#But ash was also bound in iron for

[watersofmars]

ᴡᴇ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ…

(Aegon Targaryen x OC!Reader x Aemond Targaryen). Torn between love and duty, Visenya Targaryen, daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen, has a choice to make. Bound by the loyalty to her mother, her love for her husband Aegon, or the desire she feels for her uncle Aemond...

(A/N): This is my first Hotd fic so please bare with me lol... I also changed some of the canon story slightly, but its mostly in timeline.

WC: 2.9k

In the heart of Dragonstone, beneath the shadow of the ancient castle, the air was thick with whispered secrets and unspoken desires. The ocean bristled like a dragon's breath against the cliffs, roaring its eternal song, while inside the castle's stone walls, tensions of love and duty collided like fierce combatants upon a battlefield.

Born of two fiery souls—Rhaenyra and Daemon—Visenya was a product of ambition and dark passion. Her mother had once grasped for the Iron Throne while her father fought like a dragon to claim his birthright. Now married to Aegon, the younger half-brother of Rhaenyra, Visenya was both a queen consort and a pawn in the ancient game of thrones that twisted all destinies in Westeros.

Visenya sat in the sunlit chamber where she had spent countless hours nurturing the seeds of her family. Her marriage to Aegon had sparked hope for peace. The union represented a fragile balance between factions, a flowering of loyalty amidst the ashes of war—the Dance of the Dragons, as history would one day name it. In the months following their union, Visenya had found solace in Aegon’s gentle affection. Her husband, Aegon Targaryen, was handsome as he was gentle, and their three children; Aerion, Daenys, and Rhaegar, were a living testament to their union. 

The corners of her lips would turn upward when they called out for her, a joy that sparked within her from their mere presence. Still, there lay something untamed and restless within her, a longing that cast a shadow upon her heart like the wings of a dragon. Yet, as much as her heart had sought refuge in Aegon’s steadfast presence, it remained restless. For in the shadows of their shared chambers roamed Aemond Targaryen, the younger brother of Aegon and a tempest of unbridled passion. Aemond, with his sapphire eye that glimmered like a dragon’s flame, drew Visenya to him with an intensity that overshadowed her more subdued affection for Aegon. There was something primal about their connection, an undeniable pull that threatened to shatter the fragile peace she had constructed around her heart

Aegon had won her heart first, as young hearts often do, swept away in the fervor of courtship and familial duty. They had shared a betrothal grounded in tradition, as their family’s legacy demanded, by order of the late King Viserys in hopes of mending this broken family. Loyal and kind, he had been a constant source of warmth, a beacon of security amidst the chaos that lingered at the edges of their world, on the edge of a bloody war. Together, they forged a love that should have been flawless, yet beneath the surface, tides churned dangerously.

It was Aemond, Aegon's younger brother, who filled Visenya's dreams with passion and despair. His dark, brooding presence was intoxicating, a force of nature that unnerved and exhilarated her all at once. Their bond was close since childhood, where Visenya was often Aemond’s only source of comfort. But he was a dragon in his own right, wild and untamed, unburdened by the weight of responsibility that Aegon often bore. When their eyes met across a crowded hall or during the muted hours of the night, an unbidden fire ignited within her, and she felt the pull of a forbidden fruit she could never quite resist.

One fateful evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, laying hues of crimson and gold across the sky, Visenya found herself wandering into the garden—a refuge where the laughter of her children mingled with the scent of blooming roses. It was there that Aemond often sought solitude, brooding beneath the heavy branches of the ancient tree in the Godswood. The air was thick with anticipation, the moment charged with unvoiced words.

“Aemond,” she whispered, approaching the shadowy figure cloaked in darkness. “You should not be here. It isn’t fitting for us.”

His gaze, fierce and steady, locked onto her. “Fitting or not, sister, it does not change how I feel,” he replied, drawing closer, his words a tantalizing promise.

“Do you ever wonder what might have been?” Aemond softly spoke in the shadows, his voice low and conspiratorial. “If the blood of our house did not bind us, what would we be to each other?”

Visenya’s heart raced at the question. She had long grappled with this truth: was it Aegon’s love she cherished, or was it Aemond’s wild spirit that called to her, igniting a fire that threatened to consume her whole? When she looked into Aemond’s depths, she saw a future of unfettered desire, while Aegon’s steady presence offered comfort and stability. 

“But to carry the sins of desire is to bear a heavy burden,” she murmured, her voice like the rustle of leaves in the wind. “If the truth of our hearts were ever revealed, what then?”

Aemond stepped closer, his breath warm against her skin. “Do not fear the chaos of love, Visenya. We are Targaryens; chaos is our birthright.”

In that moment, their lips met—a union forged of hidden desires and dangerous secrets. In that sacred space, amidst the hidden life of the garden, time weaved itself into a tapestry of stolen moments. Visenya’s heart raced as Aemond took her hands in his, the warmth of his touch igniting embers hidden deep within her soul. They spoke of their dreams, their fears, the weight of their lineage, and the bittersweet bonds of family ties that pulled them in opposite directions.

Visenya was aflame with passion, yet guilt gnawed at her, whispering memories of her children, the purity of their innocence. She recalled Aerion's laughter and Daenys's dreams, and Rhaegar's fierce loyalty. Visenya's thoughts turned to her children, to the simple joy they brought her, and the duty she held to Aegon, who remained blissfully unaware of the tempest brewing within his wife’s heart. The gnarled roots of her love for Aegon intertwined with the fervour she felt for Aemond, a duality both beautiful and torturous. Each time she laughed with her children, each time she looked into Aegon’s earnest eyes, the weight of her choices bore down.

When her children had been born, rumours had already sparked in the desperate halls of the Red Keep and at court. As autumn leaves began to fall, rumours swirled within the court, each speculation carrying the weight of uncertainty. Whispers drifted like smoke between courtiers: were Aegon’s children truly his, or was there more to Visenya’s love than met the eye? The truth remained hidden, an enigma cloaked in Targaryen secrecy.

As seasons waned into years, the children grew, each embodying different facets of their lineage. Aerion, with the spirited bravery of a dragon, beloved by all; Daenys, who carried an ethereal grace that warmed hearts, often resembling her namesake, Daenys the dreamer; and Rhaegar, whose brooding intensity mirrored that of his Uncle Aemond. The question of paternity began to murmur through the corridors of Dragonstone, insidious as wind-wrought flames, though none could be sure. At least Visenya’s children bore the silver Targaryen hair that seemed to fail in her brothers. Whispers tainted her children’s innocence, and every shared glance between Visenya and Aemond seemed to ignite suspicion in the minds of their kin.

As the truth hovered like a specter, looming over the Targaryen family, Visenya stood at a precipice. Would she give in to her longing, embracing a passion that pulsed as fiercely as dragonfire? Or would she bind herself tightly to duty, choosing the path carved out by blood and obligation?

Visenya stood before a new dawn, knowing she must confront the echoes of her choices. Whether she chose to remain tied to Aegon for the sake of their family or succumb to the intoxicating pull of Aemond’s allure remained unanswered. She sought her mother’s endurance and her father’s unbridled will, but it was her own heart—a heart torn between love and loyalty—that would ultimately shape her fate.

In a moment of desperate clarity, Visenya understood that love was never meant to be simple. Each heart she held belonged to the tapestry of her life, entwined in ways that were as complex as the spirals of dragonfire. And as her children grew, so too did the weight of her choices, an unbreakable knot she must learn to navigate, balancing love and treachery, loyalty and longing.

—-------------------------------------------------

In the growing darkness of the evening, Visenya stood by the window, her long, silver-gold hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. She gazed out over Blackwater Bay, the waves crashing like the thoughts inside her mind. Her husband, Aegon, approached with a gentle smile, though the weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air.

“Visenya,” Aegon said, his voice soft, “what troubles you this evening?” 

She turned to him, her heart swelling with love for the man who was both her husband and a symbol of duty. “Naught but the uncertainty of the morrow, my dear Aegon. The realm feels restless. I fear storms are brewing, but not of the kind we prepare for,” she replied, feigning a smile. 

Unbeknownst to Aegon, Visenya felt her heart pulse hotly for his younger brother, Aemond. Aemond, with his fiery spirit and sharp wit, ignited a flame in her that she could not extinguish. Though she loved Aegon fiercely, it was Aemond who stirred her soul in ways she was hesitant to admit.

Just as she suffocated under the weight of her thoughts, the door swung open, and Aemond strode in, his sapphire eye glinting with mischief. “Our dear brother broods while the world turns, as always,” he remarked, casting a quick glance at Aegon before fixing his gaze on Visenya. “Shall we not partake in the joy of life while we can, my sweet sister-in-law?”

“Always the jester,” Aegon replied, though his smile was strained. “What joy can be found in revelry when the realm readies itself for war?”

“War, duty, duty, war,” Aemond mocked lightly. “You sound like our mother, brother.” There was a lingering tension in the air that Visenya felt too keenly.

“Stop this, Aemond,” Visenya interjected, speaking in High Valyrian, which Aegon didn’t entirely understand, looking to temper the air between the two brothers. “We should not jest of such things. We have each other; we have our children.”

Aegon nodded, the weight of concern still visible on his brow, while Aemond’s expression shifted to one that danced on the edge of something more dangerous. “And what will become of them?” Aemond’s voice dropped, a hint of something darker lurking beneath. “Are we to allow a sea of disputes to wash away their future?”

Visenya bristled at the thought. Her children needed a world of promise, not shackled by the chains of the past. Yet the more Aemond spoke, the more her heart wavered between affection for her husband and the forbidden pull towards the younger brother, whose ambitions were vast and whose eyes shone with desire. 

Weeks passed where words remained unspoken, but a certain tension was brewing in the Red Keep, there would be fire and blood, but the war within Visenya Targaryen still raged on.

—----------------------------------------

In the candlelit chambers of Aegon and Visenya, the air was thick with both warmth and tension. Visenya Targaryen sat at her vanity, the reflection of her silver hair bouncing off the polished surface. A soft knock interrupted her contemplation.

“Aegon,” she called, turning to fully face her husband, Aegon II, who stepped into the room. His presence filled the space with an uneasy mix of familiarity and distance.

“My love,” Aegon began, his voice a gentle rumble. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Thinking?” Visenya echoed, arching a brow. “You have a talent for that.” She offered a teasing smile, though her heart was heavy.

“Visenya, I wish to discuss… us.” He paused, searching her gaze for something he couldn’t quite define. “You hold the realms in your heart, but I…”

“Is it my love for our children that frightens you?” she interjected, the warmth in her voice slowly fading.

“No, no. It’s Aemond.” 

Visenya’s breath caught. Aemond—his younger brother—was both a flame that flickered dangerously close and a comfort that beckoned like an undertow. “What of Aemond?” she asked, trying to mask the tremor in her voice.

“He has grown reckless.” Aegon’s irritation surfaced. “He challenges authority as easily as he commands Vhagar. I fear—”

“Fear what? That he will dethrone you?” Visenya leaned forward, her emerald eyes piercing through the dim light. “You rule as king of Westeros, and he bears no crown.”

Aegon stepped closer, his brow knitting in concern. “Yet, in his heart lies the blood of the dragon—a flame that may consume what we hold dear. Our family is at stake, Visenya; our children… they deserve stability.”

“They deserve love,” she replied, her expression hardening. “Not just the kind you give, but the kind that includes passion.” The confession hung in the air like an unspoken vow, opening a chasm between them.

Aegon stiffened. “You love him, then?”

Visenya’s gaze fell to the floor. “Love is a flame, Aegon. It can warm the spirit or burn down all that you hold dear.”

Time passed slowly within Dragonstone as familial ties began to unravel. Aegon’s jealousy morphed into a simmering resentment, while intrigue danced around Visenya’s heart like a delicate waltz. 

Meanwhile, Aemond Targaryen, an embodiment of youthful ambition, found solace in the open skies, where his dragon, Vhagar, soared. He had always admired Visenya’s caring nature and what she brought to the family. Their secret meetings kindled something deep and forbidden, and as days turned into weeks, their connection intertwined with destiny.

Days turned into weeks, and then into months, shadows gathering around the Targaryens as they prepared for the inevitable clash between Rhaenyra's supporters and the impending forces that rose against her claim. Then came a day that would change…

—----------------------------------------------------------

The sun crested the horizon, shrouded in a soft blushing hue, contrasting the stormy clouds that loomed ominously nearby. Aemond rode Vhagar, chasing shadows and draconic dreams, unaware of the imminent collision path with tragedy.

“Lucerys!” Visenya’s brother, Lucerys Velaryon, tore through the skies riding his dragon, Arrax, defiance resonating through every flap of his wings. He was young, fierce, and willing to protect his mother’s legacy.

They met mid-air, the whispers of the firmament charged with the feud brewing below. 

“What brings a Velaryon to confront a Targaryen?” Aemond bellowed, a fierce grin etched across his face. The thrill of battle had summoned him; perhaps Fate would grant him the victory he craved.

“I will not yield to you or your brother, I stand here in honour of the Queen, Rhaenyra!” Lucerys shouted back. Behind him, the storm swelled, becoming a tempest to mirror their raging emotions.

“I have been waiting for this for a long time, my dear strong nephew.” Aemond spoke with his teasing nature, his eyepatch now removed with his sapphire eye shining in the moonlight of Storms End.

The two young dragons immediately headed for their fierce beasts, Vhagar and Arrax. With a fierce roar, Vhagar took flight, challenging Arrax with a display of power. Fire spewed forth as the dragons collided, the sky igniting around them.

“Enough Nephew!” Aemond cried out in their mother tongue, but exhilaration coursed through him and the storm clouds raged amongst him, losing sight of Luke for that moment. Cloud and fire danced in chaotic beauty as dragons unleashed their fury upon one another.

Lucerys, desperate, urged Arrax higher, staying vigilantly aware of his surroundings. “This is between us, Aemond! Fight like a man, not a beast!”

“A man?” Aemond mocked, fire swirling beneath him. “I choose the beast. Will you embrace your fate?”

The moment hung in the air, heavy with unfulfilled promises, desires unvoiced, and a storm of blood in the making. Suddenly, Aemond lunged forward, Vhagar's jaws seeking victory. Arrax couldn't evade; flames engulfed the sky, and with a chilling cry, Lucerys plummeted, joining the chaos below.

—------------------------------------------------

Upon hearing the news of her sweet, young brother’s death, Visenya’s world shattered. She could not escape the curtain call of sorrow nor the memories shared—the teasing laughter around a hearth now replaced with the chilling howl of anguish.

“Aemond, how could you?” she cried, her heart torn between love and despair as she confronted him.

He stood before her, fury and regret clashing within his gaze. “I did not seek this! The bloodlust of dragons consumed all”—his hands balled into fists—“he attacked me. You must understand.”

“I don’t wish to understand!” she shot back, tears trailing down her cheeks. “You have taken my brother. Do you know what you’ve ignited?”

“I have ignited nothing but truth, Visenya!” Aemond retorted, the air crackling between them. “We are Targaryens; we are destined for fire and blood!”

“Fire and blood,” she repeated, a bitter taste rising to her tongue. “You didn’t even see the flames consume his soul. Will it be my children next? I cannot let this continue.”

“Inaction will be their doom, just as Lucerys’s defiance led to his downfall.” Aemond stepped closer, anguish straining against the mask of confidence he wore.

Visenya turned away, lost within the storm surging in her heart. Death birthed a cycle; she would either embrace it or be consumed by it.

As she stood at the precipice of war, Visenya felt the first stirrings of the Dance of Dragons begin, a catastrophe whose burning embers loomed ominously above, threatening to set her world ablaze. 

What was once filled with love now echoed with battle cries, and the dance had begun, fueled by loyalty, passion, and heartache—a cycle that would devour them all.

(A/N) Let me know if I should do a part 2.

[bomberqueen17]

sewing and dyeing

I have managed to achieve some sewing!

I finished the silk dress from the yardage I'd dyed around Christmas, even hemmed it and everything, I feel very accomplished. So that's done.

And the linen bias-cut slip dress I made around Christmas, which I never wore anywhere because it was white-- I've managed to dye it, and it came out much more interesting than I'd expected! So, pictures and discussion behind the cut.

[image description: A mirror shot of me, a fat blonde white woman, in a grungy basement, wearing a clingy white knit tank top with a drapey cowl neck]

Firstly, I made this tank top (I bound the armholes, it looks nicer that way)-- started with the Cashmerette Wexford top, then used this tutorial from Threads Magazine to hack a cowl neck onto it. Ages ago I'd had a cowl neck sleevless top that I loved, and wore holes in, and couldn't find one again. So I used a yard or so of very slinky knit, probably some kind of rayon blend from Dharma would be my guess.

I tried it on, and immediately threw it in the soda ash solution to dye it because I don't need a white top like this, it'll get shit dripped on the tit immediately so I might as well give it a busy dye job. I will make more of this top in other fabrics, but 1) make the cowl just a bit longer so it drapes farther, and 2) make the self facing deeper, I feel like this one is going to flip out all the damn time.

I also think I'll hem this shorter, but I haven't hemmed it at all so far so it remains to be seen.

Secondly, I have nearly finished this button-up camp-collar shirt from the Cashmerette Club, in a natural linen that I have so many yards of from an old project I never did.

[image description: me in the same grubby cluttered mirror view of my basement, wearing a gray shirt, slightly wrinkly, with unfinished sleeve edges and I'm holding it shut because there aren't buttons on it yet. There are two breast pockets and one is significantly higher than the other.] So the breast pockets are optional and uh I am definitely only going to put one or zero on the next one of these I make because I checked and rechecked and rechecked and this is literally the best I could do at making them even??? ugh also they don't sit right because there's a bust dart and one of them went on ok and somehow the other one is overlapping the bust dart slightly, which means it's Not On Straight. Just.... not optimal. I get why there are pockets but I also super get why they're optional. No thanks!

I hate the interfacing too, it was awful to work with and feels like paper. But once I've finished and washed this I hope it will settle down. (In the past I've used shitty salvaged interfacing for things I was making, and used spray adhesive and sewed the edges where possible, and it worked fine. This, I splashed out and got the stuff in the package that's ostensibly meant to fuse on with your iron and guess what doesn't fucking work? that. So it's been just a nightmare and I'm not buying the nice stuff again because it fucking sucks. I get that you don't want to not interface the collar of a shirt like this, and the button band would be awful un-interfaced, but christ, I'm using the flimsy salvaged shit I cut out of an old bedskirt next time.

The directions on this pattern are... well as long as you know what they mean it's great. But there's a video sewalong, and that helped a ton. This is a very complicated pattern and yet somehow none of it has been beyond me, even though i sewed one bust dart inside-out first thing, and immediately also sewed the yoke to the back inside-out, and then right away also assembled the collar inside-out because I was so distracted by how much the interfacing did not actually fucking do what it was supposed to (yes i followed the package directions, no it did not fucking fuse). I got a lot of seam-ripping done, is all. (It really is a cool pattern, and if you manage to get through the directions, which are extremely specific, you wind up with a fully-finished interior with almost all the seam allowances beautifully enclosed-- it's cool as fuck.)

I have fabric already set aside to make at least two more of these. IDK how much I'll wear them but I love them. (I *have* coveted a shirt-dress for years, with one Almost Okay from Torrid that I wore a lot but have recently realized looks awful on me actually, so I will be making it a dress too, no fear.)

But then! Also: Dyeing!

So I looked on Dharma Trading for their tutorials and was not disappointed. I don't want to do traditional tie-dye, but I want the effect I got at Christmas with the silk scarves that I space-dyed. I don't have to steam-set fiber-reactive dyes, so that's a plus.

I saw this tutorial on dharma for ombre dyeing and I'm super gonna try that next, but haven't yet.

Tie Dye Tutorial on Dharma Trading: this is the one I used as a starting point.

So I dissolved a cup of soda ash in a gallon of warm water, put that in a plastic bucket, and soaked my fabric for 5-15 minutes, and then I decided to do a kind of gravity-based thing with squirt bottles and a spray bottle. I hung a clothes hanger from the gas pipe in the ceiling, put a big plastic mortar tub underneath, put a smock on myself, mixed up my dyes (and urea and in some cases salt, as directed by dharma the all-knowing-- half-cup batch size for the squirt bottles, and quarter-cup sizes for the spray bottle), and got to work one garment at a time.

I put some pleats into the garments and held them with clothes pins. Then I sort of "drew" along the pleats, picking a color to be the tops, and a second color to squirt into the valleys. I filled in with the spray bottle to highlight the pleats more, since that would hit the outer parts of the folds but the interior would be shadowed and stay white; then I could go draw in those white areas with my shadow color.

Everything then would drip down toward the hem of the garment, though there wasn't really that much movement; if I wanted a drip to cascade, i had to draw it down there myself with the squeeze bottle.

[image description: two squeeze bottles with narrow nozzles, and a spray bottle of more rigid plastic with a pump-dispenser top, sitting on top of a piece of stained scrap fabric on an old washing machine with tubs of dye powder sitting in the background.]

I also did a shirt where I spread it out on a rack in a pan at an angle, and sprinkled a mixture of dye powder and salt on it. Then I went and used the squirt bottles too, but it was a fun technique and I'd use it again.

[image description: a garment lies in loose folds, speckled with dark blue-green spots, and at the top decorated in splotches of blue and green.]

I wrapped the garments in plastic, and put the smaller ones into plastic bags, and then hung them outside in the sun so that a) the dye would flow downward rather than backstaining the areas I'd meant to leave white, and b) the sun would warm them so the dye could cure, and c) the plastic would keep them wet because the dye only chemically sets while damp.

Let them cure for 24h, and then today I brought them in and rinsed them for about a thousand years, and then washed them and gave them a soak and rinse in dye-fixative, then dried them on the line.

Here is the linen bias-cut slipdress I made at Christmas time, dry and ironed.

[image description: a dress on a hanger, with my hand pulling out one side of the skirt: the straps and neckline are bright emerald green, and then the body is streaked vertially with varying shades of green, teal, and dark blue, with a little purple at the hemline. The colors are light and a little muted, and some white shows between them in a few places.]

The linen took the dye lightest, the cotton a little darker, and a small offcut of rayon I'd had sitting around took the dye darkest of all.

here's everything still damp on the line:

[image description: under a blue sky, a metal clothes-tree-style line on the left has several small items in shades of green and turquoise, and then a line crosses the screen from right to left through the middle, with several items hanging on it. In the background are two cotton dresses, one mostly teal and the other green at the top with a white and purple skirt, then the linen dress from above in the middle, and closest to the camera is a mostly-quite sheet of fabric with geometric lines in green, blue, and purple.]

The foreground fabric is the rayon, and I sandwiched it between two blocks of wood with rubber bands holding it in place, and just saturated the edges with dyes. I'm extremely into it, it came out beautifully. i have more rayon so I am going to make something from that to ombre-dye, for sure.

I have severely overdone my physical activity the last two days though; I lay awake for a couple of hours the other night with my sciatic nerve just burning, and I expect the same tonight. We'll see though, maybe I'lll be pleasantly surprised, or just lucky.

Oh yah I'm trialing Ritalin, but just like the other medications, it's such a low dose and it's not extended-release. I looked up how to take it and the directions assumed I'd been given two or three pills to get through a day. Not so! So I have about four medicated hours in a day, and keep experimenting with where to put them. I don't notice it wearing off the way I did with Adderall though, so there's that at least.

Maybe by the end of May I can try a full dose of something, and see if that helps. IDK, it seems like it might.

[melestasflight]

27. there was now no returning, Mithrim Lake

for @polutrope. 600ish words of Maglor, Maedhros, and Fingolfin at Mithrim Lake. Warnings for physical disfigurement, mental instability, and deliberation on murder.

there was now no returning

Maglor stared at the torpid form of the stranger Fingon had delivered on eagle’s back. It was the resting, recovering body of his brother, he knew that in some small corner of his mind, but the entirety of the rest of himself struggled to reconcile Maitimo with this. He bit his cheek to a bleed to prevent himself from acknowledging the words that his barely restrained repulsion was coining.

It was not easy to consider him like this, in a deep stupor that left him defenseless. The ugliness of his figure blindingly displayed, a grotesque exposition of Morgoth’s dark art. Still, Maglor much preferred it to the waking hours that inevitably brought the burning gaze of those yellowed eyes. The yellow that was firmly winning the battle against the clean silver grey that Maglor’s own eyes contained also. Its hue was not the one of joyful summer, of sweet ripe fruit. It was sickly rather, the sooty yellow of active decay.

Worse than that was the sharp-toothed grin that appeared at the most inappropriate moments. This thing, which was once Maglor’s brother whose smile could win over even the most tactful lords, now laughed at his own warped ideas of how the creatures of the enemy could be annihilated most effectively and thoroughly.

Not for the first time, Maglor wondered if Fingon would have done a kinder act by releasing his arrow when he had the chance. But there was now no returning the miracle Thorondor had granted. The only thing left to decide was what should be done now. First and foremost, the crown demanded a resolution. Maglor himself had never worn it, never wanted it, though he had ruled all these years with the iron fist these lands demanded.

He recalled his father with that crown, its gold too clean, too brilliant against the filth of blood and ash upon Fëanáro’s brow. Míriel’s madness awoken fully in her son, growing until it had consumed him whole. Maglor shuttered at the thought of that crown resting now upon the head of one whose lungs were still filled with the foul air of Thangorodrim.

It had to be prevented, at all costs. Now was an opportunity better than any.

There was a small bottle of deadly nightshade tincture by the bedside table. A drop was given for a dreamless rest. Four drops could put down a grown horse. Maglor quieted his internal song to a whisper and took a careful step forward, nerves taut as a bowstring.

When suddenly the heavy flap of the tent was opened behind him, he held back a scream through sheer willpower. But it was too late. Fingolfin stood by the entrance as one stricken and he had already caught Maglor’s intention. He had made himself too vulnerable, his thoughts too raw about him.

Unmovable, they gaped at each other for a long moment. A confession and an understanding. None would know it but the two of them. It could be a shared secret that would keep their mouths bound. And a burden carried by two would be easier to live with.

Neither had dared move even a finger when the slumbering body stirred by Maglor’s side.

‘Laurë… Laurë… Where is Makalaurë?’ He was calling for Maglor in his waking haze. 

Overwhelming pity rattled Maglor to the bones, and all at once, his resolve snapped as easily as a dry twig beneath a heavy boot. ‘I am here, I am right by you.’ He choked back a sob and grasped the bony hand reaching for him.

When their gazes met again, Maglor found an echo of his own pity in Fingolfin. They both knew it then, with the crystal clarity of Mithrim's waters in the morning light. The crown would find its place upon Fingolfin’s brow. It was for Fingolfin to rule in the West, and for Maglor to hold the East together.

‘Here, Nelyo, sit up.’ A new resolve formed itself in Maglor’s heart as he brought a glass of sweet water to his brother’s lips.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

[meli-writes]

Truth to be Dared - Ch. 05

(First) / (Previous)

/// CW: brief groping and non-consensual impact play in separate scenes. ///

Tin-tin-Tin-ting.

The Great Hall summons its petitions. It should be matters of regular import — if late due to her absence, as the Princess suffers as little of her Regent, his rule, on his wooden chair as she can — to whom peasant and lord should attend in one-to-three-fourths arrangement.

Alas, her faun at her side, there are none but fools here today — besides herself.

Tin-ting. Ting-tin-Ting.

Ten-dozen knights — unbattled, to whom this is the most fearsome sight — criss-cross the hall with pavise in hand, as to wind her noisome, noble circus-seekers towards her as a soft-bellied snake, poised to pounce, with prattle that never ceases to bore.

Not that Florentina expected otherwise. It is true — that she promised her faun some peace. But sometimes a circus is willed, and she will hush them and be heard:

You have no right to me—

Tin-ting. Tin.

Ah— Yes. Those. It’s a wondrous sound, is it not? The bells. An entire hour to affix them, with Esme’s assistance; a half-dozen per horn, red ribbons with miniature, brass chimes.

That sort one mounts upon a cat you wish not to mouse, here now to be pleasant as her faun writhes and finds it not so; perhaps it will teach it to be still. Till then, a delight to fill one’s hours amidst another unclever remark, and another, and another, that implies the Bishop’s words — her Uncle’s, come now — might still bear fruit.

The word seed comes to purplish, wine-stained lips too often. Then soon its prickish cousin, seeding: an unpleasant conjugation, one that had never seemed to suit her. More sooner, as more the man she thinks, should the Princess bed her suitors instead.

Tin-tin-tin-Tinnn. Ting-tin.

So she gestures to a pair of cages: the one between its legs, and the one it’s in — wrought for a songbird, though sized for a cockatrice stuffed on a thousand of them. Her faun itself, wrist-bound-in-ribbon to its peak, made to perch on its hooves, after it had dared butt its horns upon the bars and lurch its claws at Esme.

Strange it was, that her handmaiden had still looked upon it with a wordless sorrow.

Tin-tin.

No matter the now, as each petitioner requests the same; and sups their hands on thigh and breast, pulls at its horns and sees how close their fingers can be afore it bites.

If it does, it will be their Gods-damned fault for reaching in so far.

But it never does. Its wrists chafe on silk and it looks smaller for each courtier that thrusts at it; each one that looks to it and then droops as iron in the forge, slaves themselves to it like a flower to the sun; a moment that starts to madden her, for its bewildering recurrence.

Yet afore she can ever act, it stops.

Some sneer at it then, others whimper; one cousin-of-another fumbles an attempt to slap it and Florentina has to half-rise from her throne to make them scatter. Some former suitors dare show themselves, though do not as others do offer gifts in exchange for it.

“Dowries?” she mentions, to see those ones choke on the ash of their obvious, shared scheme; that she would do what, trade her kingdom for a faun?

Ting-tin-ting. Tin. Tin-tin-Ting.

She has both.

Though none see the latter as much beautiful, nor even as the prize it is. Too proud to see what’s in front of their own nose. For amidst the pupil-pinched wickedness in its goatish glare — and its still-vexing insistence on spurious disobedience — it is otherwise so soft, and cannot hide it now: so begging to be tamed.

The sun, ever drawn to the horizon, slips across the hall till hours-past it rests on her stone seat, and she feels herself an egg fried atop the stove. She pilfers her mind for what courtesies, less and less pleasantries also, will hurry the next one on, and rubs her bloomed impatience into the signet ring — symbol of the dynasty that is, for now, still hers.

That none of them, she thinks more and more, will ever bow to again.

Tin-tin. Ting-tin-ting.

Who would ever come to bow to a circus? Lady Relbert arrives near to the tail, as Florentina expects; to question the Princess who last saw her lord-husband; to inspect the foul beast that slew him. Florentina restrains herself in the hot, overmade chair — though cannot help but wonder her gaze across the Lady Relbert, who dresses not quite so proper as one should in mourning, and watches — to see what she sees.

It recurs in half; the Lady deigns not approach it more than she would the Princess and she does not droop, but creases like worn velvet, “Afore perhaps I could, but now I cannot fathom such a creature could kill my husband, why she—” and stills, as dress-folds rustle.

“My Lady?” Florentina inquires, and the Lady stumbles.

“Goodness. Yes,” she responds, startled. “I was just thinking of how dearly I’ll miss him.”

Her faun chortles at that, and Florentina tenses till she realises the Lady has taken either no offence… or no notice, and excuses herself — and leaves the Princess to her bells.

---

It is a—

Ting-tin-ting.

It’s a—

Tin-tin-ting. Ting.

It— is— a— dreadful sound.

Tin-ting. Tin-tin.

And has been so for days.

Ting-tin-Tin.

It is leashed now, near to the hearth, where an iron anchor-loop has been sunk low into the wall. The delicate chain that leads from it trims a pool of loose furs and spare pillows which one might have mistaken for a sleepover — were Florentina still small enough, and ever been allowed the friends for it.

She has retired her faun, as promised. Yet still—

Tin-ting. Ting-tin-Ting.

Still — it will not stop. She has tried to remove the bastardly-twee chimes, but it will not let her close. Instead, it snorts at her flame-licked shadow and bucks even a cautious touch.

It had allowed Esme to sit aside; she had asked it, politer than she ever was to Florentina, if she could untie the ribbons. Her faun had been silent — as if it would not be — and Esme turned, “Can you give her some space, Florrie?”

A step-then-another back did not suffice.

“Give us space,” Esme had instructed, and Florentina creaked.

It stared as she retreated, pupils square as the time-buckled dais that props up her chair; what whispers she might’ve stolen crushed aneath the uncertain squeal of her routed boots.

Esme followed into the bedchamber soon after — been turned on after a twinkled bell did not come loose. “She’ll come round on the morrow.”

To let it, as if it would.

Because that’s how you treat a girl.

Ting-tin-ting-Tin-tin.

As if it isn’t mocking her — a revenge it culls somehow from barren soil, to make for her one sleepless night after the next.

Never to its own folly, of course not. Each dawn that breaks does so on bare brick and its flocculent bosom, that trembles as a leveed brook swoll with sallow-hearted dreams; never to wake afore she must leave — to her circus, that will not cease in its absence.

How could it have? To bow to a circus.

And her its Court Fool — as she refuses the countless latesome requests of distant courtiers travelled to see it, whose dispelled, now perfunctious tributes will beget weak tithes when harvest comes; as she denies her Uncle’s renewed proposals, this time to loose her faun in the gardens and host a do-over — and let all her past suitors shoot at it.

The Spectre-Saint of Jesters-Past could not have played her better. If the prophecy isn’t false, it must be Hers. To one Lord she dismisses it, and he thinks it gives him a chance; to another she embraces it — and the Bishop’s words are taken even less true.

To whomst Cock hath seed even been blessed!?

Her faun didn’t catch itself, now did it? She did. Though her recollection of it now seems wan and waxen, and muddles her to recall it. She recounts it to herself, as if its details might slip from her, as another of her misfortunes steps before her seat.

Tin-Ting-tin-Tin. Tin-tin.

Her words as hollow to them as those wretched chimes, deeds as held in her hands as the wind that rustles them. There will be a thirteenth suitor — and she cannot accept him, no matter how dire it would be not to. No amount of chances she’s been permitted by her ancestors' laws would ever have been enough; no suitor will ever suit her.

How can they not see her fate will never be theirs?

Her body.

Her throne.

Tin-tin-Tin. Ting-tin. Tin.

Perhaps then, when the ancient rules simply run out — she can kill them all instead; turn on them her retreat, that she has fought since her line ended without her, as each step back has never sufficed, up against a march that her faun could not falter — even for a day.

Tin-ting-Ting-tin.

She feels the wall at her back. No, she could never have done—

Ting-tin-ting. Tin. Tin-tin-Ting.

“Enough!” she bellows, and is across chambers to the hearth in so few strides she could be ahorse a destrier; her shift cackling in moon-and-hearthlight, in indecisive hue. “I could have forgiven the disobeisance, but for me to have saved you, protected you, despite how useless you turn out to have been!?"

Tin-Ting-tin. Tin—

Her hands charge, to where her faun’s own tousle at a chime, to take horn-in-hand and force it face-down into the pillows, where its startled bleat is smothered.

Tih-tih-tihh.

Its curls — those have melted, in the hearthfire, drawn down to shapeless fluff. Her hands run through, from nape-to-a-scut that flickers as a wind-bitten candle. Her claws grasp at its softness in ill-restrained frets, and she rakes its short tail like a second leash, till its whole rear-self hobbles onto the tiles — till it’s presented to her, to drink in as uncorked wine.

She raises her hand.

Tihh-tih.

“You’ll learn first to be still!”

Tih.

And it falls, on her faun— Smack!

It bells without chimes, that weep dull in their cushioned grave. It scrabbles on the stone, no purchase in the Princess’ horn-hold — can but lurch out its throat, an apple bowed low on its branch, and she is a teeth-bare hound on a thread-bare leash, “Oh. I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

Smack! Smack! Tih. Tih.

“That’s much too bad,” she unsoothes, and presses into the shamed flesh; nails carving like a fork into plumpened, roasted fowl. To part the fur, to see its skin.

Smack! Tihh.

It needs to be red.

“Because you’ll need then learn to nod and to-do when I ask.

As a pleasant—”

Smack!

“And guileless—”

Smack!

“Girl—”

Smack!

“Should!”

Smack!

Tih. Tih. Tih. Tihh!

“Because this is how you’ll be treated,” she cries, and its skin glows as it sinks into pillows like hot iron; and she feels all its smith. “For nothing you can do will ever suffice.”

Her hand rises.

“So you’ll learn at last, to bow.”

Tih-tih.

And falls, and—

Ting! Tin-tin-tin.

Her wrist falls into its hand; its tail slips from her, candle-in-wind.

And the faun stills.

The Princess' chest billows its own ashen smoke to choke herself upon; she cannot look past her own nose as it twists on itself to face her — wrought cold-as-stone, buckled under her — but she sees the tears.

It sobs, far less than it should, for how sodden it all seems — pillows and fur.

And the Princess knows what it should sound like. She had hunted with her father, before his end; pleaded that until she had a brother that he simply must tutor her in the bloodied matter, lest he grow dull — and it was moreso then the length of her argument, than its merits, that won.

The felling of a doe was never a sound that left her. It is what she expects, but the faun—

It cries like a girl.

And then it’s all she can hear, and she does not understand how it could’ve been so silent.

Tin-tin. Tin.

Then she can hear the bells; fumbles at a dresser, till she seeks a stout blade and shows it.

Faded light dulls its edge, as she kneels aside and waits on it to nod, lets it bow its head — as it did when she collared it, amidst the leaves wet. Does not demand she hand it over, as she did when it collared itself — amidst its blood.

Red.

She cuts.

Tin-Tink! Tin-Tink! Tin-Tink!

Each bell tumbles to the floor, till she can cast herself and faun aside; where the crimson ribbon falls in gushes upon its hooves, and she sits across, head tipped back to the wall. There isn’t a scratch on it, but she thumbs at the blade till she’s bitten.

Trapped in this place. Fate sold to other hands, taken up in them.

You have more right to your hate, than I do mine-own throne.

Yet still, when she can at last bear to see, it looks back as only a doll can: a gaze it returns only because you have wandered into its own. Till, at merciful last, one lost bell slips from a pillow, to which it breaks — to steal and place it tentatively with the other discarded lot.

Tin.

She rises, and it lets her close.

Its horns feel petite in her hands, which slip off its seed-oiled surface. The collar sits loose around its neck, rested on upright shoulders, and sunken into so much clouded fluff she thinks it must be half the size its appears to be.

Its eyes flicker, in indecisive form.

Those pinched-square pupils, that bedecked it in ill intent, round into a pale iridescence that turns back on her the cold moonlight. Then pinch, then round; pinch-then-round; tears stall and flow; pinch-and-round, of-goat-then-girl; till it’s a blur in her skull that the Princess wants to rip out.

Her hand tumbles; doesn't realise it has fallen into the faun's own, until she squeezes on reflex and is holding the other. There are no more bells. The night stills.

Florentina closes her eyes, and they are still full of hers.

Lost, and pled to be understood. She bucks on the thought she might; retreats her hand into herself, herself — into the other chamber.

She does not sleep.

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

originally written on cohost 22/08/2024, in respone to Making-up-Monsters' prompt:

Monster who won't do what you tell it

[itwaskozki]

Hark, Lord Impaler - Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own any of characters or events from Elden Ring.

Author’s Notes: A little 800 words as a start. Just a little setup for the story that our main character will reminisce on quite often. Also, thanks @asianbutnotjapanese for being one of the few people interested!

Summary: Messmer saves a human child during an attack on a hornsent settlement.

Warnings: Violence, depictions of blood/wounds, depictions of war

Smoke swirled in the air like an evil veil, heavy and black, shrouding the town once bustling with everyday activity in a menacing darkness. The light illuminating the streets was not that of the setting sun, but the red glow of wild flames. The air was thick with the smell of burning; burning buildings, burning flesh. Charred bodies littered the ground, others were still dying. The wailing of women and children pierced through the clashing of steel and shouting of soldiers like the swords and spears ripping through bellies.

Messmer the Impaler watched this chaos ensue with no expression. The hornsent at his feet spasmed, attempting to curse his killer with its final breath, but all that came out was gurgling nonsense as blood bubbled from its mouth. The leader of the crusade pulled his wicked spear from the hornsent– its blood pooling at his feet– death throes now finished. 

Be it one man, be it a whole city; even the most horrific killing could become nothing more than a chore, given time.

The red serpents craned their heads around, observing the genocide– for this was no battle– on behalf of Messmer. Messmer saw through their eyes, as they were one with his body since birth, and he had no eyes of his own. Not anymore. Not since his mother gouged his only working eye and replaced it with her own seal. His fist gripped his spear tighter as his mind drifted to that memory. 

No, he should not feel anger, or dare he say hurt. That had been for the best. He was a danger to his mother and her Golden Order otherwise. He was a monster, and she had been right to seal that dark serpent away inside of him. Mother understood though, and would let him into her golden lands soon enough. Just as soon as he avenged her people.

A serpent hissed and Messmer blinked his way back to reality to see a child, wrists bound in rope, raise a dagger and plunge it into the back of her captor. The demigod raised his hand to kill her with his cursed fire when he realized she slew a hornsent, not one of his men. Not just a child, but a human child, and therefore someone he was obligated not to kill, perhaps even save.

The girl was rather scrawny, covered in grime and blood, and could be no older than four and ten. Perhaps the hornsent had taken her to be stuffed in a jar and melded as the savages did with so many.  Her eyes were wide with fear that was only amplified tenfold when she saw Sir Messmer. She trembled from terror and exhaustion but otherwise didn’t move, torn between awe and horror at the sight of the demigod until something finally pulled her attention away from him and had her try to run. She didn't make it far before she tripped over an object concealed with soot. The ash plastered to her skin as she wildly turned around to see a towering horned warrior of the hornsent slowly approach her, raising its great iron sword to cleave her in half, paying Messmer no mind, if it had seen him at all.

Messmer threw his spear at the warrior, killing it in a single shot. The spear skewered the hornsent with a splatter of blood and lodged itself firmly into the ground until the Impaler summoned it back to his hand. The body fell to the ground with a thud. He ambled to where the girl had fallen and let a serpent extend to allow him a better look. Her body lay limp and unconscious, her breathing rasped softly, the only indication of life in her yet. Blood– whether it was her own or another’s– had seeped into her clothes, dying the shawl around her shoulders a dark red, as if a gruesome mockery of Messmer’s own garment. Perhaps it was a sign from Marika. If so, it was a cruel one, but– he thought with a grimace– it was not outside of his mother’s nature to be cruel…far from it.

Her eyes fluttered open briefly and she groaned in pain. Messmer took a moment to locate one of his men, simultaneously noticing the battle was beginning to dwindle like the flames devouring the buildings. 

“Soldier,” he addressed the first of his men to come close, “Dost deliver this child unto one who may tend to her health.”

The soldier nodded in acknowledgment and came to carefully lift the girl in his arms and carry her off. Messmer watched as they faded out of view into the mist of cinders and ash. Once he had gotten to regrouping his troops and having it made sure that no hornsent remained alive, the girl was quickly forgotten. She did not cross his mind again until they were far from the smoldering ruins.

The Impaler looked at his most trusted knights, their armor gleaming, scarlet capes flowing behind them, untouched by most of the filth of battle. He thought again of the girl’s blood-soaked cloth and decided to thank his mother for the supposed sign.

Perhaps there was use to be made of that child yet.

[fanofstuff01]

Hiya!!! I had this dumb idea where Melody WASN'T supposed to be Charlie's music teacher lol: basically in the royal palace the servitude has different amulets for those who's soul belong to lilith or lucifer.

Melody was dropping by to visit Adam at the palace and found lucifer'a medallion nearby a bush ( and ashes cause that demon dared smacking Adam's behind to " flirt " and Lucifer oblitered him from existence ) so she goes " uuuuuuh, shiny~" and puts it on; immediately the jewel locks on her neck and Lucifer is alerted he has a new soul bound to him so he goes check it out and finds this whimsical imp lady petting the carnivore plants of the garden.

Lucifer ".....you know you have to work for me now right?"

Melody ".....Can i work with Adam? He is super duper nice!"

Lucifer * relaxes cause gets the hint she is not interested in him that way* " what do you do?"

Melody " i sing and play instruments!"

Lucifer " you are hired "

Melody * autism creature sound * " YIPPIEEEE!!"

Lmao that’s ironically funny.

Amulet idea is also cool! @things-arent-what-they-seem66 what do you think? (Adam definitely doesn’t have a semi heart-shaped pendant one that symbolizes his soul is on Lucifer lol)

Maybe not immediately bonds her soul to Lucifer but Lucifer is alerted that the worker he blew out has returned and then he sees Melody.

So he offers her a job here since she always pops up to see Adam anyway.

[gemwing1988]

🧜🏻‍♀️🌊 The Misty Mermaid Review 💧🫧

The Misty Mermaid is one of my favourite episodes way back in Pokémon Indigo League, the very first series in the Pokémon anime series that started it all for my life of devotion to the franchise. And it is also one of my favourite episodes to centre around Misty where she has a moment to shine. And it also serves a bit of potential foreshadowing of her own evolution into the mature, competent and responsible Cerulean Gym Leader than all three of her older sisters combined.

What started out as a quick stop at Misty’s home at the Cerulean to give her Horsea a bigger place to swim around in than a small fountain, her older sisters, Daisy, Violet and Lily, had opened a new underwater ballet titled “The Magical Mermaid”, revealing Misty to be in the starring role as the titular mermaid… without her consent.

After some persuasion from Daisy, Misty reluctantly accepts the role and immediately has to get up to speed with the script and what she needed to do.

Meanwhile, Team Rocket are up to no good as usual, planning to steal some valuable Pokémon. Upon spotting the promo poster of the Cerulean Sisters’ show, the Terrible Trio decided to make a tidal wave of trouble to make the show a total washout (pun not intended) and rob them blind of all of the Water Pokémon.

The following night of the performance, the first act of The Magical Mermaid went without a hitch as Misty performed so well as she swam and danced with all of the Pokémon performing, most especially some of her own Pokémon as well as her sisters’ Seel.

However, just as the first act was drawing the close, Violet and Lily, who were taking the role of a pair a of wicked pirates who take the Mermaid hostage, demanding her to reveal to them the location of hidden treasure, Team Rocket barged in to ruin everything.

In Act 2 of the play, Team Rocket literally stole the show as Jessie and James wore outfits that didn’t fit the theme of the performance (but it comes off hilariously silly to see James dressed in a pink tutu while he comments about “stealing men’s clothes next time).

As Misty struggles to protect the Pokémon Team Rocket attempted to steal, Ash Brock and Pikachu literally dived in to lend their friend a hand, filling in for Daisy’s place as the hero of the story. It was originally intended for Daisy, playing as a handsome prince who would rescue the Mermaid from the pirates, but she had to tend to her younger sisters, who had been bound, gagged and stuffed in one of the lockers by Team Rocket’s meddling.

This episode also shows that Jessie’s Arbok puts up a better fight than usual and came almost close to overpowering the heroes’ Pokémon given the close all with its fight with Horsea. And it also reveals that Misty’s Psyduck, ironically, can’t swim despite being a Water-Type when her sisters thought it was a good idea to have him join in the fray.

When Jessie grows sick of the battle, she calls in the big guns and orders Arbok to use Poison Sting to finish the good guys off. I think that must have been a dub error since Arbok just bared its fangs and tried to take a bite out of the heroes’ Pokémon. Just as Arbok had them cornered, Seel steps in and reveals it’s a very strong fighter as Misty takes command of the attacks.

After landing a few strong hits, Seel suddenly evolves into a Dewgong and easily curb-stomped Arbok and Ice Beamed Team Rocket. After pulling all of the Water Pokémon safely out of the water, Ash has Pikachu use an epic Thundershock on the water, shocking the still frozen Jessie, James and Arbok, shattering the ice and they explode out the water. After a powerful tail slap from Dewgong, they were literally thrown back into Meowth and their hot air balloon, blasting off once again.

Despite Team Rocket’s interference, The Magical Mermaid was a huge hit. However since Misty still has to leave home and continue travelling with her friends, her sisters decided to each take turns as the main character. They also requested her to leave some of her Pokémon to stay with them at the Gym for a while, partly to help out with their show. So, we sadly have to say goodbye to Misty’s Horsea and Starmie.

After an interesting experience in a ballet they would never forget, our heroes departed Cerulean City and continue on their journey to Viridian City in the quest for Ash to win his 8th and final Gym Badge so he can finally compete in the Pokémon League.

While there might be some flaws and errors here and there, I personally enjoyed this episode since I have a soft spot for mermaids since years of watching Disney’s The Little Mermaid. And Misty looked so pretty with longer hair and her mermaid costume was so cute.

Happy MerMay everyone and may your dreams shine. ✨

[kordeliiius]

I remember reading an old theory suggesting that the Lady creates masks of out human ashes, and uses them to control her shadow children. I can see the motif coming back around in TCOM not just because of the smoke-filled, post-industrial setting and obvious parallels to SOTM, but also because of the incense symbol.

I'd previously written about the possible meanings behind the 3-spoked emblem in TCOM's title logo (which I didn't give much thought to until after incorporating it in more character designs, but live and learn I guess), and one such idea says they represent incense sticks because they emit smoke in the teaser. Referencing this particular act of honoring the dead makes sense because this is a world where the human soul is known to actually exist. Except it must be ironic because the Corp has no respect for the dead whatsoever. In Metronome the lower class continues to be abused even beyond their deaths, with souls being effectively stripped from their now husk-like bodies and both halves are set to perform a unique role. This exact premise was reused for the Maw, with SOTM shedding light on both halves of the whole being.

If you want to believe that souls are being bound by the command of someone more powerful via ashes, I raise you the idea of the Corp using ashes for their machinery: inventing unique metal alloys and various structures that spirits can't escape from, because they're technically still contained by their rightful bodies. Or maybe if the right ashes are hard to obtain (considering the actual bodies are still in-tact as metrognomes), then maybe the photographs or a new branded incense or some other material fills that role. All things considered, the 3-spoked symbol likely doesn't hold as much relevance as it used to... At this point I'm rambling, I just think it'd be neat if we took cues from the successor for a change.

[mariacallous]

With the benefit of long memories, we can confidently say that never in the history of the Palestinian-Israeli tragedy has the situation been as dire or perilous as it is today. But never has there been greater clarity about the essential components of a future peace settlement.

What sets apart the recent atrocious events—the horrific Hamas attack on Israel that killed over 1,100 people and the ongoing, belligerent Israeli response on Gaza, which has killed over 25,000 Palestinians—is that they have reopened deep wounds for both peoples: for Israeli Jews of the Holocaust; for Palestinians the Nakba, or “catastrophe.” Both peoples are in psychological turmoil, and emotions are exceptionally raw.

When the cannons eventually fall silent, the reckonings will begin. Hamas is currently enjoying a spell of popularity among traumatized Palestinians, but will it ever be forgiven for the death and destruction it recklessly—and almost certainly knowingly—provoked? Caught woefully off-guard on Oct. 7, 2023, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu may have the country behind him in pursuit of Hamas, but for how long will he be able to stay the course once a semblance of normality is restored?

Sooner or later, after decades of suffocating Israeli occupation, there was bound to be a seismic explosion, but not necessarily in the form it took. Hamas could have chosen instead to emulate the largely nonviolent border protests it had itself orchestrated some five years earlier, but to greater effect this time in light of its resourceful thwarting of Israel’s electronic surveillance barriers. Had they come unarmed in their thousands to explain and not to kill, Palestinians’ pleas for freedom and equality could instantly have been broadcast across the land and further afield and could have had a profound impact on the political climate in Israel and fostered new political currents.

By choosing a violent path instead, Hamas instantly nullified its long-term strategic goal to be accepted by world governments as a legitimate interlocutor in any discussions about the future. While the group might claim some tactical benefits, Oct. 7 will be seen as a massive act of self-sabotage when the dust settles.

In its vindictive reflex response, the Israeli war cabinet likewise abandoned the strategy that had been pursued for years of bolstering Hamas’s rule in Gaza to forestall the prospect of a Palestinian state on the West Bank and Gaza under a unified leadership. The new aim—to destroy every vestige of Hamas—was not the outcome of rigorous strategic thinking but a spontaneous lashing out by the supposed guardians of Israel’s security.

The new goal is not just ill-thought-out. It is also unattainable, although it is not beyond Israel’s leaders to keep moving the goal posts to enable them at some point to declare victory. Rather than destroying Hamas, the relentless battering of Gaza and its entrapped inhabitants is more likely to act as a recruiting sergeant for the organization. This, in turn, is Israel’s own act of self-sabotage.

Israel also had choices. In the light of the new era in which the state had acquired official relations with a growing number of Arab countries, a robust, inclusive, regional response could potentially have been swiftly devised. The outcome would almost certainly have been less destructive and more effective than Israel’s unilateral military response. It might have avoided the deaths of thousands and led to the release of the Israeli and foreign hostages captured by Hamas on Oct. 7.

For all this, the prospects of a new peace process emerging from the ashes of the present wretchedness may, ironically, have been enhanced by recent events, for two main reasons.

First, the common fallacy that the Palestinians are a defeated people and that the Palestinian issue could be sidelined has been exposed as the nonsense it always has been. Second, the related illusion that the conflict could be managed or contained has been shattered. It cannot be. It has to be resolved, for otherwise there will be more explosions with the resulting toxins continuing to overflow into the rest of the world. There is no way of resolving this conflict without Israel fully ending its decades-old occupation of the West Bank and the siege of Gaza, so that the Palestinians may be free to exercise their self-determination and live in freedom and dignity.

Since the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, every seismic explosion of violence related to the conflict has sparked moves toward peace, even if, in some cases, they ultimately failed to reach fruition: The 1967 war itself prompted a steady evolution in Palestinian attitudes toward accepting a Palestinian state alongside Israel instead of in place of Israel; the 1973 war led to the Egypt-Israel peace treaty six years later; the First Intifada in 1987 culminated in the Oslo Accords in the 1990s, which, at the time, were widely believed to herald a new era of peace based on two states; and the Second Intifada in 2000 triggered the 2002 Arab Peace Initiative, with its offer to Israel of full recognition by all 22 members of the Arab League, in exchange for Palestinian statehood on the West Bank and Gaza, with East Jerusalem as its capital.

As for the future, the wheel need not be reinvented. Peace between sovereign states can only be achieved through a cooperative relationship between the Arabian Peninsula and the Levant. This is the only course of action to end the current nightmare of violence and brutality.

All the vital ingredients for such a settlement and peace in the Middle East were set out in the aforementioned Arab Peace Initiative, which has also been endorsed by the Organization of Islamic Cooperation. It urgently needs to be revived—and revised if warranted—and energetically promoted from within the region to the Israeli and Palestinian people who, in the wake of Oct. 7, both need credible assurances of their safety, security, and acceptance in the region that—in the end—is their home.

[quintiliusheartripper]

People with revenant characters!!! I am curious if any of your characters have custom legends in their story/lore. If you dont have custom legends i want to hear about your characters relationship to and ways of using the ones that are canon.

My own examples:

Tryphon my pirate captain charr often calls on legendary pirates from the past. Originally i had a name of one from in game but i can no longer remember who they were or what i searched to find them lol.

Also because Im mean and i like putting my mental health onto him he has one spirit that talks to him that is a leak and link from his ptsd.

The only canon one he has is Ventari due to his close ties with sylvari. This is to boost his healing abilities for his crew

Melanthios, my formerly ash legion charr, in the same warband as crucita(quints dame) who awoke blind and unsure of where he was DOES call on kalla for arrows. He knows the general location of people from sound and smell and vibrations but arrows made of the mists and from the mists take their aim through kalla.

His other legends are from charr history as well. Bathea havocbringer helping him guide his weapons, Heirophant Burntsoul much to his disgust being used for his healing magic(as he was part monk classed), and the first Ash Legion Imperator, cub of the Khan Ur to help him with stealth, honed in from the time humans took ascalon.

I also like to imagine that these characters have retained some of their old magic and both are ironically gaurdians originally but with two different ways of using that magic. Tryphon healed others while Melanthios bound others.

[proffesionalalpaca]

The Ash clans: The clan of exiles.

So a theory/idea that’s been floating around has been that the fire Na’vi/Ash clans are home to not just ash Na’vi, but are also penal colonies of some description. Wherein exiled or clan-less Na’vi may find sanctuary or ‘Uturu’ amongst the ash people, who apparently do not judge outcasts (said by Tsu’tey’s mother after they were exiled in the avatar comics- which i take with a grain of salt).

So my thoughts are that while the ash clans do readily except any clanless Na’vi who come to them, that does not mean that they will remain after the terms of their integration are laid bare.

Fire has a deep symbolic relationship with concepts of rebirth, burning away the old and breathing life into the new, like in the Phoenix (*side-eyes Quaritch*). So likely the ash clans initiate these refuge seekers via a trial by fire or some kind of symbolic rebirth into the clan, burning away any previously held affiliations, loyalties and ties to their former cultures & families, to then be reborn into the ash people’s way.

A way that likely does not follow Eywa or her laws, and thus finally renouncing their ties to Eywa herself.

That’s why I say that many outcasts may not stick around to be fully initiated as such a shift in ideology and way of life may be too much to ask. But desperation and a disillusionment of Eywa’s ways may have lead some into rejecting Eywa and the laws that lead to their exile.

If the fire clans are not bound by Eywa’s laws then we may see a more advanced Na’vi way of life more akin to the bronze or iron ages of humanity compared to the typical Palaeolithic age that most Na’vi adhere to. If true, then we could see some badass Na’vi Blacksmithing moments, hopefully extremely realistic and not movie-Blacksmithing.

Headcanon: just for funsies

Varang has designed her own firearm over the passed 10-15 years from hearing only descriptions of the sky-people’s weapons, leading her to design the first Na’vi firearm, after many, many & many failed attempts and near loss of fingers. Although fairly rudimentary it is extremely deadly and is what allowed her to rise to the position of Olo’eykte in her clan, after disposing of the previous leader in a rite of combat using her new weapon. (I imagine such rites require the combatants to only use weapons that they themselves have forged).

[theprodigypenguin]

I had to wait for the dryer to finish so I could put my laundry away before I could go to bed so I went on picrew and made a bunch of references for my new OC that I made accidentally haha whoops.

((I know not everyone likes OC content BTW so if you don't want to see any of it I made a tag "prodi's one piece ocs" so you can mute specific posts if you'd like))

But anyway! Babbling till my laundry is done!

Welcome to mah new girl Sys, she's got tan skin, red eyes, SUPER ash blond hair and a scar across her forehead. No Devil’s Fruit ability (par for the course for my ocs I've noticed) but has powerful observation haki that aids in her sniping abilities.

A former Marine Ensign who deserted the military mid-assignment on Sabaody Archipelago after meeting a slave of the Celestial Dragon her company had been ordered to protect while they visited Sabaody. It was a blinders off reality check, and Sys decided to free the slave, burn her marine coat, and book it.

She later joined the Revolutionary Army with the slave boy she freed, who she became very good friends with, and currently works under Sabo’s direct command (she's older than him but doesn't mind).

Her main skills include Observation and Armament Haki, excellent sniping abilities with firearms, hand-to-hand combat, stealth, anything that has to do with combat I suppose. She's intelligent and quick on her feet, fast at assessing situations and making shotgun decisions.

She's laid back, cheerful and good-natured, enjoys teasing and joking around with people, and has a positive outlook on most things, which hides a lot of the inner turmoil she battles with daily.

Despite her outward personality, Sys struggles with intense guilt and shame for the part she played within the navy and her compliance to the Government. Despite her ignorance and lack of education due to her young age when she was recruited to the Marines, she maintains that she played a part in whatever pain was inflicted on innocent people while she was in the Marines, and feels duty-bound to atone for it.

She's outrageously protective of her best friend — the former slave boy she freed on Sabaody (he thinks she needs to calm down) — as well as other former slaves and younger revolutionaries.

Doesn't talk about her past as a marine, so the only ones who know are Dragon, Iva and her friend (the only reason Sabo doesn't know is because she joined before he was promoted to Chief of Staff).

As a young marine she kept her hair long, but chopped it short after defecting. Her birth name was (ironically) "Justice". She was given that name by marine parents who both died in a sea battle with pirates when she was still small. After their death, she was raised primarily by her older sister, who was also a marine (it was a family thing). A Rear Admiral. She served under her older sister the entire time she was in the Marines. After defecting, she abandoned her name and changed it to "Sys".

[mcsacaria-blog]

Sorrow P3

Authors note: idk where this is going btw I have not story in mind this is just improvised. Also part 3-4 were supposed to be one big chapter but tumblrs dumb and it won’t let me post it all in one.

Warnings: kidnapping, OC Dabi lol I’m not good at writing for him, Yandere-like content, stalking, blood, dingy warehouse, fire, needles, swearing

The next day I’m walking back to my hotel and I smell cider and ash. I pause and mentally pray, hoping Bakugou hasn’t found me. It’s been 3 months of silence..

I inhale once more and settle down after I realize there’s no lingering scent of burnt sugar and caramel following behind the smoke. However as I continue walking, I now notice the smoke is coming from the hotel I’m staying at.

I rush the rest of the way there until I’m standing in front of the smoking building. I catch a glimpse of black spikey hair and.. a trench coat of sorts the suspect turns around and through the smoke I make out piercing vibrant blue eyes that match the vibrant flames. My eyes widen and my realization of who I’m looking at hits me similar to the metal bat that’s making contact with my head-.

That day when the agency got targeted by the League of villains.. There was smoke everywhere; they had bombed a quarter of the place while Bakugou was on a mission in another state. I was in the control room when it happened. I was working on helping Bakugou detonate a bomb, ironically..I didn’t remember much after that. When I finally came to and the smoke started to clear I caught a glimpse of him exactly like I did at the hotel. He had a wicked grin when he noticed I was awake.. I thought I heard him say “just wait”. It was such a short encounter it slipped my mind so easily I forgot the memory even existed until I saw his face again... I wake up with a sharp migraine as my eyes adjust. I notice blood dripping from somewhere.. I try to move and get this uncomfortable pain under my skin. As my eyes adjust I notice I’m in a dingy warehouse. It smells of mildew and dust. I turn my head and notice needles under my skin and blood dripping from where they are seethed into my skin. There's a single lamp swaying from the ceiling due to the cold draft. I’m bound to a wooden chair. There's a machine next to me huffing out air every few seconds. There are tubes that are connecting the machine to the needles under my skin… it’s pumping my blood.. It's silent otherwise until I hear a dry chuckle come from somewhere in the warehouse. Suddenly the man I saw before appears under the dim lighting. He smiles wickedly and sighs in what seems like satisfaction. “You’re finally awake” he says, still smiling, the strange staples? He has on his face straining to hold together. I don’t speak, instead I continue to stare at him as my forgotten memories come back to me. The patchy man hums as he gets closer to me. “I’ve been waiting for this moment you know.. the very second I would be able to catch you. I’ve been watching you for a while now” He pulls a chair over, placing it close to me he turns it backwards and sits. He just stares at me, the crevices of patchy skin starting to bleed from his wide smile. He sighs “Sorry about the needles, love. But I had to make sure you wouldn’t be going anywhere and Toga went a bit overboard when I said she could help…” He gets up and picks up a set of handcuffs from a tool box. “Ah, these should do the trick” he presses a button and they open, a bright blue light illuminates from them. He strolls over behind me to my rope tied wrist and places them on me. I can feel his breath against my neck. “These are quirk canceling cuffs… they also double as debinators so I suggest you try not to struggle too much or you’ll die.” He says ending the sentence with a chronically deceitful laugh. He starts to pull the needles from my skin and turns the machine off. “Why am I here?” I ask him calmly “Oh! She does speak!” He says sarcastically. “To be honest I was expecting you to be shitting your pants by now but I guess you’re a lot more level headed than you seem..” He says finally pulling the last needle from under my skin and sitting back in his chair “Well in any case I’ll tell you why I took you since there’s no sense in hiding it. I've been.. waiting for you. Ever since we first met..” He smiles darkly again and sighs. “What a glorious moment it was, don’t you agree?” “Do you remember what I told you that day? He asks rhetorically. When I noticed you leaving town I got a bit worried..but I was relieved to find you and even more relieved to see it seems like you’ve dumped that boom boom prick when I caught sight of you over here.. I was curious so I took you to ask, why?” He just looks at me like he just asked me what my favorite color is. “Oh c’mon.. you can tell me, sweets. Did that asshole hurt you?” “That’s not your business” I respond shortly. “So he did then?” He sucks his teeth. “Douche” he says looking off to the side at nothing in particular with an angry expression. His face shifts to a blank look and he sighs. “Well.. you’re with me now so we don’t have to worry about that shithead getting in our way anymore right, doll?”

[beyond-far-horizons]

Ilyena - an analysis of The Wheel of Time’s Lost Lenore

Part One - Who was Ilyena and why does she matter?

I’ve loved Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series for over twenty-five years for many reasons, and it’s famous for its vast range of characters. But increasingly I keep being drawn back to one minor character who many could dismiss as a cliché, even if she wasn’t the perfect example of a Lost Lenore. So I’ve decided to write a meta on Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar/ Ilyena Therin Moerelle to explore her often overlooked significance and why other major writing decisions in the books likely led to her ambiguous place in the narrative and in fans’ reception of her.

Spoilers for the whole series abound.

Ilyena was the beloved wife of Lews Therin Telamon - the primary hero/destroyer figure of the previous Age. She was murdered by him, along with all their family and friends, as a result of the madness inflicted on him after his infamous Sealing of the Dark One’s Prison. This event occurs in the series’ very first prologue, and not only heralds the terrible transformation the world of the books undergoes for the next three thousand years, but it also haunts Lews Therin’s reincarnation - the Dragon Reborn - for most of the current story in various ways. 

Despite Ilyena being a very minor character, I think I love her partly because Lews Therin - our tragic hero - does, and her harrowing death at the hands of her beloved (along with her children and loved ones) is what starts off this incredible tale. This tragedy permeates through the series - not just in the horror that the Dragon and his reincarnation invoke in people because of this act, but because it sets the tone for the fate of all channelling men - if you channel saidin you will go mad, and likely kill all you love before you die rotting. 

And the Shadow fell upon the Land, and the World was riven stone from stone. The oceans fled, and the mountains were swallowed up, and the nations were scattered to the eight corners of the World. The moon was as blood, and the sun was as ashes. The seas boiled, and the living envied the dead. All was shattered, and all but memory lost, and one memory above all others, of him who brought the Shadow and the Breaking of the World. And him they named Dragon. (from Aleth nin Taerin alta Camora, The Breaking of the World. Author unknown, the Fourth Age)

The Hook

I know it sounds crazy (pardon the pun), but it’s this grim fate that is such a continuing hook for me - a hero is needed to save the world, but is destined to repeat this terrible, unjust price as a consequence. It’s the juxtaposition of power and glory mixed with madness and death that’s always fascinated me with The Wheel of Time over all other series, especially as Jordan is able to convey the horror without gratuitousness and with a sense of potential hope. The fact that, as someone said on a forum years ago, the Dragon Reborn and his Asha’man must face this fate to do their duty, makes their resolve to so truly heroic. As a plot device and a magic system consequence, it gives instant high emotional stakes, especially combined with the seductive, addictive power of saidin thatmakes madness inevitable. What sacrifices did these unfortunate men and their families make over three thousand years because they couldn’t stop channelling? How is our protagonist Rand going to overcome this? What will happen now that channelling men trained as weapons are once again being unleashed on the world? And so on…

But also what’s compelling is the nature of reincarnation in these books - the very nature of reality means you might have a destiny, your fate could be bound together with your loved ones and, critically, that there may be second chances to put things right. Ironically, this last part is central to Ilyena and the theme of the whole series, but how it’s executed is a whole other matter. But more on that later… 

Restorative Justice

And partly I’m fascinated with Ilyena because we know so little about her. I always want to give female characters their due and in a lot of ways The Wheel of Time does this, but not so much with Ilyena. She’s critical to our hero and the story - both as a dire warning and as an agonising guilt - but we never even hear her speak. This is despite the fact her husband (and murderer) becomes a constant voice in Rand’s head, literally driving him insane with memories and whimperings about her. We don’t know what Ilyena did for a living or even in text if she was Aes Sedai. She’s a classic example of both the ‘Stuffed in the Fridge’ trope and the ‘Lost Lenore’ trope, and it infuriates me that she means so much to a saga that has huge numbers of developed female characters with agency, achievements and backstory, yet we never get to hear hers. Everything we know about Ilyena is used to reinforce Lews Therin’s (and therefore Rand’s) pain in the narrative. She is a tragic figure, a mere cipher for suffering, yet she has so much potential.

So far, so very much like many older fantasy series with male authors, yet as previously stated, this isn’t usual for Jordan, which is one of the reasons I fell in love with the books to begin with.

Yet in a series that is founded on reincarnation, destiny and foreshadowing, Ilyena is never explicitly reincarnated and reunited with her love Lews Therin nor is her vaguely alluded to past with major villains Mierin/Lanfear and Barid Bel Medar/Demandred ever elaborated upon. Her children too are never really discussed; the series is instead diluted by an ever-widening array of characters and their petty politics (in my view). It’s widely considered that from Books 7/8 onwards the series’ loses its focus, with fans divided on whether it regains this in Book 11, in the Sanderson co-written final three, or at all. Author Robert Jordan was suffering with illness and pressure and also wanted to explore themes like miscommunication and myriad POVs on the end-times. It’s his series and I have to respect that, but I can’t help feeling that the books I fell in love with - a series with Ilyena and her tragedy at its heart - would have been better served by a tighter focus and a better resolution for her and the event that sparked everything. I also think Jordan’s insistence on Rand’s three lovers derailed Ilyena’s significance in the story in ways I’ll discuss later.

What We Know

So what do we actually know about Ilyena? Below I’ll bullet-point everything I’ve been able to tease about her from the main series, adjacent books like The Wheel of Time Companion, The World of Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time and The Origins of the Wheel of Time, Robert Jordan’s notes, and his answers recorded on the Theoryland site.

Name. Her full maiden name was Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar. There isn’t an Old Tongue meaning given, although someone once suggested ‘Dalisar’ could mean ‘woman of clocks’ (aka something to do with time) from ‘dali’ - clock and ‘sar’ - she/woman.

Married Name. Her name was changed upon marriage to Ilyena Therin Moerelle, which seems like a weird anachronism for the egalitarian Age of Legends, especially as her husband’s surname seems to replace her prized Third Name. Some fans have reasoned that ‘Moerelle’ is therefore her Third Name, but that would go against the naming format Jordan used since he confirmed that ‘Telamon’ is Lews Therin’s Third Name. Therefore, it stands to reason ‘Dalisar’ is Ilyena’s. I personally think this is a slip-up from Jordan’s unconscious, old fashioned views, so I always call her by her maiden name.

Career/Social Status. She was brilliant and devoted enough to have gained the vaunted Third Name - the Second Age’s highest honour. Third Names were bestowed as a recognition for an individual’s exemplary service to wider society and, although very difficult to achieve, could be gained in many fields.

Appearance. Her description varies a little as she is often described as ‘golden-haired’ or, more derogatorily, as a ‘pale-haired milksop’ or ‘yellow-haired trollop’ by her rival Lanfear. But Rand via Lews Therin’s memories recalls she had ‘…a pretty face, skin like cream, golden hair exactly the shade of Elayne’s’, meaning she had red-gold hair (whatever that means!).

‘Sunhair’. Ilyena’s hair is considered so beautiful it earns her a common epithet ‘Sunhair’, which even arch-villain Ishamael uses.

Milksop? Lanfear’s insult of ‘milksop’, although it can’t be taken as accurate due to her bias, could also indicate an emotional softness or compassion. ‘Milksop’ is an old fashioned insult that implies weakness or frailness

Beauty. She is often described as pretty or beautiful and occasionally linked to Elayne in those terms.

Romantic Muse. Ilyena’s charms were enough to make two of the most acclaimed men of the Second Age fall for her. Lews Therin is so deeply in love with her that he utters phrases like ‘I will never forget Ilyena, not if all the world burns!’ and ‘Not even for Ilyena? I would burn the world and use my soul for tinder to hear her laugh again.’ He also angrily asserts that Demandred (formerly Barid Bel Medar) wanted Ilyena.

Love Triangle. Unfortunately (like everything to do with Ilyena) we learn next to nothing about this love triangle. It could just be a literary device to underline poor Barid Bel losing out to his rival yet again. We don’t know if Ilyena felt anything for the man who was ‘almost’ her husband’s equal in every way, and one of his foremost generals before defecting. Demandred’s only thought on the matter comes from Brandon Sanderson’s interpretation, so we don’t know how accurate that is to Jordan’s original vision. However, Demandred reflects that ‘Lews Therin had taken Ilyena’ as the final point in Lews Therin’s list of accomplishments over him. This implies that both men had been in competition over her affections, and possibly that Barid Bel had known Ilyena before Lews Therin and had even been romantically involved with her. Or possibly that is just how the entitled Forsaken viewed it, thinking of her as a possession worthy of him that his rival ‘stole’, similar to Lanfear with Ilyena’s husband. In Sanderson’s more tragic depiction, this event is partially implied to have damaged Barid Bel’s capacity for romantic love, despite finding himself drawn to the beautiful Shendla. But this new affection doesn’t stop him from threatening to enslave and assault Rand’s lovers for revenge - a promise he tells Leane to deliver to Rand in the final book A Memory of Light. We can imagine he might have longed to subject Ilyena to this fate had he ever captured her in the War of Power, especially given his history of horrifically over-reacting to imagined slights.

Aes Sedai? We don’t know what occupation Ilyena had either during the Age of Legends or the War of Power, or in text that she could channel. But we can infer that she was Aes Sedai because, as per The World of the Wheel of Time book, Lews Therin and she had a relationship for at least sixty years before her death and she isn’t described as showing any signs of age at her death. Even with the longer life spans of ordinary citizens during that time, that would still mean she would have met him when she was very young and he into his third century, which seems creepy and inappropriate. I wasn’t sure if she was Aes Sedai, but it seems very likely and would make her a better match as a life partner for Lews Therin. There is also a possible confirmation from RJ at a North Virginia signing that she was, which is also noted on Theoryland - https://groups.google.com/g/rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan/c/DrJxMGi4LF8/m/Ww1QBLHn8F4J.

Meeting her soulmate. Lews Therin met her long after his break-up with the ambitious Mierin/Lanfear, counter to Lanfear’s claim that Ilyena ‘stole’ him. Lanfear continues to blame Ilyena for her ‘loss’, and transfers her jealousy on to any woman that appears to be a love rival. Her possessiveness reaches murderous levels as she kills innocent bystanders, as well as trying to kill Rand and Aviendha in the current timeline. It’s unclear what Ilyena herself made of all of this in her own time.

Marriage and Rivalry. Lews Therin and Ilyena married about fifty years into the Collapse and approximately fifty years before the true War of Power. Lanfear made several blatant public approaches, and likely a number of secret ones, to regain Lews Therin’s affections during this time. She also tried to disrupt their wedding ceremony. 

Temper. Lews Therin said that ‘Ilyena never flashed her temper at me when she was angry with herself. When she gave me the rough side of her tongue, it was because she…’ implying that, while Ilyena could become angry or feisty, she wasn’t unjust or childish about it like Egwene was being when this memory surfaced. In the first prologue, he also mentioned to Ishamael that she will give him [Lews Therin] ‘the rough side of her tongue’ if she thinks he is keeping a guest from her.

Woman Trouble? The Heroes of the Horn in Book 2 imply that Lews Therin (the Dragon Soul) always chooses women who cause him trouble in some way. Given that they call him Lews Therin and Ilyena was Lews Therin’s true love in that lifetime, we might wonder what trouble she caused him. Was their courtship difficult? Was she captured like Egwene was at one point? Was she actually as feisty as someone like Aviendha or Nynaeve? Perhaps someone as arrogant as Lews Therin was known to be needed a woman that brought him down to earth?

Motherhood. She had at least four children (boys and girls) with her husband before her death and some were young enough to still be playing with toys at the time of their unfortunate demise. It seems a little strange that this couple would have young children given they were fighting an apocalyptic war with ultimate evil, but this could be one of those writing conflicts one has when world-building concepts hit plot logic. Either that or it could indicate Ilyena and Lews Therin wanted to be parents and continued to have hope in their world enough to do so.

Social Savy. Lews Therin remarks even in his madness to Ishamael that Ilyena loves conversation and often asks people many questions about themselves. He also says that she will get angry with him if she thinks he is hiding a guest from her. This indicates a warm, gregarious personality that enjoys company and entertaining, and also someone that is curious about people and the world in general.

The Voice? Lews Therin asks Ishamael if he has the Voice (i.e the Songs of Growing), that it will soon be time for the Singing and that in his and Ilyena’s home everyone is invited to take part. This could just be ‘first book syndrome’, but we get subtle hints through the series (and discussed further on The Thirteen Depository blog) that the Singing might be more more sacred that just Tree Singing ( i.e food production) and it’s tied up with the Dragon’s role as Champion of the Light and being ‘One with the Land’. I surmise that the Singing is about affirming the Pattern and the Light as well as growing food and Ilyena is implied to have the Voice, although that is just conjecture on my part. The mention of it does link with her and Lews Therin running a welcoming, life-affirming home, however.

Palatial Living. She and Lews Therin live in a sumptuous palace filled with masterworks of art and furniture inlaid with ivory and gold. It’s described both in the prologue to The Eye of the World and in a brief comparison to Caemlyn’s palace in Book 5.

True and Enduring Love. She and her husband had a loving marriage shown both by tragic quotes like: ’And time after time he [Rand/Lews Therin] faced a beautiful golden-haired woman, watched love turn to terror on her face. Part of him knew her. Part of him wanted to save her, from the Dark One, from any harm, from what he himself was about to do…’ Their love is also demonstrated by the depths of mourning, suicidal yearnings and apocalyptic tendencies the Lews Therin aspect of Rand expresses in his head at her loss. Even under a life threatening attack from Lanfear in The Fires of Heaven ‘Lews Therin’ affirms to Lanfear ‘“I was never yours, Mierin. I will always belong to Ilyena”’ and moments later on the point of near death ‘Ilyena, ever and always my heart.’

Never Forgotten/Source of Agony. Ilyena’s name appears on Rand’s ‘List of Women’ who have died for him, and her murder is very likely the reason for its existence, along with his Two Rivers upbringing. This list is moral ‘red line’ Rand cleaves to for his humanity, but also serves as a terrible tool he uses to harrow and harden himself emotionally as his burdens increase.

History Repeats Itself. Rand being forced to strangle his lover Min by the Forsaken Semirhage is a direct echo of Ilyena’s murder, worsened this time by their Warder bond and he being (mostly) sane, but enslaved.

Reborn again? The major turning point in Rand’s later character arc, when he is at his lowest point and contemplating destroying the world with the male Choedan Kal, comes when he realises that Ilyena (like himself) might also be reborn. His sin of killing her and all his other mistakes might be made right by the repeated opportunities offered by the turnings of the Wheel. The chapter in The Gathering Storm is called ‘Veins of Gold’ which refers both to the bonds of love he feels for his three lovers and the realisation that love and the opportunity to do better is the reason the world and the Wheel exist. With this, he is able to integrate Lews Therin’s memories/alter personality at last, and come to terms with Ilyena’s death and with his role as saviour/destroyer. 

First Love. According to Sanderson’s version, Lews Therin ‘“…did not know what love was. Centuries of life, and I never discovered it until I met her [Ilyena].”’

Cherished Memory. After his epiphany, Rand/Lews Therin now sees his love for Ilyena ‘like a glowing crystal, set upon a shelf and admired.’ 

Mythical Roots. The excellent fan scholar Linda Taglieri in the Thirteen Depository blog says: ‘Ilyena is similar to the Greek personal name Iliana, a variant of Helen, meaning ‘bright’ or ‘shining light’. Ilyena was known as Sunhair. Golden-haired Elayne’s name is also a variant of Helen, and is a hint that she may be Ilyena reborn. Morelle is a surname and Dalisar is in Afghanistan.’ 

The Face that Launched a Thousand Ships. I’d add that the ‘shining light’ could refer to Ilyena’s famous hair or her sunny personality. The name Helen also links to the Illiad’s famous Helen of Troy - ‘the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium’, and who was a part of notable love battles such as between her husband King Menelaus and Prince Paris of Troy. Ilyena, of course, was caught between the bitter rivalry of Lews Therin and Barid Bel Medar whose armies ripped apart vast areas of the world. Jordan also used the city/country of Ilian as a reference to Troy (along with Cairhien’s topless towers) whose name is Greek is Ilion  and in Latin ‘Ilium’), both of which sound like Ilyena.

Manner of Death. Ilyena and her family’s deaths are inspired by the ancient Greek myth of Heracles (Roman name ‘Hercules’) who was driven mad by his jealous step-mother Hera - Queen of the Gods. In his madness, Heracles kills his wife and children and in some versions of the story must accomplish his famous Labours to atone for the crime.

Links with a Goddess. In the new book The Origins of the Wheel of Time, author and academic Michael Livingston says Ilyena’s name comes from the Mesopotamian goddess of fertility and power Inanna, who was also associated with the planet Venus, the morning star (linking to Lews Therin whose mythological references include Lucifer as the Morning star and Lightbringer.) I’m not sure whether Livingston, who has access to Jordan’s notes, gleaned this information from them or from his own surmises about Jordan’s mythological inspirations. Inanna is famous for her descent into the Underworld in a way like Ilyena is (in)famous for her own descent into death.

And this is about all (as far as my obsessed fan gleanings can divine) that we get! If anyone can add more, please let me know in the comments/notes.

So here we have a picture of a what is essentially a traditionally ‘perfect’ woman - she’s beautiful, talented, loving, sociable and a good homemaker. She also seems innocent and pure, especially compared to the dangerously seductive Lanfear (invoking the Betty vs Veronica trope), but Lews Therin mentions ‘the rough side of her tongue’ twice and Jordan rarely wrote heroines that weren’t feisty and independent. Whether we see Ilyena as the ‘perfect’ woman or not doesn’t really matter, especially as that is subjective; what interests me most (aside from her mystery) is the love between her and her husband that is at the core of their bond. That, and the horror and trauma that resounds throughout the story as a result of that love’s betrayal and loss. 

But for me and others, this central theme is not satisfactorily resolved. The main question about Ilyena on fan sites like Reddit and Dragonmount is whether she was reincarnated, and, if so, who is she? There’s a common theory her soul was ‘split’ by the trauma of her demise, essentially so she could be Rand’s three lovers. This has confirmed not to be true, although interestingly in Jordan’s early notes Rand would have to undergo trials in another realm to reconstitute his lover’s mind, body and soul after an assault/torment at the hands of one of the Forsaken. There is also a common consensus that Elayne is Ilyena reborn given their superficial similarities: lovers of the Dragon soul with golden/red-gold hair, pale skin and blue eyes and a similar name. But this is never confirmed either in story or by the writing/editorial team. Aviendha and Elmindreda (Min) also sound similar (ish) to Ilyena, and Rand himself is noted by Lanfear to look nothing like his previous incarnation except his height. This indicates that a similar body gives little true indication to the soul within. 

To me, these repeated fan questions highlight a latent dissatisfaction with what we are given. Fans shouldn’t be asking who Ilyena is reborn as, after fourteen doorstopper books on a series whose main theme is reincarnation and second chances. It also saddens me that this leads to some fans being resigned to Ilyena’s irrelevance in this turning of the Wheel, saying that she was ‘just’ the Dragon’s love in the previous life. The kind of true love someone like Lews Therin/the Dragon has, the kind we and Rand have to hear about across nine books, strikes me as a love of many lifetimes, not just one. Writing about it this way certainly sets up a narrative promise that that is the case. I might be a complete romantic, but the subject of the line ‘I will never forget Ilyena, not if all the world burns!’ deserves a little better resolution than ‘If I live again, then she might as well!’

So instead of true lovers torn apart by fate and reunited once more, who did Jordan replace Ilyena with and how might this have affected how we view her and the story in retrospect? Find out in Part Two!

______________________________________________________________

Image Credits: 1st Image is my art of Ilyena, 2nd, 3rd and final images comes from the Eye of the World graphic novel adapted by Chuck Nixon and illustrated by Chase Conley (and well worth checking out, especially for an adorable Rand and a handsome yet unhinged Ishamael, even if he is lacking in thigh-high boots), the Demandred painting is by Ariel Burgess, the photos of red-gold hair from a Wella blog, the Horn of Valere icon comes from RJ's books and the painting of Helen of Troy is by Pre-Raphaelite artist Everlyn De Morgan.

[not-so-lost-after-all]

She saw him, in a dream, in a nightmare.

---

Astarion was mostly happy, she knew, he tried his hardest. Since their greatest adventure, they travelled the world but he actually got to share home with her too. Who would have thought. They became renown bounty hunters, so their home far from the crowds provided finer things in life. He got to drink blood from their targets if they were marked "dead or alive" and sometimes from the worst people they encountered. And sometimes he drank from her, much to his liking, if their occupation did not require for her to be in full health the next day and she was happy to provide. As unexpected as it was, her heart broken several times over was in safe hands now.

Not everything was great, of course. One day they were attacked by six spawns he helped to create so long ago and while they were able to overpower the spawns, there was some strange acid on their blades. Astarion spent a month in fever and pain but was even more furious that she suffered several deep cuts that only fully healed after many months. Something that painfuly reminded him that he was not much stronger than any other vampire spawn, she supposed.

She knew what was behind that brooding look of his sometimes, although he never spoke about it again and he would give her still the same answer if she asked. It wasn't regret that he refused all the power he craved, not really, but deep-seated anger that it had to be this way. She also knew his smile was fake whenever she went around her business during the day.

And so she asked Gale if he can at least try to help Astarion with his condition, not telling him anything so that he would not cling to false hope. Now, when they entered their home once again, there was small package there waiting. Astarion gasped when he opened it. Sweet, genius Gale… It's been long, long twenty years.

---

This was a nightmare.

Even after decades, she still remembered that even back then she knew it was a mistake to help him taking Cazador's place. It was a deal with the devil, she knew what the prize was. So did he but he didn't care. Yet he begged her and she caved in. She had a chance to get away, still, but oh, it was enticing for a human like her who loved him. Bound to him but with him for the time unknown, how bad could that be, really?

Her heart was broken several times over before but this crushed it to ashes. It was her choice, as he never failed to point out. He cut out her tongue when she dared to remind him once that he promised to elevate her but that never happened. She never spoke about it again. It took all of her willpower to remind herself that yes, she chose to be with him, but she doesn't deserve to be treated like this. To be locked in an iron cofin for months while he enjoys himself with his other "eternal lovers".

She reminded all of this to herself in a second before she landed a strike with the same dagger he used for carving into her breasts and thights and arms. The same dagger she dared to stole some time ago and send to Gale to enchant.

She started stabbing him viciously, his screams and hers like a wicked melody. She was striking over and over again, she cried and yelled untill her throat gave up. She was there bloodied and on her knees again, ugly sobbing next to his body.

Gale also sent poison alongside the dagger and begged her to break the cycle and resist the urge to take up Astarion's place. She'll drink it the first thing in the morning.

---

She saw him, in a dream, in a nightmare.

She woke up confused and realized they are still at the cemetery long before dawn. His head was resting on her chest and she gently run fingers through his hair and softly giggled.

[hifrifrimetime]

In the process of coming up with a new idea for my tommy england/sixpack/dimi fic, I've realized there's some bits I'm going to have to rewrite. so here are some snippets that'll get changed but I still like a lot! Under the cut because it gets a bit long

.......

When the Fridays are incinerated, Thomas spends the day crying. It reminds him of the time he almost drowned when he was a little kid and got caught in a rip tide just off the Oregon coast. (Or the day of the Waveback). The taste of salt is overwhelming. Salt and snot. He wishes he could hear the pitched howls of a friend.

Then, it's the taste of blood. Bitter iron so consuming he's nauseous. The anger he tells himself he made peace with long ago surges in him. It's not fair. Not them.

Then it's just ash. Soot caking his mouth, dry as a desert. Days.

He's cleansed by the jailbreak. Fresh. Thomas screams and screams and screams his throat raw. He almost smashed his skateboard caught up in the waves emanating from him. It's the happiest he's been in a long, long time.

And then everything is weightless and the world goes black.

-------

The first thing he manages to feel again is the sensation of losing his breath. He's falling. Fuck he's falling fast and long. But it's not him. He experiences it like a dream; it's happening to him, but he's just an actor in a role.

Then everything tingles. It starts soft, barely a shiver, growing exponentially more, like his leg has fallen asleep but it's his whole body, and then more and more until it becomes painful to even twitch and everything is tv static.

And then he wakes up. Or returns. Or is simply conscious again. Thomas could never quite figure out what terms to use to accurately describe his retroactive non-existence existence.

Regardless. He's back in apartment 9C263, in his bed, blinking away the residuals of vertigo as he sits up. His room looks different. It's the same it's always been... but also not.

But it doesn't matter. Because as soon as he's remembering setting up his desk in this corner but somehow also that one, a mass of fluff and slobber and love comes bounding through the door and launches herself at Thomas without hesitation. They topple to the floor, and he bangs his head on the corner of his bedframe, but Thomas couldn't care less.

He's finally back with his girl.

......

It was different with Dimi. Whereas he and Sixpack had this special connection, there was something blocking them off from Dimi. Thomas could never catch him in the same room. Like a ghost in the corner of his eye. He was always on the periphery- or maybe it was Thomas who was.

At least, he and Sixpack were together again. Sometimes she would wander into his room at night and curl up in the bed next to him.

God, he had missed those walks. Sixpack had too. They go grocery shopping together and try unsuccessfully to make new recipes. Mostly they just saw each other.