lock: frustration; security

man: the masculine aspect. the age indicates the maturity of lack of it in the individual

mask: falsehood; deception; concealment

mirror: need to reconsider

mother: haven; comfort

nakedness: real; true; without false attitudes; exposed; natural

night: (especially midnight) greatest strength of the superconsciousness

noon: the greatest clarity of consciousness

number: even numbers signify balance and harmony. odd numbers signify imbalance and discord. note that a larger number is made up of a combination of smaller numbers

one: the beginning; the source; the ego

two: duality; the masculine and feminine; positive and negative

three: the trilogy: father, mother, and child; past, present, and future. completion of the first plane

four: the material universe; consciousness, reality, and law; physical power, initiative, religion, and spiritual evolution. it is three and one

five: the number of (wo)man (and all the friends in between). it represents materialism, expansion, change, understanding, and justice. it is three and two

six: the number of cooperation and balance. it represents interaction between the material and the spiritual; mental and physical. it signifies psychism, peace, and completion of the second plane. it is twice three

seven: completion; old age; endurance; evolution and wisdom. the seven stages of spiritual transformation. it is four and three

eight: the number of dissolution and separation. the law of cyclic evolution and invention. it is five and three

nine: rebirth and reformation. intuition; travel; karma and completion of the third plane. it is three times three

zero: the circle. infinity; the universe; the all

ocean: opportunity; spirituality

owl: wisdom; need for further evaluation

pearl: joy. broken string of pearls- misunderstanding

pirate: suspicion

prison: see jail

pyramid: thirst for knowledge; seeking

railroad: a set path to follow; also see transportation

rainbow: great happiness; opportunity

reading: learning; gaining in knowledge; perceiving

riding: see transportation

right: the conscious; correctness; the artistic side

ring: completion; loyalty

river: spirituality; a boundary

rocket: see transportation

rocks: the unchanging self

rodents: transcendence or a less-than-nice person; distrust; betrayal

roller skates: see transportation

roses: see flowers

ruins: failure of plans

sacrifice: overcoming pride

school: a place of learning; a need to learn

scissors: distrust

sea: see ocean

self-image: the inner or spiritual self. the age indicates maturity level or lack of it

sex: union of opposites (depending on sexuality and the dream itself); union of male and female principles; satisfaction; completeness

shadow: the subconscious; insubstantiality

ship: see transportation

skeleton: the basics; the root of the problem

snake: spiritual wisdom; transcendence into a state of wisdom

snake-bite: infusion of wisdom (bites are not usually painful in dreams)

soldiers: force; power; regimentation

spade: penetration; cutting; tough work lies ahead

sunrise: clearing of consciousness; awakening

sunset: need to protect assets

swan: beauty; comfort; satisfaction

sword: penetrating and cutting conflict

table: support; a platform for presentation

telescope: need to get closer to subject

thief: loss or fear of loss; insecurity

thunder: anger

towns: see cities

touching: the manner of touch and your feeling about it is important. touching normally represents the laying on of hands, usually healing. on rare occasions it may mean a curse. can be comfort; security

trains: see transportation

transcendence: achieving full realization of the individual self

transformation: see transcendence

transportation: spiritual advancement. the more efficient the mode, the more effective and rapid is the advancement. the rocket would be the most rapid and the highest travelling. crawling would be among the least effective. a train is forceful and direct, but is confined by narrow tracks. a car is fairly effective and maneuverable. the airplane is more effective than the car or train and rises higher than any surface mode of transport. roller skates are more effective (faster) than walking, but require a smoother surface and more effort; etc.

traveling: the act of spiritual advancement

tree: the life principle; psychic growth and development; success

tunnel: hiding; being afraid

turning: changing or developing. see left or right. turning in a circle represents lack of progress

twins: ego and alter ego

umbrella: shelter

veil: insecurity

volcano: sexual energy; emotions

wall: frustration; inability

watch: see clock

water: spirituality; emotion

wedding: culmination of plans; happiness; success

witch: supernatural ability; wisdom

woman: the feminine aspect. her age represents maturity or lack of it

wreath: self-pity

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: New Life, short 9--Still

Recovery is a tedious, nonlinear process. Demyx, Ienzo, and the others living in Radiant Garden's castle have to learn to come to terms with their pasts and their memories, learn to grow, and begin to understand what, exactly, it means to be human. While there is unexpected joy in this, there is also unexpected sorrow. A series of oneshots set after Beyond this Existence.

Current short: “Still.”  After witnessing Ansem's fragile mental state, Ienzo is deeply unsettled.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo did not sleep well.

The bed was almost too soft, Demyx’s reassuring touch almost too much. Moonlight poured through the thin curtains, turning everything blue and silver. He sat up and pulled his legs over the side of the bed. His body felt heavy, achy, almost.

Demyx, never exactly the deepest sleeper, stirred when he felt him pull away. “Ienzo?” he rubbed at his eyes.

“I’m alright. Go back to sleep.” It sounded like the lie it was.

Demyx shuffled towards him. Ienzo did not make eye contact, knowing very well that one little toehold would push him over the edge. He kept his gaze, stubbornly, on the dresser against the wall in front of him.

A hand brushed his shoulder. He flinched.

“Please. I don’t wish to be touched right now,” Ienzo said.

“Sure. Sorry.”

He took a deep breath, trying to do it quietly.

“Can I get you something? Would that help?” Demyx asked. “Tea? Water? I’ll get you some water.” Ienzo glanced up through his bangs and watched Demyx’s shadow retreat into the kitchen.

He remembered a time when Demyx had been oblivious as a brick. Now he was almost painfully aware of everyone’s feelings. Ienzo felt the cool glass pressed into his hands. He didn’t lift his eyes, didn’t dare.

Demyx settled at the opposite side of the bed, by the window. “It’s alright to be upset over what happened, you know,” he said softly.

“I am fine.” Heat rushed to his face. “I will be fine.” When he drank, he could feel the solidifying lump in his throat, hard and painful.

“...Okay,” Demyx said weakly.

He tried to remind himself to breathe. “I think… I think I need to go for a walk.”

“Now?”

“I can’t sleep. And I need to be alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Demyx, I am sure.” Ienzo’s tone came out sharp.

“Alright,” he said, stung.

He slid on a sweater. Shoes. His vision was blurry, wet. Ienzo flicked on the gummiphone’s flashlight, seeking no direction other than forward. He could feel sweat building faintly along his hairline, despite the cool night.

Ienzo couldn’t be sure how much time passed. Everything was a blur, his mind swirling with unpleasant emotions. He could taste them in his throat.

Ansem’s words pressed up against his ears.

How do you comfort someone who’s hurt you?

In one of  these myriad hallways he found an alcove, and sat on its cushioned bench. The effort of fighting this was worse than the emotion itself, like vomiting. Just do it and get it over with, he told himself. You’ll feel better.

Ienzo pulled his knees to his chest. He felt more fragile and malleable than ever, like spun glass. Hearing it all--the hours and hours of it--almost made him wish to be unfeeling once again, to be empty, a chalice.

A vessel?

He took a deep breath that seemed to hurt the inside of his lungs.

“Ienzo?”

His head snapped up, and a flush rose to his face to be caught in his private misery. Aeleus, on one of his night rounds, looked at him quizzically, the flashlight blinding him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He lowered the flashlight away from Ienzo’s face.

“I needed…” Ienzo’s voice was dangerously unsteady. “I needed some space. I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve found you wandering alone.”

“It’s not typically considered wandering when one is an adult.” Ienzo set the gummiphone’s flashlight facing up, so there was a little light.

“Even so. You’ve always had trouble sleeping.” Aeleus folded his hands complacently in his lap.

“A malady I seem prone to, for whichever reason. I think my circadian rhythm might be better suited for a role like yours.”

Aeleus cracked the faintest smile. “I do not mind it.”

“I know you don’t.”

A few moments passed in silence. Ienzo felt a rush of affection for Aeleus, for the way he didn’t push.

“I like the night, now,” Aeleus said. “I didn’t always. It is very calm. You can feel the difference.”

“...It is, isn’t it?” He let his head rest against the window. Ienzo looked down briefly, seeing nothing but more wings of the castle and the great blue beyond it all. “When I was little, I used to pretend this place was a dungeon,” he admitted. “I would try to find all different kinds of ways to escape. There are many nooks and crannies and passages, if you know where to look.”

“A dungeon?”

“A medieval dungeon. And I was a vigilante.”

Aeleus smiled again.

“I even made myself a little bow and arrow, out of a willow twig and some string. I have no idea what happened to it. Must’ve dropped it somewhere, I presume.”

“Things come and go, but always turn up eventually,” Aeleus said. He sat back a little. “We should’ve gotten you toys.”

The phrase undid something in Ienzo, something that had calmed during this conversation. He turned away from the window.

“Ienzo?”

The heat rose to his face. He pushed against it and pressed a hand to his aching chest.

“You are upset,” Aeleus said.

“I… yes.”

“Is this because of what happened with Ansem?”

“Partially.”

“You don’t bear this burden alone.” The simplicity with which he spoke only worsened the knife of pain in Ienzo’s breast.

“I do believe I am in mourning,” he said shakily.

“For what?” Aeleus asked calmly.

“I don’t know,” he said through his teeth, and started to cry.

Just like vomiting, the actual act of letting himself get so worked up felt horrible.

“Don’t hold onto it,” was the only thing Aeleus said. He did not touch Ienzo, did not try to verbally console him. He was simply there, but in the moment that was all Ienzo needed.

It seemed to take a long time for the tears to stop. When they finally did, his eyes burned and he had an awful sinus headache. He felt exactly as empty as he’d wanted to be, but it was not a pleasant feeling.

“I am sorry,”  he said thickly.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. This must have dredged up a lot of… difficult emotion.”

“Quite. I think… I think I will go and rest, now.”

“You should. It will be sunrise soon.”

“Aeleus?”

“Ienzo?”

Ienzo embraced him. He may have been grown now, but he still felt so small compared to him. He smelled like fresh cut grass and something vaguely citrusy. Aeleus patted Ienzo’s back with one large hand.

He got up, feeling lighter than before.

[chille-tid-universe]

Pursuit

The remainder of the day, the group made themselves useful however they could in beginning the long process of Red Larch’s recovery. An air of despondence filled the town; children chased after parents silently, carrying bundles of cloth or wood; shop owners spoke amongst themselves quietly, and the brittle veil of anxiety remained unbroken. Families from the outskirts flooded the streets, coordinating with their less fortunate neighbors to make sure every person had a roof to sleep under that night.

The mangled bodies left in the wake of the gnolls’ attack had been moved from the dirt road as the sun began to set; All Faiths’ Shrine had been overwhelmed by the sheer number of bodies, and in accordance with older beliefs, vast funeral pyres had been constructed in a nearby abandoned field. Though tears were spilled, the hushed tone of the day extended into the twilight hour as broken families and heart-torn friends mourned those lost.

As the sun fully set, the group prepared to rest for the night, offering to help augment the watch that had been thrown together on the off-chance that some opportunistic gnolls return to the devastated town. Thankfully, the night passed without event, and a bloodred sun rose after a night of restless sleep over the smoldering buildings of Red Larch.

As the party wordlessly gathered their things, life began to seep into the streets of the town. Still stunned by the attack, individuals meandered about the ruins, trying to make sense of the destruction before more level-headed leaders arrived to continue directing the cleanup. After a light breakfast, the seven adventurers set off down the Cairn Road, following the clear path of destruction left in the gnolls’ wake.

Isolde swung up on Icthuarrux’s saddle, testing the weight of the lance she had received the previous day. A grizzled old half-orc by the name of Ironhead had been in charge of Ironhead Arms before the attack; now, his shop was missing a wall, and most of his equipment lay in piles outside the building. As Isolde and Uzza had been helping him relocate his goods, Isolde had eyed the lance, clearly the most usable item left by the foraging gnolls, and asked how much it was worth to him.

Ironhead had shaken his head and murmured, “Couldn’t let it go for less than fifteen gold pieces. Got to get this place back in one piece somehow…”

Uzza had come up from behind him, patting his shoulder amicably. “Come now, surely you would want to help outfit the heroes who are going to bring justice to those terrible beasts.”

The dejected half-orc looked like he would protest, but then Caelessa had walked by, glancing meaningfully at the exchange. Ironhead’s head sunk to his chest. “Aye. Take it. Bring death to the lot of ‘em.”

Isolde had to admit, it was a well-made weapon, and from Icthuarrux’s back, it was sure to bring swift death to any who stood in her path. I hope we find those kidnapping beasts soon, she thought, gauntleted fingers tightening around the shaft.

~~

They would not, however, come across the gnolls for some time. Though it was impossible to lose the signs of the gnolls’ passage, they seemed to be traveling quite quickly. They spent the whole first day marching through fallow grasslands, following the pitted dirt road as it meandered up occasional hills and gawking at the carnage that surrounded them. The surrounding fields appeared to be a warzone, and it was as if a hurricane of fire and blood had passed. The unfortunate homesteads along the Cairn Road were as a whole abandoned and still burning as they passed them.

It wasn’t until the middle of the next morning that the group came upon a sign of activity.

Archimicarus had been flying around the party, keeping an eye on the surroundings, when Idu warned the others that he had seen a group of gnolls up ahead. Robyn practically punched the air and said they must be gaining on them.

A few minutes later, a homestead was visible up ahead. It was a modest cottage, barely fifteen feet to a side, attached to an outdoor pen. Within the pen was a grisly sight. A dozen gnolls meandered in the enclosed space, seemingly without greater purpose. Perhaps they had gotten lost from the larger host, or maybe they were a foraging party that decided to spend some extra time among the flock of sheep they had found.

The flock was thoroughly decimated at this point. Gnolls were toying with their food, slaughtering the poor sheep even as they watched. A few more intelligent gnolls were attempting to shepherd the survivors, but the majority of the sheep had been killed and were in the process of being eaten.

As Idu came out of his familiar-trance, the group began to plan their attack. Robyn and Nula prepared to sneak forward ahead of the others to pick off a few gnolls as the fighting began. As they drew closer, however, a particularly perceptive gnoll happened to glance toward the road, and raised a howling alarm. A second later, the small pack had fanned out and began charging towards the group.

Four of the gnolls wielded longbows, and stayed within the pen as they reached for serrated arrows. The other eight brandished crude javelins above their heads as they loped down the lawn of the cottage, hooting and hollering in their cackling voices.

Uzza, Idu, and Charlot each picked the same gnoll at which to fire their magical bolts, and it almost dropped its longbow under the barrage. The rest of the two groups hurtled towards each other, and within seconds Nula, Isolde, and Oskar had each downed a gnoll.

At this point, the opposing bowmen had focused on the imposing figure of Isolde on her warhorse, and with cackling cries they fired several shots at the large beast. Icthuarrux was agile, though, and darted through the hail of arrows to bring Isolde to the nearest clump of gnolls.

One particularly clever gnoll had been hiding behind the small walls of the cottage, taking potshots from around the corner every few seconds, until Uzza focused on him, calling down a sacred flame to smite him from the heavens. Though they couldn’t see him, they heard a mangled cry, and then a longbow flopped to the ground from behind the cottage.

At this point, only a pair of the bowmen remained, and they quickly turned tail and began their loping retreat. Unfortunately for them, Icthuarrux was able to easily match them, and Isolde ran down one of the two while Robyn took careful aim and fired an arrow high into the sky, only for it to arc beautifully back down to bury itself in the final gnoll’s back.

As they sorted through the bloody field, it was difficult to distinguish the separate bodies of the sheep, so mangled were they, but there was a single human male corpse buried beneath a pile of sheep viscera. Within the small cottage, they recovered a bundle of sheep skin worth salvaging; the remainder of the goods were either soiled, burned, or carried away already.

They traveled for the rest of the day through the devastated lands, continuing to follow the Cairn Road. As sundown approached, the group made camp to the side of the road, along a patch of less burnt field. Few words were spoken as they settled down for a few hours’ rest before continuing their pursuit.

~~

The next morning, the group woke to find that Nula’s bedroll was empty. Before they could organize a search, the half-orc strode from the nearby treeline. Isolde welcomed her back, saying, “I, too, like to talk to trees in the mornings.”

Nula glanced back at the bushes where she had done her business. “Maybe don’t talk to that one over there.”

~~

The next few days were a blur of hard marching punctuated by scuffles with the laggards of the gnoll march. As time went on, the slower bands of gnolls became more frequent; they were getting closer. Five days after the encounter at the cottage, the group arrived at what had been Ironford. Its locals had once referred to it as “Womford,” but that was before the gnolls had passed through, slaughtering or driving away the entirety of its population. Ironford was smaller than Red Larch, but the devastation that remained was the same. Buildings were still burning, the central well had been smashed in, and every road in the village was filled with the dead.

The group respectfully made their way through the carnage, eyes peeled for any survivors, though they knew they would find none. They were surprised, then, when two loud voices called out, about two blocks from their current position, speaking in Common.

The group ran to the commotion, and as they approached there was a loud shattering noise, followed by a string of curses. They passed a fallen wall to see four people standing over a dropped rack of wine; dark liquid the color of blood seeped into the dusty road.

A man and woman were shouting, blaming each other for the lost wine, when Robyn cleared her throat. “That’s not good for the wine.” The four strangers broke off their discussion suddenly, turning to face the larger group. They stood defensively, as if they were guarding the wreckage of a tavern they had recovered the wine from.

The woman spoke first, jutting out her chin as she growled, “Keep moving, chumps, we got this side of the street.” The man she had been shouting at pulled at her elbow, his eyes traveling from adventurer to adventurer, taking in the quality of their weaponry.

“They look like they can handle themselves.”

Robyn took a step forward. “And you look like you can’t handle your wine. This is what you should be looking for.” She removed a short flagon from her pack, a red glass with painted grapes along the bottle and the word “Orlane” chiseled at the base.

The woman took a step back, motioning for the other three to head back inside, probably to drag out more loot. “There’s another tavern on the other side of town. You lot can have that. We don’t want no trouble here. Been enough already.”

“On that, we agree,” Charlot responded, stepping forward. “Have you any news of how far off the gnolls have gotten?”

“Gnolls?” the woman asked, scratching beneath a wide hat. “We hadn’t seen anything. Heard the commotion a day or two ago, came to see if we could find any - eh - survivors. See if we could help, right?” She indicated the brutalized corpses that lined the wall of the ruined inn. “Obviously, we were a little late.”

Uzza took a step forward, but Robyn held out her hand. “We don’t have time for this. We need to be off.”

As they turned and continued through the town, the woman called after them, “Oh yeah? That’s fine, more for us.”

~~

The sign outside of Ironford was miraculously still standing, and marked the point at which the Cairn Road became the Iron Road. Ahead, the path continued along the northern edge of the foothills, where it met a tributary. It was another day’s travel to reach the base of the foothills, and just after noon of that day, another homestead could be seen around the next hill.

From this distance, the homestead had obviously not been spared the gnolls’ passage, but it appeared more intact than every other civilized area they had come across so far. Further along, they spied activity around the main building, a series of shorter figures busting about. As they approached, the figures disappeared into the main building, but three of them came out as they reached the edge of their fields.

Two halfling men and one woman strode out to meet them, calling out once they got in earshot, “Hullo! Thought you might be some following party of whatever did this, but you haven’t the look about you.”

The two groups convened, and handshakes were exchanged. “Gnolls,” Robyn explained, after the pleasantries were through, “coming from Red Larch, as we are. They took a few villagers, and we intend to bring them home.”

The woman, who seemed to speak for the others, looked the adventurers up and down, as if appraising a workhorse. “Lucky thing. We were off on holiday when they must have come through; weren’t even planning on taking the whole clan with us originally, though now I’m thankful we did.”

“If you don’t have news on when they passed, we best be getting along,” Robyn explained. “We think we’ve been catching up to them, and don’t need for them to pull ahead again.”

“There’s a lot to do here,” the halfling woman said quickly, as her two family members exchanged glances. “We normally keep to our own, but it will be months before the farm is good as new. I reckon you lot would cut that down immensely.” She raised her hands defensively as Robyn began to refuse. “I know you must be on your way, but it’s already approaching mid-afternoon, and I reckon you’ve not had a proper rest in days. If you help us for the rest of the day, we’d be happy to feed and bed you, and we might just have an item or two might assist on your journey.”

The group exchanged glances and spoke in whispered tones for a minute while the three halflings waited. Before long, Robyn turned back with a smile. “These gnolls have caused a lot of damage. We would be happy to help ease some of that suffering. They’ll not be much further by morning than they are now, and you’re right, we’ve had a rough go of it since Red Larch. We’ll take up that offer.”

“Splendid,” the halfling woman exclaimed, then sharply clapped her hands. “There’s lots to do. You three can help with the walls. Does your horse mind a little had labor? He seems more likely to win a prize at a fair than pull a plow.”

“He’ll work,” Isolde guaranteed, patting Icthuarrux’s neck as he tossed his head, eye almost rolling back.

The afternoon passed in a frenzy of activity; talents and spells were put to good use as the halfling residence was returned to some semblance of what it must have looked like before the gnolls arrived. Though there was still much to be done by the time the sun set, the halfling matron thanked them heartily, treating them to a wonderful dinner and offering to prepare warm beds from a chest of dozens of fluffy sheets.

In the morning, she approached Robyn before the group left, holding two leather belts gently in her arms. “In my youth, Pa and I did a bit of traveling. These were ours, but I think they’ll do you all more good than my young ones. There’s a potion left in each, as well. May they treat you well.”

The belts, or rather, bandoliers, were clever contraptions, each with two pouches of intricate make that could be resized to fit any manner of useful item. Each currently held a common potion which could be swiftly removed in the heat of combat. Robyn recognized that these heirlooms were quite the gift, and thanked the halfling profusely.

“Just get the beasts what done this,” she grunted, turning to look at the homestead, already writhing with activity. “We’ll be recovering for a while, but recover we shall. They won’t have the last word.”

~~

Over the next week, the path of the gnolls stayed strong, and the groups of foragers and slower gnolls became more concentrated. Finally, Idu relayed to the others that Archimicarus had spied a large camp up ahead.

Right before the last of the foothills, there was a valley surrounded on three sides by hills, in which hundreds of gnolls could have fit. The area was off the main road, with only a small trail through the heavy woods by which to reach it. From his vantage point, Archimicarus spied dozens upon dozens of gnolls; there appeared to be temporary housing for just under a hundred gnolls, in addition to the myriad prisoners they had taken.

The adventurers decided to take a day to investigate the area. They split up, sending some people to try and find a better way in than the narrow forest path, while others hid and kept watch for any gnolls coming or going. Any gnoll groups small enough and close enough were dealt with as they passed, but the alarm was not raised, and they needed to assume that their presence went unnoticed.

The following day, they reconvened to pool what they had learned.

There did appear to be a recognizable pattern to the comings and goings of the gnolls; raiding parties would leave the camp and return with pillaged goods and prisoners with some regularity; there was a time a little after noon when there appeared to be the fewest gnolls actually in the camp. The collected prisoners were not kept in any sort of centralized area; instead, each band of gnolls had its own cluster of tents where they stayed. These bands did not appear to be particularly cooperative. There seemed to be a singular figure leading the different groups of gnolls and somehow eliciting their combined efforts, who reigned over some sort of effigy in the middle of the camp.

There was not a better way into the valley than the forest path, which was guarded at all times by a sizeable guard. If the group wanted to get in to the camp, they would need to deal with the guard. Their plan partially formulated, the adventurers decided to wait for the lull in gnolls after noon to strike.

~~

The flind, a larger gnoll with a terrible flail, sat on his haunches, panting noisily in the noon heat. He had watched other packs leave throughout the day, to run through the hills, to chase down sheep, to slaughter man and steal prisoners for the leader. But not him. He was stuck guarding the entrance to the temporary camp, and he wasn’t happy about it.

The six gnolls he had been given as underlings were not the weakest he had seen, but he knew of stronger warriors in the tribes that had bequeathed them. Each of them stood in a little clump, gibbering at each other and puffing out their chests, trying to intimidate each other, or impress their new commander. The flind had known of his effect on the younger gnolls for a long time, and while during raids it was useful to fuel the bloodlust of those around you, at other times the attention was rarely desired, and decidedly not gnoll-like. One of the younger gnolls stole a glance at him, and snapped her jaws playfully in his direction. He responded with a sharp crack of his flail, sending the younglings scurrying to the positions they knew they should be keeping.

The flind felt a growl grow at the base of his throat. He would demand a raiding party of his own - soon. Perhaps tomorrow. His thoughts were frozen, though, as the scent of manflesh and horseflesh filled his nose. Looking around, he saw the other gnolls reacting similarly. He barked an order to stay alert, and loped back to the path, coming down from the nearby trees.

Down the dirt path, a huge white horse was barreling towards him, with two riders on its back. They appeared to be humanoid females, but the flind had trouble differentiating between the humanoids’ genders - they were all just so hideous. What was more interesting to him was the elaborate bow the second humanoid was leveling at him, and the power with which the arrow flew through the air. That bow would certainly be a weapon that a raid leader would use.

He was only slightly inconvenienced by the arrow hitting his matted fur, and once the horse reared on its hind legs, turned back the way it came, and sprinted away, the flind let out a cackling howl, calling his guardsmen to follow.

~~

Isolde rode Icthuarrux hard down the dirt path. From behind her, Robyn fired the occasional arrow, though she was finding it much harder to fire from horseback than she had expected. A minute of riding brought them to the stream where the other five were waiting in ambush, along with a pair of giant weasels, courtesy of the tan bag of tricks. As Icthuarrux splashed through the stream, the others tightened their grips on weapons, and a moment later the gnolls came into view.

Their leader was a large specimen, sporting chainmail and swinging a three-tailed flail with spiked skulls on its ends. The other half dozen were hooting and waving spears and longbows and wearing studded leather armor. As the great warhorse slowed, the gnolls followed suit, and all at once the ambushers attacked.

Daggers and spells flew through the air at the gnolls, who scrambled and dashed for the attackers. Both Charlot and Uzza focused their powers on the flind, trying to still his raging form with magic, but he shrugged off both attempts, seeming to pant with exertion as the spells washed off him. Robyn jumped down from Icthuarrux and let loose with her bow, striking one of the smaller gnolls as the weasels swarmed another. Nula and Oskar darted into the fray, swiping at the gnolls as they gnashed their teeth, while Idu peppered them with magical bolts.

All of a sudden, an explosion was heard from the direction of the camp. All heads turned to look as smoke began to fill the sky in the distance, but the temporary pause in the fighting was broken as the flind struck out at Nula. Charlot focused on the flind once more, and this time he felt the spell take hold as the flind’s limbs hardened as if made of stone. The large gnoll’s mouth was stuck open, its tongue lolling from its mouth as its crazed eyes darted around. Sensing weakness, the rest of the adventurers directed their efforts on the paralyzed foe.

Both weasels slipped around other gnolls to tear at the flind, while Robyn and Idu launched their attacks. The lesser gnolls, who had been firing at Icthuarrux to some success, turned and began defending their commander, firing at the giant weasels. Another pair of gnolls darted in the confusion to the warhorse, throwing themselves at him and, with wicked glee, pulling him to the ground. Isolde let out a cry of anguish as the white horse burst into motes of light.

At this point, one of the weasels had been killed, and Robyn shouted for Nula to strike at the flind as she fired her arrow. With a devastating blow, Nula nearly severed an arm, which hung from the flind’s torso by mere sinew, held in place by the spell. The flind’s eyes were rolling in pain, and a sudden wave of bloodfury passed through the remaining gnolls, which launched a new attack on the adventurers.

Charlot took aim and let loose a final bolt of energy, feeling satisfaction as it burrowed through the flind’s chest. No longer alive, the body slackened, and Charlot felt the spell dissipate. A few seconds later, Isolde had slaughtered the remaining gnoll, vengeance for Icthuarrux hot in her eyes, and then the only sound was the babbling of the stream.

In the sky above, Charlot noticed a handful of large shadows, drifting through the smoke, though he was unable to see anything clearly. By now, the sound of conflict was drifting through the air from the camp; something large was happening.

Already injured, the group decided to rest for a short bit while Isolde resummoned Icthuarrux. A dozen minutes later, the proud warhorse galloped up the road, bending to accept Isolde’s tearful embrace, and then the group began the wary trek to the camp.

~~

By the time they reached the hollow, the fighting was done. An awful sight greeted the adventurers. It was as if the carnage the gnolls had brought on Red Larch had been visited upon them. The adventurers looked around the scene in shock. One of the hills that surrounded the valley had been blown clear off, by either sorcery or intense power. The destruction in the valley did not appear to have discriminated between gnoll and prisoner; there were human corpses strewn about the gnolls. Here and there, humanoids stumbled, crying pitifully and congregating with other survivors, while in the distance a couple gnolls could be seen dashing madly up the other hills, eager to escape whatever had happened. Charlot had the strangest feeling that they were being watched.

Nula was the first to recover, and as she found her voice, she called for Loran. Almost to her surprise, she heard an answering cry, from off to the side.

They discovered Loran in a crevasse. A wide tree trunk had saved her from the carnage, hiding her from view, but it had then trapped her. With a little effort, she was freed, and she sobbed uncontrollably, clinging to Isolde as the shock passed.

Robyn stepped up to her gently, asking in a quiet voice if Loran knew where Pel was.

“Taken,” Loran finally managed, choking back tears. “We were separated when those, those, those terrible orcs attacked.”

“Orcs? Orcs attacked the gnolls here?” Nula asked, glancing around. They had not seen a single orc corpse among the dead. Charlot felt the sensation of being watched grow stronger, and he looked back toward the trees. Up ahead, the smoke was thick; he could not make out any of the forms he had seen before.

Loran merely nodded. Finally, she burst, “They took Pel!” and she broke down, falling into Isolde’s arms, finally expressing the trauma of the past few weeks.

Robyn brought the other five away from Isolde and Loran, speaking softly once they were a few feet away. “We need to find what happened here. It doesn’t make sense for orcs to raid an army of gnolls, and to have not taken any casualties? Why did they take Pel? Could there have been others? We need to find them.”

“Robyn,” Charlot interrupted urgently, pointing to the nearby trees, where two humanoids had emerged and were walking right for the group. Hands went to weapons, but the two raised their own in universal gesture of no-ill-will, a tall man with grizzled features and a young girl beside him, both armed and clothed to survive in the wilds.

“We might be able to help you with that,” rumbled Revain.

[herateleia-blog]

E. The Tamer of Heroes and Horses ( The Transformation of Hera )

I now turn to the Iliadic diction used of Hera's relationship with heroes, to suggest that she tamed them as well--though in death, not marriage. The deaths of Heracles, Sarpedon, Patroklos, and Achilles provide the evidence.

Let us review what we know of the fate of the early Heracles. Although the Odyssey speaks of a divinized Heracles feasting with his wife Hebe on Mt. Olympus ( Od. 11.603), the Iliad does not:

oὐδὲ γὰρ oὐδὲ βίη 'Hρακλη̂oς φύγε κη̑ρα. ὄς περ φίλτατoς ἔσκε Διὶ Kρoνίωνι ἄνακτι· άλλά ἑ μoι̂ρα δάμασσε καὶ άργαλέoς χόλoς "Hρης.

For not even the strength of Heracles escaped destruction although he was dearest to lord Zeus Kronion, but fate and Hera's cruel rage tamed him. ( Il. 18.117-19)

Here is no hint of immortalization. Heracles' cult as a hero antedated his cult as a god, and his name, "he who wins fame from Hera," must have arisen when he was considered only a hero, since gods are not named after other gods. The "strength of Heracles" was tamed by "Hera's cruel rage," periphrastic phrases that may have been long in the tradition. 32. Hera must have had a pre-Olympian tradition of encounters with Heracles that ended in his death. He is ultimately subject to Hera, whose divine energy both begins and ends his life (19.114-119; 18.117-19). The deification of Heracles, so celebrated in Attic vase painting, "is indeed an indication of lateness." 33. 

But the Iliadic tie between Hera and a hero's death is not limited to the fate of Heracles. She figures significantly in the deaths of Sarpedon, Patroklos, and especially Achilles. In the case of Sarpedon, Hera counsels Zeus to allow him to die and specifies burial rites that mirror Heraian rites. 34. In the recovery of Patroklos' corpse (18.165‐ 242), her initiative is decisive. Without the knowledge of Zeus "yoked on high" (ὑψί-ζυγoς 18.185), she sends Iris to urge Achilles to retrieve the body. 35. "Let not Patroklos become the sport of dogs," her message runs in part (18.178-79). To a hesitant Achilles, Iris insists: let him simply show himself and thus provide a breathing spell in which the Achaeans may retrieve the corpse. Armed with Athena's tasselled aegis about his shoulders and a golden cloud around his head, he creates the needed consternation. As the Achaeans return with the corpse, Hera, as it were, completes the ritual by causing all nature to join in the mourning: "Lady Hera with the look of an ox sent the unwilling Helios" to set early into Okeanos ("Hέλιoν δ' ἀκάμανταβoω̑πις πότνια "Hρη / πέμψεν 18.239-40). 36. Presumably, this final pericope and much of the passage reflect an earlier setting in which Hera's concern for a dead hero's shortened life leads her to interrupt the sun god's daily cycle. Nature's cycle shortens out of respect for the hero's shortened life.

But it is Achilles' dialogue with his divine horse that establishes Hera as pre-Olympian tamer of both heroes and horses ( Il. 19.404-17). Once in the heat of battle, Achilles calls out to his famed horses Xanthos and Balios, asking whether they will carry him back to the Achaeans. "This time we will save you," replies Xanthos, "the goddess white-armed Hera having given him voice" (αὐδήεντα δ' ἔθηκε θεὰ λευκώλενoς "Hρη 19.407). The nimble horse bows his head and speaks from underneath the yoke (ὑπὸ ζυγόφι), his mane streaming to the ground from under the yokepad (ζεὐγλης) beside the yokebar (παρὰ ζυγὸν 19.404-406). So situated-not unlike the yoked Kleobis and Biton (Herodotus 1.31)-he proclaims the essence of Hera's relationship to heroes: "A mighty god and powerful fate (θεός τε μέγας καἰ Moϊρα κρσταιή 19.410) will cause [your death]. You are fated to be tamed in battle by a god and a mortal" (ἀλλὰ σoἱ αὐτῳ̂ / μόρσιμόν ἐστι θεῳ̑ τε καὶ άνέρι |δφι δαμη̑ναι 19.416-17). Almost the very words that Achilles uses of Heracles' death (18.119; cf. 113). The yoked horse's horse‐ taming metaphor touchingly expresses his empathy with his master. Both master and Hera-voiced horse speak of "fate" and a "god" taming a hero. Yoking is a visual image that supports the metaphor of taming. The metaphor can refer to domestication in marriage, or, as here, to the ultimate taming in death.

Talking animals and talking rivers are rare in Homeric epic. Quite remarkably, both a talking river and a talking horse are named Xanthos and both are associated with Hera. 37. The talking horse was Poseidon's gift to Peleus on his wedding day. But the description of these horses evokes images that belong not only to Poseidon, but also to Hera. The yoked Xanthos and Balios fly "swift as the winds," as do Hera's horses. 38. Xanthos' mother, the "Harpy wind Podarge," conceives him by the west wind Zephyr while "grazing on the meadow beside the stream of Okeanos" (βoακoμένη λειμω̑νι παρὰ ῥόoν 'Ωκεανoι̂o 16.149-51). Podarge 'Swift of Foot' is imagined simultaneously as a whisking wind (Harpy means Snatcher) and as a mare, "grazing" (boskomenê) in the locale of Hera's world-end abode. 39. Significantly, Hera's streaking steeds graze on ambrosial grasses specially produced for them by the river Simoeis at a confluence of rivers (5.768-72). The similarities between Hera's and Achilles' teams in divine origin, speed, and grazing locales leave little doubt that the Hera-voiced Xanthos, prophesying his master's death from under his yokepad, was part of Heraian myth.Thus, the Iliad shows knowledge that Hera yokes or tames a talking horse and a talking river, and that she tames heroes in death, directly in the case of Heracles, and indirectly in other cases. The two greatest Hellenic heroes, Heracles andAchilles, achieve fame (kleos) through a death associated with a "Hera-taming" or "Hera-yoking."

32.See Chap. 5.A for morphological and metrical evidence. Among the pieces of the early Hera-Heracles tradition visible in the epic is Dione's Catalogue of divinities wounded by mortals in which Heracles wounds both Hera and Hades at the Gate (Pulos or pulê), a name early viewed as a portal to the realm of the dead (see Od. 24.14, Frame 1978.92-93, and Nagy 1990a.225‐ 26). The Catalogue ( Il. 5.381-97) refers to Heracles' cattle raid retold by Nestor of Pylos ( Il. 11.671-761). Heracles' wounding of Hera and Hades suggests an early story of the hero storming the Gate of the Underworld, perhaps parallel to the tale of his birth at Argos. (If Argos meant "realm of light" [Clader 1976.56ff.] and Pylos "the gate of death," Hera's control over his birth at Argos may have been prelude to a tale of his death at Pylos.) Hera's "incurable" (ἀνἠκεστoν 5.394) breast wound inflicted by his arrow justifies her subsequent tormenting of the hero and explains why her breast will be "cured" (έξακἐσαιo 4.36) only in the "raw-eating" of all Troy (see Chap. 4). The recurrence of the rare verb exakesthai 'to cure' used of Hera's breast in two Iliadic contexts (anêkeston 5.394 and exakesaio 4.36) suggests that the breast wound reflects an early Troy tale. On Mycenaean allusions in these stories see below.

33.West 1966.417. Nagy, by contrast, suggested to me that the Iliad simply ignores the idea of Heracles' immortalization.

34.Conversing with Hera ( Il. 16.431-68), Zeus weighs whether to keep Sarpedon alive or to "tame" him beneath the hands of Patroklos. In a rare act of obedience to Hera (458), he elects to "send Death and sweet Sleep to carry him" home toLykia for proper burial and the immortality of cult (16.454). She argues against exempting Sarpedon from death because of the precedent it would set (14.446-47). The epiphany of the birdlike twins, Death and Sleep, is almost certainly borrowed from Heraian cult, since the epic's only other such epiphanies feature Hera soaring with either Sleep (14.283-86) or Athena (5.745-79). It may be significant, therefore, that the heroes of the Golden Age died as if "tamed by sleep" (Hesiod Works and Days116; see Nagy 1990a.134).

35.Il. 18.185; cf. 18.165-68. The rare hupsizugos, used only of Zeus, is often translated "enthroned on high," but its present context suggests a spouse "yoked aloft" (at home or on Ida).

36.By juxtaposing these verses in which Hera forces an "unwilling" sun god to set (18.239-42) with a parallel passage (8.484-88), one sees that Panhellenic Homer is probably recasting earlier scenes in which the earth goddess Heraexerted power over the action of the sun god. Book 8 needs an ineffectual Hera. Hence she does nothing despite a triple supplication of the Achaeans (τρίλλιστoς 8.488), as the sunset draws a veil over earth and Night "happily" rises. In a more sympathetic context, Hera presumably would have answered her followers' triple supplication with an early nightfall, "drawing black night like a veil over her grain-giving earth" (ἔλκτoν νύκτα μέλαιναν ἐπὶ ζείδωρoν ἄρoυραν 8.486). The unique trillistos and image of an earth goddess drawing her veil over the earth apparently derive from early Heraian ritual.

37.The talking river appears in the theomachy of Iliad21, when Hera's fury and Hephaistos' fire finally tame the river god: "But when the anger of Xanthos was tamed, the adversaries ceased. For Hera, despite her wrath, stayed them" (αύτὰρ ἐπεἰ Ξάνθoιo δἀμη μένoς, oἱ μὲν ἔπειτα / παυσάσθην· "Hρη γὰρ ἐρύκακε χωoμένη περ Il. 21.383-84). Hephaistos' firestorm against the river is not stayed until her roar for a ceasefire. The passage would have made a fitting finale to an Argolic theomachy in which the earth goddess and her fiery son ( Typhon?) triumph over the river god (Chap. 4.B).

38.For the description of Achilles' horses see 16.145-54 and for Hera's see 5.768-72; 15.15.79-86; cf. 14.225 = 19.114.

39.See Chap. 6.C for Pherecydes' and Callimachus' references to Hera at a leimôn 'meadow' near Okeanos. On the Snatcher-Harpy see Nagy 1990a.243‐ 245. In a 1992 article that arrived when this study was already in press, Johnston provides evidence that Hera of early myth bestowed talking horses on favored warriors and was linked to Poseidon as spouse and to the horse Xanthos, perhaps as mother. From fragments of Alcman and Stesichorus, she notes a tradition in which Hera gives Kastor a Xanthos who speaks to him, as Iliadic Xanthos speaks to Achilles (86, n. 3).

[cobrbos]

Danse Macabre

Full Moon Journal #1 - 10 May 2017 - Scorpio 20° - Three of Swords

This most recent moon cycle has been a very tumultuous time in my life. Two weeks ago everything was ungrounded, I was floating thinly upon assumptions, hopes; fears of approaching, unmet deadlines. My current home--the first place in ages that has really felt home-like--was coming to a necessary close. My sister-in-law is in the third trimester of her first pregnancy, and my room (or, perhaps better, “the room I’m staying in”?) is the nursery to be. In just two or three short months, there will be a new generation of life, of blood family, screaming and defecating itself to occasional slumber right in the very place of the bed on which I’m now resting, writing this moon journal. It’s surreal! One doesn’t ever really feel the whole weight of a generation having passed until the next one is born. And this is the first fresh blood of this next generation: ~The first born son of the first born son in the direct line of descendancy~ 

There’s this great ominous and overwhelming power attached to this new life that is coming, and it is right as my grandfather, the patriarch of the family, is phasing out (congestive heart failure, kidney failure, etc. and all almost all of a sudden). In my family, there are so many bloodlines butting heads. I’m the last in a line that married and subjected a long matriarchal tradition to an overpowering and societally-reinforced patriarchal one, though I inherited seemingly both in equal parts. I was raised on family views that immortality was attained through the persistence and propagation of ~The Main Bloodline~ which myself and my two blood siblings are the last carriers of in our generation. With my brother’s coming child, the family’s aspiration is coming to meaningful fruition, eyes twinkling, bones creaking in their ageing joints. My father, my grandfather, and his fathers before him all breathe out collectively in relief as they come ever closer to that elusive eternal endpoint of true immortality, countless generations of spirits floating along like vessels in our ~Pure~ and unwavering, professedly masculine bloodline, coursing like an arrow through time unending. Our blood bears stories, magic, metaphor, and tradition in dynamic forms and bonding pairs from one generation to the next. 

This child and I have some sort of an incredibly powerful and inexplicable bond, and I just can’t shake the feeling that I will have to play an ever more important role in their coming days and years of life. My sister-in-law, the mother of the developing child, has revolutionized and shaken up my entire family order. She has taken the reins of our traditionally patriarchally-ruled and oppressed family and whipped it into submission. She is better educated, more critically self aware, more empowered, more open to constructive, progressive, positive changes in stance and perspective towards life. She and my brother are one of the only instances I’ve encountered of parents who seem genuinely ready to raise a child of their own, and to raise that child well. Their bond has danced through all the traditional inherited dances, though with an eye to the present, an eye to change for the better. She has kept her last name and made sure that power dynamics are balanced and well-thought-out, especially as concerns her relationship to her partner, her family, her in-laws (my family), and the way all of them/us relate to her and my brother’s imminent child. As the first grandchild in both her family and my brother’s, the surviving grandparents are descending upon the scene like blood-crazed falcons, hawks homing in on their next blood/brainwash victim of choice. She has advocated for this child in more clever and unrelenting ways than I’m quite sure I knew one could. Meanwhile, I have been in the (rather close) periphery all this time. When I graduated college was when they first started attempting conception. My sister-in-law and I went on a trip to celebrate my graduation and had to be extra careful in case the latest conception attempt stuck. Then, fast-forward to last autumn: I came back to Maine--the land of my childhood--for the first time truly of my own volition, and it was through them and their portal that I found myself able to do so. I ended up moving back to Maine shortly thereafter, moving in to their animal sanctuary farm in the rolling countryside hills and valleys of this rugged, glacial, temperamental land. The time of my moving in, as fate would have it, coincided with when their many and concerted efforts to conceive were to finally bear fruit. There was life that took hold in her uterus and womb leading into the very week (the precise date is of course impossible to know for sure) that they rescued me from a difficult place and provided safe passage to and shelter in their home’s nursery room-to-be. Two weeks from now (the end of this moon cycle, consequently) will mark my having lived here officially 6 full months. The child is scheduled sometime between the last week of July and mid-late August, but children always come and go on their own schedule, and this child has already revealed themself to be both stubborn and insistently self-aware, so I don’t doubt they will only exit their current gestation-period when they feel most content to do so. 

Earlier in my stay I remember watching Arrival, a recent film, with no prior context leading up to my initial viewing. It revealed itself to be about the way unborn children communicate with the world outside their own, with their mother and those others who might speak and act in its proximity. I remember speaking with my sister-in-law around then (she is a child behavioral and developmental psychologist working with the elementary school age-range of kids especially) about the studies that have been done showing that children form many of their strongest, pre-linguistic proto-bonds with those who communicate with and around them during their initial gestation period. Arrival too was about this: the way we communicate with fetuses, the things we can communicate, the product of those (intentional or otherwise, and almost always somewhat blundering if overthought) interactions. Obviously the mother spends the most time around the child, and so an unbreakable sort of bond is forever placed in their blood and spirit, that between birth-mother and child. My brother is certainly the second highest, as they all sleep and eat together every day they’re not separated by business or otherwise. But third highest, we realized, is actually me--and by a considerable amount too! If you consider the amount of time and words I have shared with my sister-in-law and my nephew(?)-to-be, I might even be competing with my brother, as I have spent many long hours talking heart-to-heart with my sister-in-law. For me, these past 6 months have been so much about processing healing, recovery, reconciliation of me with myself, with my heritage, with my upbringing, with my birthplace. All of these things I ran away from when I graduated high school. I flew from Maine and family, ecstatic with a sort of non-joyous, fear-fueled elation. I ran and kept running all the years since, all the way up to now. I stopped running by returning here this past Thanksgiving season. I decided to confront my depression critically, compassionately, seriously by doing some in-earnest gardening of the blood, body, and spirit grounds of my person and incidence. There have been a lot of dead and dried up root-matter from weeds long-dying-off that had spent years strangling the creeping crawling vines of sturdy and resilient rose bushes. These roses, in brilliant reds, whites, blues, purples--radiant hues of spirit and flesh, tradition and tale--were just waiting to be made free, to be given their space to properly flourish and stretch out in every direction, climbing up towards an ever-closer true ascendance of dwelling. I have learned natural rhythms, routines, and orders, and come to terms with many of them. I’ve been in a gestation period of my own, alongside that of this upcoming child. We’ve been developing together, developing each other, in the same home, in the same family, showering each other with love, support, and affirmation as we survive one developmental hurdle to the next as we claw our way towards the light of the World Outside. There are so many metaphors here I start to lose sight of them all! Such is the bond of love and family that this next generation’s first child and I have spent so much meaningful time forging, largely unaware and not-necessarily-intended. This child knows my voice and my spirit better than most anyone else--and they’re not even born yet! 

The point of tension--and so then also motivation--in my situation has been that of needing to move out of my room by mid-May. My sister-in-law and brother need to begin prepping, painting, reforming the room from Guest room into Nursery room. We’re going to paint the walls in woodland greens, browns, soft blues and grays. There will be trees, animals, birds, a mountain, sun and stars and moon, glowing at night and hidden by day. We are going to imbue the walls, the very bones of this space with a loving cosmos, bright and knowable, compassionate and caring. My brother and sister-in-law will have time to themselves to mentally prepare for a month or two. And then the child will arrive, and nothing will ever be the same again. 

For a long while, I knew I was going to have to leave but had no idea where I was going to end up. I’ve moved some eight, nine times in the last 6 years. I’m weary of it, to be honest. Every time I slough off more and more layers of my repression and earthly possessions (symbols of repressions), uncovering vulnerable stems and stalks and freshly supple roots begging to take hold in a still-somewhat-nutrient-deficient soil. I came back to Maine with the intent to not run away from it again. I’m sure I would and will leave it some time in the future, but not until I’m truly /ready/ to leave--and when I do decide to leave, it will be in a way that is progressive and productive, rather than regressive and recursive. I also came back to Maine because I knew my first book needed to go about its publication process while I was here. As has been the case with this novel and publishing process to-date, every aspect always takes longer (much longer) than I’d ever even thought remotely possible. I thought for sure I would have it most of the way out of my hands by the end of my 6-month stay here on this farm populated solely by rescue animals (myself included). And yet here I am, certainly closer meaningfully along the way, but ultimately not effectively or pragmatically much closer than where I was some six odd months ago. There are still so many obstacles, blockages, hurdles, repressions that I feel are obfuscating my most necessary truths and paths. Every time I peel back another veil I think it /must/ be the last, only to uncover still more and more layers, and of seemingly increasing gravity and severity. There is definite elation in this process of recovery and revelation, but it is onerous and seemingly unending. At some point, I feel, I /must/ be able to move forward with my book. Surely it won’t be when all the veils are pierced, but when sufficiently many have been in order to clarify my goals, intent, and purpose in my project. I still have a hard time articulating, really, any of those things in any consistent and eloquent, concise way. It’s like grasping at falling grains of sand, when what I should probably be doing is finding a vessel to place beneath the stream. A vessel large enough to contain each of the grains as they fall, piling up into an impossibly overbearing pyramid of stacking proteins, crystals, bits of hail and lonely wheat germs. I know I’m somehow close, proximal to my point and purpose, and yet I still keep missing the mark. What am I not seeing? Where/how can I shift and modify, renew my perspective so that I might catch sight of, at last, the bigger picture? If not all of it, then at least enough of the landscape to finally ~Get It~ sufficiently as to let me proceed and move on from this redepurgatory? 

At some point, I think I knew that my purpose at this farm was truly none other than gestational recovery and reformation. I needed to stop trying to grow and change in the way I wanted, and instead allow the world to grow and change me in the way(s) it knew I needed. I’ve always had a safeguard from worrying about over-recovery, or stagnation of purpose, because of the incoming child and the need to set up the nursery room in which I have been sleeping, body and spirit renewing in weighty anticipation for the time to come. So I needed to stop worrying about losing sight of everything and instead allow myself to work on what I would only be able to work on in the time and place I was provided at the farm, living as I was among affirming and supportive, non-shaming family members and other traumatized, healing animals trying to find their way, their happiness, their sense of purpose and ease of movement through life. I decided, then, that I would have to stay in Maine even after my time in the country came to an end. But that I would stay in Maine on my own terms. That I would move to the city in which I was born and yet have never truly lived: Portland. 

About two weeks ago I finally found my place in Portland. It was a lovely home, third floor of a three-story building. It was, magically and mysteriously, the exact right price, and on the exact block I envisioned living on when I first looked at a map of the city and pointed to the spot I would most like to live. Talk about manifestation! And if there were ever a clearer sign that this was ~The Place~, I don’t think I’d be able to believe it real. In fact, I hardly believed this place real either! The price point was almost 33% below market value, and in a desirable, perfectly downtown, on-peninsula location, less than a 20 minute walk to anything and anywhere one would want to go in the area. It seemed truly too good to not be just smoke and mirrors. And yet it kept becoming more and more possible, and real, and imminent. The beginning of this moon cycle saw at last the entrance of my Next Home. And for the first time in a long time, the prospect of a 12 month lease didn’t cause me to even buckle or worry under anxiety or panicked unease. I was unconcerned. Such was my confidence that this was indeed the correct next place for me. 

A few days later my potential housemates and I met and spoke for hours. Queer women, writers, artists, community organizers. They were thoughtful, caring, compassionate, considerate. We all had wounds we could share and commiserate on together. We were all tired of bad housing situations, and so we made every effort to set a standard from the get-go of open, honest, and genuine participation in the explicit discussion of our various histories of struggle, illness, and repression. It all went better than I could have hoped. 

Then there was the hurdle of qualifying with the landlord and the lease, and yet that again all turned up roses! The landlord was amazing, gentle, and considerate--and, small world, he turned out to be friends with a family I went to school with for many years! The visceral reality of the Small City - Small World syndrome was settling in on me. I realized I had lived in almost every sort of rural and/or urban/metropolitan setting except a small city. I’d lived for considerable time in the far countryside, near country-suburbia, mid-sized city, and major metropolis--but the experience of living in a small city had yet eluded me. I looked up the population stats for Portland proper and found it was recorded at a very magical 66,666 people in 2014. Half the population of just one neighborhood (Bushwick) of Brooklyn. Less than a quarter the size of Portland, OR. It was the largest city Maine had to offer, but it was still a small city. The peninsula is about 3 miles long, and about a mile and a half wide. When you can walk from one far end to the other in less than an hour, you start to realize how truly little a city Portland really is. 

I’ve gone from leery, to excited, to ecstatic, and back again to leery. There is some great poetry at play here, with all the coincident metaphors of gestation, development, birthplace, healing, reformation, and reconciliation. I’m signing a lease on a home less than 3 blocks from the place I was physically brought into this world. I will be living, for the first time, truly in my birthcity. What will I find there? What power, and purpose, and progress will I experience? The roots of my being shudder and my spine tingles, goosebumps cover my forearms and neck, and hairs stand on end as I think about it. I mostly find myself thinking about it subconsciously. You know how sometimes you can really hear and feel your subconscious actively thinking? Like a kid shaking the bars of their crib-cage, yearning to be free of it, to walk on their own two feet into the World Outside. There’s a giddy anticipation that I feel in the deepest realms of my psyche, blood, spirit, and subconscious at the prospect of Portland, of this next move. I finally feel like this is the place where I will truly be able to reconcile my purpose with my project, and will be at last able to move forward with getting my novel published and sent into the world, my child sent off to meet and fall in love with those they will, and those they might. Gears seem to be clicking, shifting into place, greasing up in preparation for their well-oiled iteration. The timing is always different from what I expect, but always correct for what it is and must be. 

Can we ever know truly the correct timing of things until the time is upon us, at hand, demanding our attention and response? I think often of all those various manifestations of carpe diem, of mantras and idioms and self-help sayings that tell us to forge our own timing, to make any moment into the right Moment; to know that if we wait forever for the right time, that very timing will pass us by. I struggle with this very concept time and time again, as I continue to experience the anguish cycle of feeling like I need to grasp the moment and force it into submission under my hand, to veritably manhandle it. But in my experience, time doesn’t really appreciate this sort of interaction, and will usually resent those who treat it in such a way. I have a feeling all the talk of ‘carpe diem’ is in some ways another tool and exercise of the patriarchy, and it feels like an assault, a r*pe of time and timing. The ego of man, to think he might know the rules and concordances of Chronos, of Aion, of Kairos, better than time itself might. It’s as deafening as it is brow-furrowing-worthy and upsetting. In my experience, time is always quite intentional. The sensation of time taking too long seems to be an inherently masculine predilection and anxiety, propagated by capitalist patriarchy, intent on wrestling the reins of the world away from the world itself--as if that capitalist patriarchal vehicle were the only real expression of gainful progress and project, rather than just one of perpetual, nonconsensual violation of the world’s spirit, exploitation of its resources and energy reserves, and destruction of its most beloved of kin and creation. 

I’m doing my best to not force my own anxieties and despairs re: time and timing on the patterns and paths of the world intent on appearing in front of and around me. I’m doing my best to look before I leap, to be perceptive and attentive and sensitive to the changes and nudges provided in the environment in my proximity, and to listen and wait, watching for the cues to act. It’s really like any form of a partner dance--lead and follow must be in equal power balance and equal intimate awareness of the other in order to ever truly be in elegant, eloquent sync. And when they are, the whole world holds its breath in awe at the spectacle of it. I aspire to dance that dance, and to inspire an audience as I do so. That is one of the greatest and most viscerally present bastions of effective magic available to us on this plane, in this world and reality, and it is probably one of the most important powers and projects for witches everywhere to learn and display that sort of graceful balance and potent synchronization of historically estranged, othered, traumatized powers/energies/parties with one another. We must reconcile the child with the parent(s), the blood with the earth, the earth with the spirit, time with timing. We must join anew with the land we were born upon, and within, and take it hand-in-hand, bodies closely intertwined and interwoven, so that we might relieve some of those great pressure points, cosmic heat sinks of tension, trauma, anxiety and depression. I hope to begin this in earnest, in my life at least, through my coming tenancy in Portland, my blood birthplace, the city which I must inevitably come to know and love if I’m ever to aspire to be a great parent to children of my own. For, a very child of my own is imminent upon the world, and is holding itself yet at bay, in gestation, while I gradually work out as many of the kinks of parenting as I can, so that I might truly be as potent and able a sponsor of/for its growth and liberation into/of the world and those it will meet and engage in communion thereby. 

~Reading~

When I look at the card I drew for this moon, I feel such a wealth of complex feelings and emotions. This representation of the three of swords is so evocative as to shake me to the core of my being. This is a card of trauma, of failed attempts at reconciliation. It is a card of equal parts despair and hope, anguish and perseverance. Layers are being shed, and the unveiling process is always necessarily a painful one. So much of depression seems to me one of the professedly-impenetrable barriers put in place by the patriarchy to impede and prevent reconciliatory communion between flesh and spirit. Patriarchy operates on cultures and mechanisms of societal shame, guilt, regret, and angst. When one begins to attain critical awareness, the first thing they see is the endlessly wide and tall, impossibly-far-stretching Wall of Depression separating them and their present desolate place from the garden of reconciliation on the other side. Perhaps it is that we are to blame for our initial departure and exile from the Garden in the past; but our project--and it is I’m sure an attainable one--is to surmount that wall, undermine and deconstruct it, and reach again the point of true recovery and liberative awakeness in the truest expression of freedom of will that comes with harmonious cohabitation with an oppressive system, regime, environment. Depressed people are easy to control. They sit down and despair at how great the task of overcoming their inherited onus of depression tied to generational heritage of repression and indulgent regression is. We only truly lose ourselves to our shadows when we think ourselves solely consisting of light. To subvert the depressive, indulgent, recursive proclivities of our shadows, we must engage with our repressions meaningfully and earnestly. We must realize that reconciliation is not something that can be forced; it can only occur naturally. It is in many ways to be understood as a sacred, religious experience of absolution, baptism, hierogamy and braided unification. 

This card shows despair and struggle, endless difficulty and perpetual misstep, failure, self- and other-harm. But it is trying to tell us that healing is not a one-way road. It is, as with other things, a dance, a game--and a playful one at that! The subversiveness of play on despair is one of the only truly effective modes of combating the overbearing and overwhelming perpetual influence and forceful submission of the patriarchy readily available to us. You don’t grow a flower by cutting its bud. But pruning can enable for the plant to thrive far better than were it still holding onto its gangrenous, enfeebled scar-flesh. Cut away, but don’t cut off. Trimming and pruning is perhaps the most difficult-to-master art of tending to bonsai, for it requires a dubious balance of analytic and intuitive modes of engaging with the little tree. Sometimes it is best to shed ourselves of old skin, old scales, old vestiges--old memories of non-consensual action upon our being and personhood. This year’s scorpio full moon is about this shedding, and it comes with a warning to not be overzealous. A warning that if we cut too much, the plant will die; and if we cut too little, it will wither away as precious nutrients are absorbed and wasted by non-serving vestiges of a past trauma, injury, insult. 

Beauty is found in reconciliation, and reconciliation in the organic balance of time and place, body and soul, analysis and intuition, leading and following. There is no meaningful revelation without pain; no effective transition without loss. We must accept these things before they can truly come to pass, lest we betray ourselves into a recursive indulgence, a stagnant addiction to depression, repression, and personal revulsion of the self and its reflection in shadow. Truly this moon’s best name might be none other than that of Danse Macabre: the great cosmic tango between life and death, by which we might at last transcend even the most inescapable of mortal binaries. 

[agent-7-at-your-service]

Future Plot: Project Titanomachy - Chapter 25

(( Camille belongs to @inklingleesquidly

Nebula belongs to @myzzy and @agenttwo

Agent Blueshift belongs to @myzzy  

Depiction of Agent 2 belongs to @agenttwo

Celeste and Willow (mentioned) belongs to @alpinesquid

Arsenic (mentioned) belongs to @a-demo-of-a-hero

Chirhio (cameo) belongs to @petit-blu-inkling  

Telemachus, Kitzeh, and Justinian belongs to me ))

Nebula, Justinian, the Frosted Stars, and the Galaxa Gems have managed to be escorted to a hospital, and it took time for them to recover.

Willow cautiously made her way to Mt. Olympus through the secret passage in Octo Valley. There was no word from Hephaestus, Celeste, and Arsenic about completing the quick passage between Mt. Olympus and Octo Valley. They were probably not finished yet.

Agent 7 was taking a break from the situation for the sake of his family.

Telemachus, Hermes, Anteros, and Kitzeh were off in Octo Valley after hearing about a fourth meteor fortress crashing in an Octarian Refugee Camp.

Agent 0 and Suzy were given the order to prepare the Argus Initiative's forces for tomorrow as the Titan Meteor drew closer. The civilians of Inkopolis were already evacuating to the safe sectors with one of them being Shee-Booyah.

Ebisu First Care, Alexandria District - Inkopolis - 8:00 AM

Blueshift and Agent 2 stayed in Alexandria District to watch over their daughter. The parents of the Frosted Stars and the Galaxa Gems visiting their children when they got the news. They planned to take the kids out of the hospital immediately after their recovery, and they did. The Frosted Star and Galaxa gave their thanks to Camille before they were sent back home. So Justinian and Nebula were the only ones still in the recovery room.

Camille was sitting on a bench and looking at Athena's spear. She wondered why it didn't allow her in her Olympian form yesterday. She didn't like to slow down think like this, but this rare for her.  As for the Key to the Underworld that she stole from Chaodis, she returned that to Telemachus who was the Champion of Hades.

Soon someone approached her in a yellow wisp of flames. As it materializes into a cloak of animals skins, mostly the skins of wildcats, it was the same wraith-like maiden from the museum. But from all the memories Camille has been through personifying Princess Camilla, she can figure out who this maiden really is.

"I know who you are now," Camille began, "But I'm still wondering why you’ve chosen me for this role."

"You leave an impression that I like," the maiden replied. She then sat next to Camille. "And there is something you have that I also like: a personality."

All Camille can do in reply was smirk and say this: "There has to be a better reason than that--" She looked at the maiden and addresses her name: "--Princess Camilla Penthesilea."

The maiden removes her hood to reveal the Amazon's face. She still appeared the same with her tan skin, beige ink hair, and green heterochromia eyes. She smiled at her.

"Well, then I should leave out that you're 'the fastest squid alive'." Princess Camilla giggles. "Camille, it's because I see some potential heroism in you that has yet to be shown. You want to move on in becoming a racer, and that's true is it not?"

Camille hasn't forgotten that, and she nods.

"A call to adventure should never be ignored." Princess Camilla sounded serious. "And you won't allow those Titans and Typhon to just destroy your world and all that live in it, would you?"

"Now that you mentioned it, yeah..." With all the things that happened to Camille so far while taking up the role as Zeus's and Athena's champion, she wouldn't say no. "And I really deserve a break."

Princess Camilla sighed blissfully. "The way you behave and act is very......how should I say this..... unorthodox for a hero. But then again, you've made it this far. A long break that you deserve will come after this ends."

"So how about this issue?" Camille shows Athena's spear, raising an eyebrow. "I tried to twirl it and get into Olympian form, but the Hermes and Willow are telling me that it's all out of energy or something."

"That... I can't help you with..." Princess Camilla shakes her head. "Athena never warned about this happening, but I'm sure it is probably energy being overused."

Camille changed the topic. "Do you think Athena would've been a good friend to me?"

".....I'm sure she would've love to see you." Princess Camilla remembers her times with Athena before the Trojan War.

Soon nurses were seen coming into the recovery rooms to check on Nebula and Justinian who were now awake. Blueshift and Agent 2 were glad to see that their daughter is okay.  Princess Camilla quickly vanished.

Camille took notice and enter the room to quickly embrace Nebula.

"You had me worried, Nebby!" Camille exclaimed.

"Careful Miss Squidly!" A nurse warned. " They just woke up from their recovery.

"Oh...sorry..." Camille let's go.

"It's alright Cammy." Nebula gave a weak smile. "But it seems Chaodis was using us to lure you in."

Camille cringed but then gave a smile. "Don't worry, I gave him a what-for for stabbing me in the back."

"Well, he deserved it," Justinian thanked Camille.

"So what happened to the Trident and Staff?" Camille noticed they didn't have them in their possessions.

"They're here." Nebula puts her hand in front of her and water vapors gather and materialized into Poseidon's Trident.

Justinian did the same, taking out a pomegranate seed and it quickly grows into Persephone's staff with Demeter's garden bag tied to it.

"So the Frosted Stars and the Galaxa Gems finally recovered?" Nebula asked Blueshift.

"They did, sweetie," Blueshift answered, "And they left their thanks to Camille."

"And Justinian and I should be thanking her too." Nebula smiled at Camille.

Camille then asked one of the nurses. "How long until they're able to leave the hospital."

"12 more hours," the nurse replied.

"Nebula, sweetie." Agent 2 sat close to her daughter. "You should rest. Leave the Titan situation to Camille and your friends."

Nebula nods. "Alright, mom." She then looked at Camille. "Do it for everyone here in Inkopolis."

"I will." Camille is confident.

Telemachus charged into the room in his normal appearance, wearing the same modified Hero Uniform. But it was Madoka's personality that was coming in to report to Camille.

((Background music: https://youtu.be/CY3X8sGBrlg ))

"Camille-san! Three of the remaining six titans are in Octo Valley!"  Telemachus reported. "That fourth meteor nearly destroyed an Octarian Refugee Camp."

"Which Titans?" Camille questioned.

Telemachus's personality switched to Homura. "It's Hyperion, Theia, and Coeus. And one of them is calling for you for a duel."

"A duel? With one of them?" Camille is not impressed. "Alright, show me where the camp is."

Octo Valley - 9:45 AM

Telemachus and Camille made haste to Octo Valley, using the Sandpiper bikes and then the Ocra watercraft. When they arrived at the valley, a pillar of smoke can be seen on one part of the valley where the refugee camp is. Both of the inklings made their way to the source of the smoke.

Octarian Refugee Camp, Octo Valley - 10:05 AM

The smalls clouds that gathered made the skies turn from blue to indigo, and then to purple, and then to red, and then to orange. It was like dawn.

Octolings can be seen evacuating as many Octarians as they could out of the camp and to higher ground. Chihiro and an Octoling shrine maiden were there, helping out paramedics in getting the wounded out of the camp and tending to their injuries.

Kitzeh was in her Olympian form, and as a champion of Dionysus, she was wearing a laurel crown, a leopard skin tunic, and ornaments made of silver. Along with the outfit is boots made from cheetah skin, a cloak made of tiger skin, a scarf made of grapevines, and cheetah mask. She was protecting the Octarians from Lamiai, tossing purple ink like an octobrush with a wand that looked like a Thyrsus.

Anteros and Hermes can be seen, keeping Theia and Coeus busy. Anteros was missing the blinding lights of Theia with pink ink from his brother's arrows. Hermes was tossing ink-soaked sponges and splat bombs at Coeus.

Hyperion was nowhere in sight.

((End of Background music))

"My guess is that Hyperion is the challenger," Camille prepare Agent 1's Hero Roller, "I can handle him without Athena's spear."

"Do you even know who Hyperion is?" Telemachus cautioned.

"...Enlightened me, Squid Nerd," Camille mockingly commanded. She wanted to hear from Telemachus's personalities.

Telemachus personality, Moemura, soon took over. "He's a personification of the Sun, and with the sun, that means he's--"

A ball of burning ink is thrown near Camille and she jumps; she was now in Telemachus's arms. When it landed, it melted into a pool of molten ink with flames rising out.

".....A pyrophobic, Miss Squidly?" Telemachus asked as himself.

"N-no!" Camille quickly gets off him. "I just hate fire!"

"Sure you are." Telemachus then looked at where the fire came from. "And your challenger awaits." Telemachus takes out Agent 3's Hero Splattershot and helped Kitzeh out in evacuating the Octarians.

Hyperion stood before them in his heat-resistant armor. His head was completely engulfed in flames with glowing round eyes and a gaping mouth being distinguishable in the flames. He stood like all the other titans except Atlas, 36 feet.

Camille stepped forward and switched Agent 1's Hero Roller with the Hero Splatling. She had Athena's spear kept close just in case it managed to regain the energy to get into her Olympian form. She looked up to face her Titan opponent.

Hyperion carefully got on one knee, bent over, and took a closer look at Camille. His flames were as intense as massive forest fires. He narrowed his eyes at Camille, trying to intimidate her.

"You don't look prepared, Champion," Hyperion began, "the horrors tell me the Champion of Zeus and Athena was adorned in bronze and that her spear left her enemies with great fear of her."

"What did you expect?" Camille was not impressed.

"What I see here is just a meek little mortal," Hyperion belittled, "a mortal with weapons turned into toys."

"You mean this thing?" Camille raised her Hero Splatling to give Hyperion a closer look. "This Splatling here? Well, I don't know how creatures like you ended up having ink parts coming from a bond with this Typhon guy, but no one calls me meek!"

Camille charged up the Splatling and fired a barrage of ink at Hyperion's face. Hyperion screeched and stood back up, covering his face. He smears the ink off his face and shakes the ink off his hands. He then gave out a deep, dementia-producing maw which, released from his gaping mouth a wave of sulfuric flares.

Camille sped away to safety, turning a corner and into an alley, avoiding the flames.

When the flares passed, she left the alleyway and keeps her Hero Splatling aimed at Hyperion. The flaming sun titan was still kneeling.

"Where is Athena's spear, Champion?!" Hyperion is demanding to see the Olympian form. "Show me Zeus's thunderous might that's within that stick of bronze!"

"How about I show you this." Camille aimed the splatling at Hyperion, but due to being out of range, she directed her aim to a wall of a shanty. She charged and released, making an ink path for her to climb to the roofs of one of the shanty complexes. "I'll show you I can beat you without the Spear!" She charged her splatling again and fire at Hyperion's face.

This time, Hyperion shielded his face with his molten ectrodactyly hands. The ink didn't cause a much damage as it should since Hyperion's fire is evaporating the ink.

Camille jumps from roof to roof on the shanty complexes, circling the Titan and stopping momentarily to fire her Splatling at Hyperion. Hyperion tried to reach towards Camille and grab her, but her speed made her almost impossible to catch.

But the Titan saw an advantage when he saw Camille's reaction to fire. He then took a deep breath with his chest rising. Hyperion then blew fire like a dragon, making Camille's paths become fields of fiery hairs. Camille attempted to runs through the flames, the intensity prevented her from making the attempt. Camille can handle heat up more than 140 degrees Fahrenheit; the heat of the flames that Hyperion produced is the atmosphere of Venus which is about 8 times more than what she can handle. With Camille's heat tolerance taken out by her dislike of fire, Hyperion has a slighter chance to try and catch The Fastest Squid Alive.

When Camille reached a dead end, she jumps off the roof to enter an alleyway, but Hyperion manages to reach his arm into the alley and grab her. He then flicked the Hero Splatling and Agent 1's Hero Roller out of her hands with ease with just a finger and a thumb.

The Titan's fiery hands burned Camille when it came into contact with her. Camille screamed in endless torment. Hyperion didn't tighten his grip and instead slams his other hand on the squid two times before throwing her back down to the earth.

Camille's Agent Alpha Hero Suit was scorched up, and it reveals exposed burnt skin and ink-blood. Camille tried to get on her knees despite the pain that came from the burns. Her head felt light and her body felt like it was going burst into ink drops or melt into a puddle. She did not want to die like this.

Hyperion is laughing.

"You're weak, mortal." Hyperion knelt down and was ready to burn the squid into ashes. "You may have speed and heat tolerance, but you can't take the heat, can you!? Why would the petty Olympians choose an ignorant fool like you!"

Pools of flames drew close to Camille, about to consume her while she's still breathing.

Camille looked down and at her hands. There was nothing she had to defend herself except for Athena's spear, a malfunctioned mermaid's purse, and a racer's scarf. There was also Phoebe's Tome, Mnemosyne's amulet, Apollo's Bow, Artemis's Antler Crown, and Heracles's Lion Skin formed into an empty scabbard, but all those items don't look used at the moment. She carefully took out the scarf given to her by her mother, Callie. As she took a closer look, she started remembering several things: her loving family, her close friends, and a time before this war. She misses them already.

Camille soon remembered a lullaby that her mother has sung to her when she was a child. She teared up and held the racer's scarf close. She can't die now; there are so many things she's fighting for now.

(( Background theme for Vs. Sun Titan Hyperion: https://youtu.be/VwPLsIP1AmI ))

She soon got back on her feet and she puts on the racer's scarf. Hyperion has his arm raised when Camille looked up. Camille stops his attack by pulling out Athena's spear with a fine grip. She was doing all this despite the pain.

"The Spear of the Wise Goddess." Hyperion is astonished. "It's time for our true battle, mortal!"

Camille glared and raised the spear up high towards the dawn-colored sky. The small clouds that gathered there merge to form larger clouds; it was enough to cover the sky and dispose the colorful hues of dawn. Blue lighting descended down to strike Athena's spear. And in one flash of light, the scorched Camille is now in her Olympian form, but instead of her armor being bronze, it's a glimmering gold.

Camille pointed Athena's spear at Hyperion and makes the blue lighting strike the titan.

Hyperion stood back up and tried blocking the lighting with his arms, but this time, it was breaking his armor and piercing into his molten body. This time the wounds left cooled spots that hardened into obsidian which is fragile. The titan's wounds left unusual craters and sea snakes made of lava popped out of them, drooling pitch-black violet ink.

Camille sprouting owlings from her back and she carefully kneeled down, resisting the pain from her burns. She then takes off and flies towards the titan, striking cuts at his armor. She strikes his chest with such force that Hyperion is knocked down and crashing into some shanty complexes.

The titan got back up and tried swatting Camille away, but she learned to avoid that when she fought the Gigantus in Arowana Mall. She barrel rolled to the side and continue her attacks, flying down to the abdomen and fly her way to Hyperion's head. She used Apollo's bow to cut the lava snakes out of her way since she didn't have glass arrow to shoot them down, and she uses Artemis's Antler Crown as a good luck charm. She increased speed as green ink and blue ink started to coil around Athena's spear along with electricity; it even left a trail as she flew.

Hyperion tried to grab Camille again, but her speed has once again made her escape. Hyperion tried spitting flames at her, but her blue shield Aegis pushed them aside.

As Camille got closer and closer, Athena's spear glowed gold with a green and blue ribbon tied to the head. The electricity coiling around it was massive to the point that Camille and produce her own natural lightning.

When Camille was reaching the head, she delivered an uppercut, using Athena's spear instead of her fist. The uppercut puts out the fire and exposes a molten skull with the same round eyes and gaping diamond mouth but with a huge cut at the centers. When Camille land on a roof, she turns around, twirls Athena's spear and plants it on the ground.

Hyperion was soon convulsing with his head glowing brighter and brighter until flame burst from his wounds and armor. Then his head explodes with the bright light dying out. His titan corpse got on its knee and then collapsed.

((End of background music))

Another Titan eliminated.

Camille was breathing fast and then looked at Athena's spear. She then noticed something: her skin was no longer burnt. It was as if she never got the burns in the first place. That's something she doesn't need to worry about now. She quickly located Agent 1's Hero roller and her Hero Splatling and carried them on her back since her Mermaid's Purse wasn't functioning.

Looking at the situation now, the titan Theia and Coeus were retreated with red lightning striking them and making them disappears. The last of the Lamiai in the area were exterminated.

Chihiro and paramedics were treating the remaining injured Octarians. Hermes, Anteros, and Kitzeh were cheering in victory, but Telemachus just watches the Titans retreat.

It wasn't over yet.

The final battle is drawing near.

[arrowpassagerecovery]

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[fuckyeahdwarffortress]

Update Logs

Hey guys, dropped the ball on these. Highlights of my year so far include two professors trying to teach a class together and ending up hating each other so much they stopped talking outside of class, death threats (for real), one of my professors threatening to quit over what can only be described as an absolute shitshow, and an actual fucking Nazi infiltrating a social justice space I’m involved with. Without further ado, all of this year’s update logs.

01/04/2017: I'm having fun chasing down issues with agent identities and rumors and so forth. A lot of the conversation/reputation code wasn't able to cope with the change, and we've needed to differentiate more between visual identification or whether an incident just involves the real and fake historical identities of people in the abstract, especially when you ask a person their opinion about somebody but only know an alias (which you don't know is an alias). People now think more carefully about where their information came from when they decide what they think of people, and do some cross-referencing of known identities and so forth, but they also have to skip certain rumors in their heads that pertain to a person where they can't make the connection (because they don't know a given alias or true identity). So if you ask after a goblin agent using their true name or an identity used in a previous town, people in the current town the agent is infiltrating will properly say that they don't know who you are talking about, even if they have a lot of information about the agent under their current alias -- or they might have an opinion about the old identity if they heard a rumor about it. Where the game previously formed a single set of reputations for one historical figure, people can now give different answers for the true historical figure and each identity, as well as what they think on sight (which may or may not involve any names -- they keep track of which identities they associate with the physical appearance). 

We're also trying to keep more identity information intact as rumors fade out over time, to stop covers from being blown by the passage of time, and we also want a bit more realism in terms of linking witnesses that know the physical appearance to somebody else in town that got to know a name/alias of the people and their appearance, but didn't see the incident. For example, if the player robs somebody without saying their name, a problem with the new system was that only the people that witnessed the event thought ill of the player even after a few days, since other townspeople could no longer make the link between the player and the event. However, if the player talks to enough people in a small enough town either before or after the robbery, then whatever name/alias they used should become linked to the incident after a bit of time (the normal rumor spread time). It's difficult to get it right, and it's not going to be quite up to the level where it'll need to be for the justice/crime features later on, but we're trying to keep everything pointed in the right direction.

01/10/2017: Ha ha, this rabbit hole is pretty deep! There was a cascading split of various reputation data objects according to true, visual, historical and false identities, and lots of tracing up and down partial data to see where a new bit of information should be stored or what it implies. It is taking a while to sort it out. My brain broke a few days ago, but I feel more like we're coasting downhill on it now. Some problems we had of rumors revealing the identities of people they shouldn't have (especially as the rumors aged) have been patched up -- it can keep track of information about false identities indefinitely, and it can also keep track of independent reputations for the same person between several identities, even for old data where that distinction used to improperly collapse. 

01/16/2017: I went ahead and added the ability for player adventurers to assume identities today. You can't pretend to be specific historical figures or deities, but you can be pick a name, profession, origin civilization and object of worship. All positive and negative reputations will be associated to that identity for as long as you assume it, unless you screw up. You can have multiple identities and flip between them (or return to your true identity). I'm still patching up some weird behaviors, but we're almost out of this specific identity grind now.

01/23/2017: All right, so we're looking at four chunks left for this release, which'll take some time yet. We have to polish off adventure mode, which involves a lot of testing and tweaking. Today I added some more popups to the trade screen so you'd know your artifact gifts have been properly recognized and continued to fix up artifact transfer problems. There are still all sorts of strange things going on. For instance, when I returned a figurine to a lord, he stuffed it into a personal pouch where his guards couldn't see it, so some of them started interrogating me since they thought I'd hidden it and didn't actually see the hand-off. Lots of permutations to work through. Second of the chunks, there's fort mode! We need to handle artifact diplomacy and the sending of recovery squads off the map, which should be entertaining. Third, we need to finish the map changes I put off (e.g. kobold caves). Last, there are some random requests and promises that have accumulated (some memory address help for modders, a little bit of XML, a few priority bug fixes).

02/07/2017: The adventure mode cleaning continues. The logs will be a bit dull while I test and correct, unless something amusing happens. The guards have moved on from interrogating me over delivered artifacts to instead interrogating their own master. I returned an artifact, and the lord took the figurine over to an empty pedestal in the hall and stood there making cheerful remarks. A guard, confused again, ran over and demanded the location of the figurine. The lord was like, "Over my dead body!" They would have started fighting if I didn't break out to debug. I think in this case the guard didn't understand furniture, and also didn't think about their loyalties in the context of item encounters, and so flipped out when the item became "invisible". I'll keep smoothing it out! I've also cleaned up some other random issues.  

02/15/2017: More progress... the artifact encounter problems I'm aware of are fixed, and NPC questers can go on near-fruitless quests in play to find artifacts known to be lost in the wilds (and find them if they happen upon the exact spot). You can sometimes find these ill-fated heroes wandering around out there, but there isn't currently a way for them to get more refined information. Your adventurer can now name any of their legally-nameable objects (so e.g. no arrow stacks, but you can name individual arrows). This elevates the items to historical status, so you'll get events recorded about them. That doesn't mean other people will care about them. There's still a bit to do, and GDC is creeping up at the end of the month (I have a short talk again), but we'll hopefully be through the boring cleanup part soon and get to dwarf mode off-map squads.

02/22/2017: Alright, I'm ready to move to dwarf mode for this release! The main features will be the ability to send dwarf squads off the map, artifact-based diplomacy with sieging forces and others, and artifact-interested questers and critters coming to the fort. That'll have to start next month -- in a few days I'll be leaving for GDC. It was healthy for Bay 12 when I went there for the first time last year, so I figured I give it another go. I'll be back on the 4th, so there will be a delay on the monthly report and the Future of the Fortress reply. Alright, I'm ready to move to dwarf mode for this release! The main features will be the ability to send dwarf squads off the map, artifact-based diplomacy with sieging forces and others, and artifact-interested questers and critters coming to the fort. That'll have to start next month -- in a few days I'll be leaving for GDC. It was healthy for Bay 12 when I went there for the first time last year, so I figured I give it another go. I'll be back on the 4th, so there will be a delay on the monthly report and the Future of the Fortress reply.

[aeyemenethes-blog]

Lathbora viran Ch. 6

For your entertainment, I have posted the next instalment of my fanfic Lathbora viran. You can also find it on AO3 at http://archiveofourown.org/works/10213937/chapters/23506302. Ma serannas.

 Clan Lavellan was different from other Dalish clans I encountered throughout my travels. They were accepting of all elves and polite – at times friendly – with humans as well as other elves. It was one aspect that drew me to them when I woke, one year prior to the explosion at the Conclave. After several millennia deep in Uthenera, I stumbled into the poisoned arrow tips of the clan’s hunters disoriented and weak, but they didn’t strike or drive me off. Instead, the clan welcomed me and my recovery began. I forced myself to leave soon afterwards so I wouldn’t grow complacent.

However, during several Fade walks I visited to check up on the clan since I left. This time was no different, though the reasoning behind it was decidedly selfish.

Ellana was Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan’s First when I was originally brought before both ladies by the elven hunters. Even from our initial introduction, Ellana’s hunger for magic and knowledge came close to matching my own. I was attracted to her curiosity as those wolf pups were, nosing after the fireflies in the meadow. Dangerously attracted. With her now a part of the Inquisition, the feelings I tried to smother now tugged me toward the Lavellan Clan, if only to inquire after their welfare.

I owed her that much though would in no way make up for what I’d done to Ellana in the past. The Herald, however, would never become aware of this.

I remembered Ellan informing Adan that her clan was in Wycome now – a place where they travelled before but not when I stayed with them – so I decided to check there. Taking a long draw from the sleeping draft I mixed together in my wooden tankard, I relaxed into my straw mattress back at Haven and waited for the herbs to take effect. My breath grew deep and slow first followed by my heart. A heaviness settled on my eyelids, and I did one final scan around the white markings arranged in varying patterns in painstaking order. Only when felt satisfied my wards were holding, did I allow my physical form to drop and my spirit to rise.

 Extricating my soul to Fade walk always reminded me of shucking an ear of corn; I needed to use delicacy to collect every fibre of spirit essence and oftentimes use force at the very end. This process came natural for me now and I barely noted the soft sigh from my body as I left it.

Blinking my eyes to shift my field of vision, I located the sliver of a crack in the Veil and pressed a hand over it. With the birth of the Breach, more and more fractures – similar to this one – began to appear. This weakening of the Veil represented a double-edged sword, both a sign that I was on the correct path with my old magic shivering, weary of its burden, and yet without someone there to control the collapse, it would tear both worlds apart. How rapid these tears formed alarmed me. If I was lucky, I had five years to gather my full strength.

Stretching my fingers inside the sliver in front of me, I gasped at the prickling of snapping energy that soaked into my soul. A wave of homesickness washed over me and – using my other hand along with the first – I nudged the sliver open wide enough to slip inside.

Brilliance and fragments of a world once as breath-taking as Arlathan greeted me with sick skies and black decay. Hollow screams of a pain made so long ago, echoed in the forefront of my mind as if the rendering just happened yesterday. Dark vines of ink seeped across my translucent skin, trying to capture and keep me, but I broke the hold easily.

Passing through pockets of swampy ground, I tried not to glance at the shattered glass of old, forgotten Eluvians, dilapidated furniture pieces of many snuffed out lives, and the wisps of spirits in various states of deterioration. Voices without language spoke after me, begging for a release I could not give. My heart, even in the Fade, burned that I condemned these sorry creatures to their fate, but at that moment, it was the living who needed me more.

Any time I glanced up at the swirling green clouds thick and billowing in the torrent sky, I caught the floating pieces of Arlathan. The ruins reflected a deep malady. As I continued through the frigid mist of the Fade, I noticed pockets of shimmering rifts and areas where Thedas peaked through.

Ley lines… connections bridging the two worlds as if the Veil never existed.

In the Fade, time passed in a different dance and sensations like taste, touch and smell were muted to almost non-existence. Though suddenly homesick, I found myself drawn toward the waking world of Thedas, reminding me why I chose to leave in the first place. It felt like a gnawing void that expanded the longer I stayed, and yet I filled myself with its ugliness. This strengthened my resolve passed a trifling infatuation brought on by an elven mage, though the most beautiful I beheld in several lifetimes.

This broken place needed me to take down the Veil to bring about a permanent salvation that no amount of temporary kindness could slake.

A light tore me from my stumbling and melancholy musing drawing my attention to another area where the Veil thinned. It stared back at me like a glassless mirror and I pressed against its clear membrane with my fingertips watching the image of the forest beyond ripple at my touch. The surface felt unresponsive yet alive with a surge of electrical currents.

Closing my eyes, I pressed my forehead against the fragile barrier and sucked in a deep, smooth breath. Earth and evergreen scent ribboned around my body with hints of wild elfroot arcing up in the shadows of tall trees. A breeze curled its gentle finger on my exposed neck, head, and hands, raising bumps on my flesh. These were falsified results of the Fade’s attempt to paint what it thought I should feel and see. Though I left my body sleeping in Haven, the Fade used my former sensations to evoke memories of long days living in a forest much like this one. Demons manipulated such recreations to trap dream walkers deep in the Fade until any temptation for release would be accepted by the dreamer.

Tasting the fresh dew in the air caused my ethereal body to shudder and I could take standing on this side of the Veil no longer. With my hands, palms flat on the glassless, rippling mirror, I separated the film and stepped through. It sighed and bent, fraying like gossamer between my fingers, resisting even as it gave in to allow me passage through the Veil into the world beyond.

The world of a fellow dream walker.

The grass was cold and moist on the pads of my feet – as it felt so often a few hours right after the dawn burned the chill away – but only because I expected it to feel that way. Memories reconstructed what was true to the senses of my spirit as it attempted to recreate how my soul might react. Before I tasted these truths for myself, I could only trust the fabrications. Now thanks to my experience, I saw the tiniest infractions in the infrastructure.

Staring down at the very dry, autumn grass – though still seemingly dewy underfoot – I shook my head and picked my way to where I knew the dreamer would lay. Sunlight dappled low between the trees to suggest early to mid-morning. With the familiar impression of magic crackling along the edges of this fictitious world, I knew the dream belong to Clan Lavellan’s leader.

So even in sleep the Keeper dreams about this place –

As if materialized by my thoughts alone, Keep Deshana Istimaethoriel sat atop a flat outcropping of rock surrounded by halla. One rested its great antlered head on her lap while her fingers tangled in its thick mane and beard. Its eyes closed as the beast let out a sigh of contentment. A beam of sunlight fell on the Keeper and I swore I caught the faint smell of honey-suckle and cedarwood near her.

“I wondered if I would see you soon, Wolf.” Keeper Istimaethoriel said in a soft warning tone, glancing up to meet my eyes unflinching.

Around her the halla shifted, gazing at me with anticipation and dread, but they did not move to run, choosing to remain by the elven woman’s side. Some stamped their cloven hooves and snorted in my direction. I gave a snarl, my lips curling to bare my teeth, before I heard her continuation.

“You are aware that my First is missing, no doubt.” Her glacial amber eyes narrowed at me. “You promised me you would not harm her.”

“I have not laid a finger on her.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but the times I touched Ellana was to heal her not harm. “Sending her to the Conclave, Keeper? Do you think that was wise?”

“Don’t chastise me, Dread Wolf.” The Keeper snapped. “You wouldn’t invade my dreaming if it didn’t involve my Ellana, and I daresay you owe me an explanation.” Propping my hip against a nearby tree as close as I felt comfortable near her, I crossed my arms over my chest and threw an amused look her way. “I do?”

The Keeper’s look soured, venom pooling in her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak but I cut in.

“Without going through actual calculations on if I truly owe you anything, I will give you the information you seek. A favour for allowing me to recover in your clan, and for you keeping up appearances.”

Keeper Istimaethoriel clenched her jaw, tucking a stray red strand of hair behind her ear. Folding her hands in her lap, she stared up at me with shards of ice reflecting from her eyes and waited.

“Ellana survived the disaster that took place at the Conclave, but the humans captured her. At the moment, she is with the Inquisition, an organization created amidst the chaos to close the Breath in the sky.” I didn’t wish to tell her everything. If she wanted more then she must go through the proper channels to figure it out for herself. I did skirt around my own involvement, however, so not to cause a repeat of what transpired the last time we spoke.

“To insist you are hiding something would lead to a pointless argument between us, Wolf, and I’ve learned where my place is… in regards to your personage.” She considered me for a moment, possibly hoping to see even a tiny crack in my mask, but I held my defenses firm. Then she gave in with a sigh. “Very well, how can I contact this Inquisition?”

My shoulders relaxed – I didn’t even feel the tension to begin with as a dreamer but my body would when I woke – and sat down at the base of the tree. I spoke to the Keeper of how she should go about reaching Leliana of the Inquisition to uncover Ellana’s welfare. When the Keeper finished with her questions – the ones I would answer – I stood to leave. The draft was wearing off as I now felt the phantom twitches of my body back in Haven. Around me, the dream world was distorting in colours, becoming more winter than autumn.

Then I felt the odd impression of the Keeper reaching out to touch my shoulder. Her invasion into my aura itched at me and a wave of nausea crashed against me with her contact. I hissed, knowing the sensation would follow me into the waking world as settled in my stomach.

“I wish you would refrain from touching me.” I growled, not turning to face her lest I might lash out and attack her for annoying me. In the dream worlds, the Wolf was closer to the surface of my mentality that I usually found its form more comforting than the Elvhen.

“Ir abelas, Solas.” Her tone stiffened when she spoke my given name before continuing. “Do you still have feelings for Ellana?”

Clenching my fists at my side, I shrugged her hold from me and melted back through the Fade without an answer to her question.

. . .

Sitting up in the straw bed, I leaned my back against the headboard and massaged the bridge of my nose, then trailed my fingers to the strain in my neck and shoulders. My stomach flipped and I swallowed the knot of bile back down. Sunlight began to invade through the shutters of the solitary window in my hut, causing me to let loose a heavy groan.

My eyes settled on the wooden tankard on my bedside table, and I picked it up to examine its contents. A frown pressed along my lips at the dregs clinging to the bottom – the remnants of my excursion – before setting it down with a loud thump in frustration. For a moment, I considered and reconsidered creating a new batch of sleeping draft just so I could somehow haunt the Keeper’s dreams or cause her to forget my one time dalliance with her apprentice. My wits quickly replace my impulsive passions, and I found my thoughts drifting instead to the tavern the Inquisition recently set up.

“Fenedhis lasa, I need tea.”