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humanpurposes · 7 months

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It Will Come Back

Chapter 3, Broken Bonds

Two sides of a family fight for their own claims to the Targaryen inheritance. Amongst the endless infighting, forced pleasantries and PR scandals, Jaya Velaryon finds herself face to face with a demon of her past, namely Aemond Targaryen. Love and hate are not emotions easily unlearned.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Jaya Velaryon (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, dark elements, targcest (uncle x niece relationship) toxic family dynamics, angst, mentions of violence and trauma

Words: 7.4k

A/n: Also available to read on AO3, if you're that way inclined.

Now…

The heat is relentless this summer. Light bleeds through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep in beams of red, green, blue and gold, only to be lost to the dark wood floors, furniture and panelled walls. It is Aemond’s least favourite time of year, when the weather makes him irritable and the harsh light gives him a headache, when business tends to be busy and everyone is preoccupied with holidays and garden parties. He’s less inclined to distract himself with frivolity.

His sleeves are rolled up, his long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, sweat starting to pool underneath the eyepatch over the left side of his face. He’s leaning over Aegon, one hand on the back of his chair, staring down at a laptop screen as they check over some details for next week’s event.

It’s not often Aemond finds himself in his brother’s office. Technically Aegon is his superior, ‘deputy operations manager’ according to the golden plaque on the door. This is more of a courtesy title because he couldn’t get a respectable job anywhere else, and it would be far worse for their father’s image to have a layabout son.

That’s the funny thing about the family business. It’s no secret that Viserys Targaryen didn’t want his sons involved in Dragon Bank, but his influence is not as all encompassing as he would like to believe, not since the Hightowers got a foot in the door thirty or so years ago… then another… then another. Viserys can make his demands and shout when he’s angry enough, but there is one truth he cannot deny; he needs them. He needs Otto. He needs Alicent. He needs Helaena and Daeron to stay perfect. He needs Aegon to not be a fuck up and that’s enough. And he needs Aemond because he’s good at his job. No one has an eye for detail like him, no one can make sense out of figures or persuade clients and investors like he can.

Why their grandfather wants him to look over PR and marketing nonsense is understandable, but irritating nonetheless.

Their father has been planning this event for years, Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary gala, with all the pomp and grandeur of a bygone era, held at their ancestral seat of Dragonstone Castle, just outside the city. Five hundred years since one of their ancestors forged a throne for himself in King’s Landing, building an empire that still has most of the country under their family’s thumb. Viserys intends to use the occasion as a reminder to the rest of Westeros that they cannot compare to the might of the Targaryens. So there can be no oversights. Everything has to be perfect.

Aemond’s eye scans over the diagram on the screen, circles surrounded boxes with names; the seating plan for the main ballroom.

Then a name catches his eye and it makes his heart stop. He doesn’t want to believe what he sees but there it is on the screen, in Times New fucking Roman: Jaya Velaryon.

He’s hardly heard that name, read it, or heard it in six years. He can already feel a dull ache creeping into his skull, which he knows will catch like kindling and soon become a burning, blinding pain behind the space where his eye should be.

Aegon, completely oblivious, huffs a little laugh to himself. “Shit, yeah, I meant to say there was an update with the seating. So this could turn out to be quite interesting– fuck, are you alright?”

“Fine!” Aemond snaps, staggering back from the chair. His head feels like it’s been run through with a knife and his fingers fumble to get his eyepatch off. “Fine– fuck! I’m fine.”

“Sit,” Aegon orders, quickly standing and guiding Aemond over to one of the leather sofas on the other side of the room, where the sunlight isn’t so direct.

The pain is often like this, striking suddenly, spreading quickly like a forest fire, eating away at him like a disease. He has no choice but to endure it.

He feels the eyepatch slip from his face before something cold presses against the worst of his scar. He reaches up to clasp his hands around it. A glass water bottle, one Aegon is holding. His brother is useless most of the time but he does have his moments.

“Fuck it’s all red,” Aegon mutters. “Have you got meds with you?”

When Aemond opens his mouth to speak his jaw is trembling. “Office,” he says, gritting his teeth together, trying to control his breath and the extent of the pain. “It’s in my office.” He can see where the packet is in the first draw under his desk.

“I can go and get you some–”

“No,” Aemond says, grabbing Aegon’s arm so he won’t move.

He can handle this. Every time this kind of pain flares up he thinks of how much it hurt that night, how terrified he was as he felt the blood gushing from the gash in his eye, slipping through his fingers. The pain had been so great he thought it might kill him. If he can get through that night, the first few hours in the hospital, the months of recovery or the years since, then he can get through a fucking headache.

He closes his eye and breathes in counts of three. In through the nose, hold, and out. Between that and the bottle against his face, the pain starts to feel a little duller and the room doesn’t feel so close.

“Is it… you know,”

Did seeing Jaya’s name shock him so severely that his body went into meltdown? Is his heart still pounding in his chest at the thought of reading her name and the possibility of seeing her again?

Aemond exhales irritably against the back of his throat, defeated, but always stubborn.

“I thought you knew,” Aegon says. “Mum said she was going to talk to you.”

“Evidently that conversation is yet to happen.” Maybe it was meant to happen tonight. It’s a Friday which means Aemond will go to his mother’s apartments in the Keep for dinner after work.

It’s a struggle but he breathes through the worst of it, and blinks a tear from his eye. The pain hasn’t quite faded but something else burns hotter through his blood. He clenches his jaw and his fists. “How long have you known?”

Aegon makes a startled stuttering noise. “I– well–”

Aemond glares at him.

“A few days. The note came from Rhaenyra’s office on Monday or Tuesday, I can’t really remember–”

“Grandfather knew,” Aemond says, a question, but he can guess the answer. If it involves Dragon Bank or a member of the Targaryen family, Otto Hightower will know.

“Of course he knew. He said it was a last minute decision, one that Viserys was insisting we all bend over backwards to accommodate.”

Of course he would, anything for the precious daughter of his favourite child, the girl who slashed Aemond’s eye out with a broken bottle.

He hates her for it. He hates every burst of pain, like an echo of that moment pulsing through his head. He hates every person he catches staring at him, he hates the way his reflection looks with her cruelty carved into his flesh. Most of all he hates that it reminds him of her. In a way he is grateful too. Time helped to heal the wound and eventually he realised how he had been changed by that night, how it made him the person he is now.

But for the first time in a long time he does not find any pride in it, cowering in his brother’s office like a child at the mere mention of her name.

“I can’t go,” Aemond says, hating how quiet his own voice is.

“That’s alright,” Aegon says, “you can sit here for as long as you need.”

“I meant the party.”

“Oh right, sorry.”

“I can’t go, not if she’s going to be there.”

There’s a long silence, filled only by the hum of the AC and the distant sounds of the city far below the keep, car horns, engines, sirens, the occasional cry of a seagull.

“Why don’t you talk it through with mum?”

“Aegon,”

“She’ll want you to go. She’ll be upset if you don’t.”

“I can’t,”

“I know you two were close, but, you know, I’m sure you both regret how things happened,”

“Aegon, for fuck’s sake,”

“She cut out your eye, you said you’d cut out hers if you ever saw her again, we were all caught up in the moment.”

Aemond pushes up from the sofa and tosses the water bottle at Aegon’s head, not stopping to see if he caught it or not, before he’s yanking open the door and marching into the hallway.

The Red Keep is older than Dragon Bank itself, a red brick holdfast that has loomed proudly over King’s Landing for centuries, even as the skyline of the city has come to meet over time. It’s easy to get lost here, with its grand hallways, winding staircases and hidden passages, if old rumours are to be believed. He knows this place like he knows his own mind. He walks to his office through empty stairwells and forgotten corridors.

When he finally makes it to his own office he closes the door and lets his back fall against it.

He takes a slow breath, holds it, pouts his lips and exhales steadily.

Who else knows? Viserys would have sent the invitation, Rhaenyra and the rest of her little runts will know. Otto knows, clearly his mother and Aegon both know, and he couldn’t have kept that secret, he would have told Helaena or Daeron, most likely both.

Everyone knows. Jaya is coming back home to King’s Landing, and everyone knows but him.

His mother told him everything when she thought he was ready to hear it. The bandages had been removed from his face and the cannula had been taken out of his hand. The doctors wanted him to stay in the hospital for a few more days so all the drugs could wear off and he could start getting used to the disorientation of losing half his vision. Alicent wanted him home, in his own bed. So he left the dry air and the white overhead lights of his room in the hospital, back to Dragonstone.

She told him that while he’d been on his knees with his hand over his face, trying to stop the blood and the remains of his eye from spilling onto the ground, Viserys had barked out his orders. He didn’t want ambulances or sirens because it would cause a scene in front of the guests. The shame, the damage it would do to the family’s image. Otto had persuaded him away from such a nonsensical idea and convinced Viserys to get the guests inside the house so Aemond and Jace’s injuries could be seen to.

He remembered shouting and sirens, blue lights and his mother’s hand clinging onto his before he blacked out. He had gone in for surgery almost immediately and woken the following evening surrounded by white walls, his mother and Criston Cole at his side.

Aegon, Helaena and Daeron all stayed at Dragonstone while he was there. They said once he and Jace had been taken away, Viserys had gathered the entire family inside the house. With their faces all still red from crying and Jaya’s pretty white dress still coated in blood, he demanded to know the truth.

They all knew what the truth was. Jace didn’t know his limits and Aegon didn’t care about his.

He could see it all happening in his head, walking towards the orchard with Jaya and Baela, catching Jaya when she tripped over a stone, her tipsy smile as she looked up at him, the pearl and the sapphire pendant settled against her chest.

Who knows what started the argument between Jace and Aegon, but suddenly Aemond had found himself between them.

“There he is,” Jace had sneered, but his voice quickly raised into a shout, “‘perfect’ Aemond Targaryen, fucking mummy’s boy, thinking he’s some kind of fucking diplomat!”

Aegon tried to shout back, “more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Aemond couldn’t make out everything through the way his voice slurred.

“Not so fucking perfect though, are you? You’re no worse than Aegon– no! You’re so much worse, aren’t you? Aren’t you!?

He’d watched Jace’s expression darken, his lips sneering into a sickening smile.

“You’ve got my sister wrapped around your fucking finger, fucking creep.”

He told himself Jace was just drunk. It didn’t matter what he thought… only it did. Jace could tell Rhaenyra or Viserys. Worse, he could talk to Jaya. She had always been devoted to her twin. She had picked Jace over Aemond before, in petty arguments when they were children.

“You want her, don’t you? Don’t you!? She’s too good for you though, and you know it. You want her but you’ll never fucking have her!”

When Aemond’s fist collided with Jace’s jaw it was on pure instinct. He was sober enough to stop himself but he didn’t. He just kept going.

According to Aegon, when Viserys came to Jaya, she said that it was Aemond who had started the argument. Jace was in the orchard with the others, when Aemond had come from nowhere and threw the first punch. She had seen it, so had Baela, so had Luke and Joffrey. It was their word against Aegon and Daeron’s.

The official story was that it had been a tragic accident, one in which Rhaenyra’s children were certainly blameless.

She called him the night he got to Dragonstone but he let the phone ring. A week later she appeared in the doorway to his bedroom. She was hazy, or he was still delirious from sleep, his mother hovering over her shoulder, reluctant to leave them alone together.

He doesn’t remember most of the conversation now. He doesn’t want to remember it. He knows it ended with tears streaming down her cheeks, but her face was completely still. She didn’t flinch, didn’t distort her face, scrunch her nose or make an ugly shape with her mouth. She looked utterly beautiful and cried effortlessly. It wasn’t fair when he still had stitches sewn into his flesh to keep the left half of his face in place.

At one point she approached the bed and tried to touch his hand. He snatched it out of her grasp. When she tried again he pushed her away.

“Why did you do it?” she said. “You attacked Jace, why? Why? Why? Why?”

Because Jace could have taken away the one thing he thought was his, by right, by love. Instead he gave some bullshit excuse– Jace had threatened Aegon, insulted Daeron, insulted him. And what did it matter anyway? Viserys believed her.

He needed her. He needed her and she pushed him away and cradled her coward of a brother in her arms. He needed her and she’d thrown it all back in his face with a slash of a broken bottle. He needed her, but she had made her decision.

“Liar,” he hissed. “You’re a fucking liar.”

He saw it in her face then, her desire to fight melting away. To Aemond that had always meant that she knew he was right.

“Show up here again, utter so much as a word to me again, and I’ll tear yours out as payment for mine.”

Some weeks later Aegon mentioned that she had abandoned her plans to go to KLU and instead found a place at the University of Pentos. She never tried to call after that and neither did he.

A layer of sweat clings to his skin and makes him shiver. He shrugs it off as he sits down at his desk, and spots a handwritten note sitting beside the keyboard of his laptop. Investment figures for Seasnake Shipping back to me by 7pm at the latest. Knowing Otto Hightower, that means an hour before the specified time.

In for three, hold for three, out for three. It always amazes him how well that trick works, he thinks as he takes out a packet from the top drawer of his desk and pushes out two tablets, the one good thing he’d gotten out of his year of therapy. He swallows the medication dry, suddenly regretting throwing away the bottle of water.

It’s nearly 6pm when Aemond has everything his grandfather wants, the names of Seasnake’s investors, the other companies they’re attached to, numbers and details he’s found buried in endless spreadsheets and pages of paperwork. He shouldn’t be able to see most of them but he has his ways. The Velaryons have been in business with the Targaryens for centuries and there are always trails to follow.

A few familiar names appear, Rhaenyra Tagrayren, Daemon Targayren, married to each of Corlys’ children. Aemond was only a year old when his sister married Laenor, but he’s always known how sceptical his mother and grandfather were of the match. It wasn’t something Rhaenyra had to do. She wasn’t going to inherit Seasnake, that had been promised to Laena, the elder sibling, and she was already Viserys’ chosen heir, so what did she think she was going to get out of it? Not a loving husband, surely.

Other investors and partners include the names Stark and Arryn, both wealthy and well established families. He also sees the names Celtigar, Massey, Bar Emmon, old names, though not as respected as they once were.

He leaves a note for his grandfather at the top of the document: Seasnake is being directed by a man who built his wealth to match his own pride, supported by opportunists with more money than sense.

With that task done he opens a new email to inform his father’s office that he’ll be absent from the event. He types it quickly and reads over it once before he can talk himself out of pressing send. He doesn’t give a reason why; Viserys should know why.

This leaves him just enough time to pack up and get ready for dinner.

The Red Keep has a series of apartments separated from the offices, where Aemond spent most of his childhood. The building is known as the Holdfast, with its own gatehouse leading into the city and gardens surrounded by high red brick walls. Historically it was built to house the extensive members of House Targaryen, but it is mostly empty now. His mother has had her own apartment for a few years, since Daeron moved out. The only one of his siblings to still live here now is Aegon, at Alicent’s insistence.

Walking from his office to the Holdfast brings him through courtyards and underneath old battlements, until he comes to a facade with towers, tall windows and an unsuspecting wooden door, save for the armed guards standing either side of it. His mother’s apartments are on the first floor, along a gallery and up the grand staircase, past portraits and tapestries. The hallways get smaller the further in you go and soon he comes to the private rooms.

Alicent often dismisses the staff on quiet Friday evenings. The minute he’s in the door he is met with the sound of one of her 80s playlists, the scent of spices and her favourite lemon and lavender candles. He finds her in the kitchen, dark blue jeans, a white shirt, black pumps and her auburn curls pulled into a bun to show off her pearl earrings, stirring two pots on the stove.

“Criston’s got me learning another one of his recipes,” she says, only looking at him for a moment, “I’ve got rice on too, so I hope you’re hungry.”

Aemond approaches her to kiss her on the cheek and takes a look inside the pots, one filled with chickpeas, the other with black lentils. “Is Aegon here?” he says.

“He’s in the lounge, tell him to set the table.”

Aemond watches her, entirely absorbed in the notebook on the counter next to the stove, with handwritten instructions. Nothing seems to be especially bothering her, even though the centenary event has had her on edge for over a month. She looks no different from the last time he saw her, before he knew about Jaya, when she was supposed to talk to him, supposedly.

“I want a drink first,” he says, whisky with no ice. He pours it for himself slowly while his mother hums along to Tears for Fears. “Do you know why grandfather wanted that information on Seasnake’s investors?”

“Hmm? Oh he’s probably doing one of his checks, you know what he’s like. Good to keep an eye on everyone,” she says. She has a glass of red wine next to the notebook, though by the looks of it she’s hardly touched it. “He said something interesting about Rickon Stark recently, his son Cregan is in King’s Landing.”

Aemond pulls his glass away from his lips, the sweet sting of alcohol slipping down his throat. “Shouldn’t be too unusual, they’re attending next week.” Staying at Dragonstone no less, some of Viserys’ most honoured guests.

“He’s staying at Queen’s Lodge.”

That takes him by surprise. “Hmm,” he says, bringing the glass to his lips again.

“He and Jacaerys are quite close, Aegon tells me.”

The Starks had visited Dragonstone once or twice as summer guests, back when they were all kids. Cregan was always talkative and effortlessly charming, but it was obvious to Aemond that his warmth was far more calculated than anyone else believed. He made sure Jaya kept her distance, but Jace followed him around like a lost puppy for the weeks he’d stay with their family.

They would have studied together at White Harbour, though Cregan was a few years older than Jace. They could have met again and reconnected. Aemond doesn’t interact with his nephew outside of necessity.

“And what would Aegon know about it?” he says.

“More than you,” a voice calls from the doorway. Aegon has ditched his suit for brown cargos and a comically baggy sports shirt, leaning against the frame. “Ran into them last weekend,” he says, grinning coldly and running his tongue over his teeth. “The Starks are making some close personal connections with our sister’s family.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Alicent sighs.

Aegon scoffs and makes a dismissive gesture. While their mother is still distracted, he looks at Aemond and raises his eyebrows.

“Set the table, Aegon,” Aemond grumbles.

His brother does as he’s told. Aemond helps Alicent bring the dishes in. She sits at the head of the table, Aemond to her right, Aegon opposite him, to her left. She says a quick prayer to the Seven, as she always does. She asks the Mother to protect her children and asks the Crone for wisdom, for a light in dark and uncertain times.

“Speaking of close personal connections,” Aegon says, already having wolfed down half of his plate. Aemond already hates the tone of this conversation. “We’ll finally get to meet Daeron’s new bit,”

“Do you have to say it like that?” Aemond says.

Aegon ignores him. “Are you excited to meet Nettles, mother?”

Daeron talks about her constantly. They met in Oldtwon while they were both studying. Now he’s working for the Citadel Institute, she’s some kind of journalist, and they live together in a perfect little flat that looks out over the Honeywine river. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

“That can’t actually be her name, surely?” Alicent says.

“Perhaps it’s short for something,” Aemond says, prodding his food now to find himself with no appetite. He thinks about the drive he’ll have to make through the city, back to the empty house waiting for him on Silverwing Square.

“Nettles,” Aegon says, eyes on the ceiling like he’s trying to decipher a hidden meaning. “Nettles, like stinging nettles?”

“Oh, Aemond,” Alicent says, looking down at the uneaten food on his plate, “what happened with Maris Baratheon, why is she not on the final guest list?”

Aegon smiles, folding his elbows on the table and leaning forward, eager to hear an explanation like he hasn’t already coaxed it out of Aemond over too many bottles of wine at a steak restaurant on Conquest Street.

“Things didn’t work out with Maris,” Aemond says shortly. An understatement. The thought of their last conversation makes him nauseous.

“Aemond, sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.”

“I don’t think I do,” which felt untruthful, because he knew from the start that he never would. There were lots of things he liked about Maris. He liked that she was interested in him, he liked that she was blunt and unrelentingly honest, he liked that she had dark hair, and that she liked being fucked from behind and would let him press her face down into the pillow to muffle her moans. Soon the things he liked about her only felt like another reminder.

“Maris is old news, mother,” Aegon says.

“What a shame,” Alicent says, reaching for her wine again. “Oh well, I don’t think Viserys particularly likes her father anyway.”

“Well you know Aemond, always striving for perfection.”

Aemond’s eye meets Aegon’s over the table. His brother is trying not to grin, violet eyes bright from the light of the candelabra between them. Shadows catch on the hollow parts of his face, it makes him look tired but vicious.

Then he looks to his mother. She eats slowly with small mouthfuls, not making eye contact with either of her sons. It’s not often he finds himself upset or angry with his mother, not since he was old enough to understand just how hard she has worked, or know what she’s had to put up with as the wife of Viserys Targaryen. Aemond knows she trusts him in a way that does not always extend to his siblings.

But now all he can think is that she knows about Jaya. She knows, and she won’t even look at him.

Jaya could be in King’s Landing this very moment, lounging around Queen’s Lodge, looking out over the orchard she watered with Aemond’s blood while her mother fawns over her only daughter’s return.

He just needs to say it. He won’t go to Dragonstone if Jaya is there, he won’t stand to be in the same room as her, or breathe the same air as her. The thought already sends a feeling like flames licking up his spine that makes him restless with rage, with hurt and betrayal.

Aegon is still watching him and gives him a small nod.

Aemond takes a soft breath through parted lips–

Until a sound comes from the hallway that makes them all freeze, the sound of the front door unlocking, opening, then slamming with an ear splitting bang!

Aemond feels his face harden, brows straining with every footstep that marches against the hardwood floors towards the dining room.

Viserys appears in the threshold, dressed in one of his red and black suits, his face one of stone cold fury. He doesn’t look at Alicent, or Aegon, his eyes are fixed on Aemond.

He steps slowly into the room, placing one hand on the back of the chair closest to him at the head of the table, miles away from the rest of his family. His voice is quiet and clear through the stunned silence. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Alicent makes a stuttering, scoffing noise. “Viserys–”

He holds up a finger to silence her, his eyes widening in warning. “Aemond,” he says, “you will answer me.”

Aemond keeps his jaw clenched at first. He can feel his teeth wanting to chatter, anger aching in every part of his body. He cannot afford to show any sign of weakness or remorse, not in front of his father. But why does it feel so difficult to speak? He swallows through a dry feeling in his throat. “I thought I’d worded it all very simply–”

“Look at me when I speak to you, boy.”

He hadn’t realised his gaze had fallen to the table. He looks up with an expression that is as passive as he can manage. “I would have thought it would be obvious why I can’t go, with the recent addition to the guestlist.”

His head is turned completely so that Viserys is in his line of vision, but he hears his mother make a small sighing sound. “Aemond, I was going to–”

“ALICENT!” Viserys roars.

Aemond feels himself flinch but his gaze is unwavering. Why does he think he has any right to barge in here, to ask anything of them?

If Aemond were to stand he’d be taller than his father, but he finds himself unable to move.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Viserys says to him. “This could be the single most important night for the family for centuries and you’re still holding onto childish grudges?”

Childish grudges. He was mutilated and forced to carry the blame because of a lie, but of course his father expects him to let go, to forgive and forget.

He feels the leather of the eyepatch digging uncomfortably into his forehead and wishes more than anything he could just tear it off.

There are some things Aemond can argue with Viserys about, but they tend to be logical arguments, work related. The longer he looks at his father the more he remembers that no amount of sense could ever compare to the blind devotion Viserys has for his eldest child. There’s nothing Aemond can appeal to, not love or loyalty, not even sympathy.

“This is not about you, Aemond. This is about the bank, this is about the Targaryen name, our legacy, does that all mean nothing to you?”

“Of course it does,” Aemond says. He’s worked for nothing else his whole life, Dragon Bank, his heritage as a Targaryen, what is he without all of that?

Viserys’ face softens a little, as if he thinks he’s made some kind of progress. “I’ve never known you to be selfish, it’s not in your nature.”

“Well then you clearly know nothing about me,” Aemond says, glaring up at him.

Viserys frowns. “You will be there, and I want to hear no more of it. You will be polite. You will grin and fucking bear it because that’s what the rest of us have to do.”

He’s delusional, he’s fucking delusional.

Aemond looks to his brother, slumped in his chair, his eyes even darker now. He has his hand around the stem of a wine glass. He’s been staring at the crimson liquid since their father walked in. He might have been expecting to be the target of Viserys’ anger tonight; he usually is.

Aegon looks across at him, furious, exhausted, eager for this exchange to be over. He tilts his head in a questioning motion, though his lips stay firmly sealed.

All the years he spent trying to be the best that he could, how hard he pushed himself to get through that final year at KLU while recovering from his injury, all the hours he’s devoted to the family business, all the times he’s kept his mouth shut and his head held high, is this the hill Aemond is going to die on?

He won’t try to look at his mother, but he can guess she would have a similar reasoning.

A fearsome wind from the Narrow Sea howls against the windows of Aemond’s black Jag. The road to Dragonstone is a desolate one, leading through a forest that might as well be nothingness in the dark. The headlights beam against the tarmac which turns and rises and falls, so he can never see what’s ahead of him.

There’s a burst of light as he approaches the gates. He hasn’t seen the gatehouse for years and remembers that he used to be scared of the stone dragon heads that stand open mouthed and teeth bared on either side, at the base of the turrets. Some hired security guard comes to his window, his demeanour changing completely when Aemond glares at him through a single eye.

Cars line the acres of grass before the house, the driveway lined with lanterns and more statuettes of dragons. Dragonstone lies ahead in its full glory, lights on in every window, moonlight shining upon its ancient walls so the castle looms in shadows and silver.

He must be one of the last people to arrive, the last of the important people, slotting the Jag next to a golden Dodge Charger he recognises as Aegon’s. The rest of the Targaryens all drive black cars.

He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror for as long as he can stand to look at himself, glaring at the blunt edges of the sapphire in his left socket, dull and dark in the low light. The flesh around his eyelids are twisted and red, the scar itself deep but clean. His mother had suggested they could get it looked at, to make his eye seem less severe, but that’s what the eyepatch is for, to cover up the worst of his injury, for the comfort of others and not his.

He slips the leather patch over his head and secures it in place, careful not to mess up his hair in the process.

One day he’ll make her look at it, the sapphire and the scar, maybe then she’ll understand what she put him through. Not tonight, no, tonight he intends to play it safe.

He effortlessly exits the car, checking his cuffs as he walks up to the front doors. A server offers him a glass of champagne when he steps into the entrance hall which he takes a small sip from, parched after his drive from King’s Landing. He knows his way through the opulent halls that have stayed the same for as long as he can remember, towards the hum of at least a hundred voices.

The ballroom glimmers with reflected light, mirrors, gold accents, crystal chandeliers, champagne glasses. The guests are all in their finery, tuxedos and floor length gowns, either in black or the colours of their houses. Some have started to take their seats around the circular tables, but many are still mingling.

Any head of silver hair stands out rather obviously, and the first he sees is his father standing in the centre of the ballroom, a smile on his face and his arm around his wife’s waist. Alicent is radiant in a gold gown that catches the warmth of the candles dotted about the room. She looks less than pleased being made to talk to Rhaenyra and Laenor– now there’s a surprise, he doesn’t usually make a habit of appearing at family events. Rhaenyra is in black, as is her husband, with a waistcoat embroidered with swirling gold patterns, like waves on the sea.

His eye continues to scour the room. He sees Helaena and Daeron with the girl he assumes is Nettles. He sees Aegon getting friendly with the Martell siblings. He sees Corlys and Rhaenys with Laena and Daemon. He sees Jacaerys standing with the Starks, closer than is friendly to Cregan. He sees those with the surnames Tyrell, Tully, Lannister, Arryn, all the others, and keeps searching.

She’s not where she’s meant to be, at the table closest to the high table where Viserys will sit with the board members. She’s not with her parents, she’s not at the bar, she’s not at the doors to the gardens. Each moment he does not find her fuels some kind of fire within him, adrenaline pumping through his blood, like he’s chasing something just out of his reach.

A flash of loose, dark hair steals his attention. He doesn’t see her face at first but he notices when she nudges his shoulder as she passes him on his blind side, very nearly ending up with champagne down her silky, off white gown or spilled across the string of pearls sitting on her bare collar.

He apologises on instinct, reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket that has only ever been intended as decorative.

“No harm done,” the woman insists. “It’s good stuff, I would have been mortified to waste any of it.”

He recognises her face, the slanted nose, the sharpness of her cheeks, her bright green eyes and unsettlingly perfect smile. He’s seen her at press events, some kind of relation to the Strongs, but not close enough that she’d ever be invited to any personal occasions.

“Alys Rivers,” she says, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Deputy editor for Seven.” He’s heard of it, a high society gossip magazine, they often run stories about his family, Daemon and Aegon mostly, the rest of them clearly aren’t newsworthy.

“You used to work for the Harrenhal Observer, didn’t you?” he says.

“I did,” she says, “between you and me though, I think cousin Larys felt a little threatened.”

“Threatened?” Aemond says, noticing a pair of girls who are oddly familiar to him. He can’t place their names but he thinks they might be old friend’s of Jaya’s. They approach Jace, turning their heads around frequently like they’re looking for something. “How so?”

“He thought I was too opinionated,” Alys says, keeping her eyes on his.

“I didn’t think there could be such a thing,” Aemond says, though now he thinks he recognises the girls from one of the parties at Maegor’s Square, from years ago. One of them meets his gaze and quickly looks away.

“The Observer is supposedly a neutral publication after all, I had a few things to say about the working conditions at the Casterly Rock mines which caused quite a stir.”

That’s where he recognises her name from. Viserys wasn’t happy with the article given their ties to the Lannisters and their gold. It sets off a silent alarm in his head, suddenly her gaze is a little too scrutinising for his liking and he’s aware of every breath he takes, shallow or deep, soft or sharp, she could use anything against him.

“I heard a rumour you weren’t going to be attending tonight’s event,” she says.

“It’s Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary,” he says, “I’m incredibly proud of all the work my family has put into the last five hundred years.”

“You say that like you’re expecting this conversation to go to print.”

“That’s why you approached me, is it not?”

She hums a gentle laugh to herself as her gaze roams over his suit, black, simple and perfectly fitted. She looks back to his face, he sees the way her eyes flicker to his left side. She smiles lazily in a way that makes him wonder if she’s trying to flirt, and places a hand on his shoulder, leaning in closer until he can smell the classic, musky scent of her perfume. He lets her do it, lets her lips get closer to his ear.

“I only wanted to see if you had something interesting to say,” Alys whispers over the noise of the party.

He glances up, towards the grand fireplace at the end of the room. Gold plated engravings of dragons intertwine and spread their wings, framing the fire that burns within.

She’s standing there, a glass of champagne in one hand, in an emerald green dress suited for summer, loose fabric, exposing her arms, her hair pulled up into a style that’s effortlessly elegant.

Their eyes meet. It’s like electricity strikes his heart.

Six years fades into oblivion, she looks different and exactly the same. He can almost believe he’s never known a life without her, but she’s always been there, hasn’t she? An unspoken secret, living in the lightest and the darkest parts of his mind.

He can see the moment of recognition, when her expression goes from passive and proud to alert, eyes widening, lips falling, her hand lowering the glass to the nearest surface.

It’s dangerous how quickly he can already feel himself start to slip. He’s had seven days to prepare and part of him is still in disbelief that Jaya is a living, breathing person and not just a memory. Another part of him is calm and unsurprised, like he’s always known she was going to come back. To King’s Landing, to the family business, to him.

He doesn’t feel any pain, not in his head or his chest, but he feels empty, starved to the point of ravenous.

Jaya starts to move through the crowd, towards the glass doors that lead to an outlook over the gardens and the sea. It only sparks excitement for Aemond, imagining all the thoughts that could be swimming through her head, anger, pride, fear. By the Seven he hopes one of those is fear.

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“What?” he says, looking back to Alys.

“I thought I’d refresh my memory a little before I came here tonight. It’s been six years since Jaya Velaryon was in King’s Landing. The two of you were close, weren’t you?”

Close.

Close like the way Jaya used to hug him when they were children. She’d wrap her little arms so tightly around his chest or his neck that he could hardly breathe. He’d tell her to stop, shove her away, but then she’d only cry, and he could never say no to her after that.

Close like their minds worked in the same way, when they only needed to look at each other a certain way to know what they were both thinking.

Close like the air of his bedroom the first night they kissed, feeling the shared warmth, her body against his, the softness of her skin, when she tasted like wine and smelled like smoke.

Close was never close enough, but what difference did it make?

“Then there was that accident at Queen’s Lodge. The press release was so vague, it only said you and Jacaerys were recovering from minor injuries…”

Aemond glares at her, the same look that would usually silence Aegon, but Alys Rivers is not afraid of his warning.

She makes a gesture to his eye. “I mean, clearly one injury was more severe than the other. Curious that Jaya left for Pentos so soon after that when she was due to start at KLU that year. Why did she leave, do you know?”

Aemond pushes past her without another word, towards the glass doors that only Jaya has passed through in the last minute or so. The other guests are starting to take their places at the tables now. He sees Rhaenyra and Laenor looking around the room, having gathered their other three brats. His own mother tries to capture his attention but his mind can only think of one thing. He walks towards the doors as calmly as he can, even though it feels as if his life depends on reaching them, on reaching her.

The doors lead out to a patio, seemingly empty right up to the balustrade. He walks to the edge, the noise of the party lost to the roar of the wind and the waves in his ears, no doubt his hair will be blown into a mess but he doesn’t care.

Everything below him is black, out of reach from the lights of the castle. Then he spots something, a flicker of flame far below him, down a series of steps, out of view, down at an outlook over the sea. She shields it with her hand, lighting a cigarette by the look of it, until the end glows with a red ember.

He walks slowly, savouring the sound of every step his shoes make against the paving stones. He keeps his hands in his pockets, single eye fixated on the shape of her shoulders, the curve of her spine and her waist through the dress.

He tries to guess the moment she realises when she’s not alone. She angles her head slightly as he reaches the bottom of the steps, still a good distance away from her. He watches her take one drag from the cigarette before she lowers it, resting her hand against the stone balcony.

He comes close enough to realise she’s shaking, jaw clenched, looking almost determinedly out across the sea. The wind cuts across his cheeks like it’s burning his skin, so how she can stand to be out here with nothing to protect herself from the cold is almost admirable. It is also foolish of her.

Goosebumps bloom over her skin, skin he could reach out and touch if he wanted to.

And she won’t look at him.

She won’t look at him.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

Series taglist: @aemondsbabygirl @persephonerinyes @sirenangelroyal @qyburnsghost @adragonprinceswhore @boundlessfantasy @asumofwords @summerposie @thedamewithabook @ammo23 @valyrianflower @jiminie-08 @magnificentdelusionr @hiddencurator

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #modern!au #aemond targaryen smut #it will come back #hozier coded #my fics

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year

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Naomi Klein's "Doppelganger"

Tomorrow (September 6) at 7pm, I'll be hosting Naomi Klein at the LA Public Library for the launch of Doppelganger.

On September 12 at 7pm, I'll be at Toronto's Another Story Bookshop with my new book The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation.

If the Naomi be Klein you’re doing just fine If the Naomi be Wolf Oh, buddy. Ooooof.

I learned this rhyme in Doppelganger, Naomi Klein's indescribable semi-memoir that is (more or less) about the way that people confuse her with Naomi Wolf, and how that fact has taken on a new urgency as Wolf descended into conspiratorial politics, becoming a far-right darling and frequent Steve Bannon guest:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374610326/doppelganger

This is a very odd book. It is also a very, very good book. The premise – exploring the two Naomis' divergence – is a surprisingly sturdy scaffold for an ambitious, wide-ranging exploration of this very frightening moment of polycrisis and systemic failure:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lCjcwVhFhTA

Wolf once had a cluster of superficial political and personal similarities to Klein: a feminist author of real literary ability, a Jewish woman, and, of course, a Naomi. Klein grew accustomed to being mistaken for Wolf, but never fully comfortable. Wolf's politics were always more Sheryl Sandberg than bell hooks (or Emma Goldman). While Klein talked about capitalism and class and solidarity, Wolf wanted to "empower" individual women to thrive in a market system that would always produce millions of losers for every winner.

Fundamentally: Klein is a leftist, Wolf was a liberal. The classic leftist distinction goes: leftists want to abolish a system where 150 white men run the world; liberals want to replace half of those 150 with women, queers and people of color.

The past forty years have seen the rise and rise of a right wing politics that started out extreme (think of Reagan and Thatcher's support for Pinochet's death-squads) and only got worse. Liberals and leftists forged an uneasy alliance, with liberals in the lead (literally, in Canada, where today, Justin Trudeau's Liberal Party governs in partnership with the nominally left NDP).

But whenever real leftist transformation was possible, liberals threw in with conservatives: think of the smearing and defenestration of Corbyn by Labour's right, or of the LibDems coalition with David Cameron's Tories, or of the Democrats' dirty tricks to keep Bernie from appearing on the national ballot.

Lacking any kind of transformational agenda, the liberal answer to capitalism's problems always comes down to minor tweaks ("making sure half of our rulers are women, queers and people of color") rather than meaningful, structural shifts. This leaves liberals in the increasingly absurd position of defending the indefensible: insisting that the FDA shouldn't be questioned despite its ghastly failures during the opioid epidemic; claiming that the voting machine companies whose defective products have been the source of increasingly urgent technical criticism are without flaw; embracing the "intelligence community" as the guardians of the best version of America; cheerleading for deindustrialization while telling the workers it harmed with "learn to code"; demanding more intervention in speech by our monopolistic tech companies; and so on.

It's not like leftists ever stopped talking about the importance of transformation and not just reform. But as the junior partners in the progressive coalition, leftists have been drowned out by liberal reformers. In most of the world, if you are worried about falling wages, corporate capture of government, and scientific failures due to weak regulators, the "progressive" answer was to tell you it was all in your head, that you were an unhinged conspiratorialist:

https://doctorow.medium.com/the-swivel-eyed-loons-have-a-point-3434d7cbfae2

For Klein, it's this failure that the faux-populist right has exploited, redirecting legitimate anger and fear into racist, xenophobic, homophobic, sexist and transphobic rage. The deep-pocketed backers of the conservative movement didn't just find a method to get turkeys to vote for Christmas – progressives created the conditions that made that method possible.

If progressives answer pregnant peoples' concerns about vaccine risks – concerns rooted in the absolute failure of prenatal care – with dismissals, while conservatives accept those concerns and funnel them into conspiratorialism, then progressives' message becomes, "We are the movement of keeping things as they are," while conservatives become the movement of "things have to change." Think here of the 2016 liberal slogan, "America was already great," as an answer to the faux-populist rallying cry, "Make America great again."

When liberals get to define what it means to be "progressive," the fundamental, systemic critique is swept away. Conservatives – conservatives! – get to claim the revolutionary mantle, to insist that they alone are interested in root-and-branch transformation of society.

Like the two Naomis, conservatives and progressives become warped mirrors of one another. The progressive campaign for bodily autonomy is co-opted to be the foundation of the anti-vax movement. This is the mirror world, where concerns about real children – in border detention, or living in poverty in America – are reflected back as warped fever-swamp hallucinations about kids in imaginary pizza restaurant basements and Hollywood blood sacrifice rituals. The mirror world replaces RBG with Amy Coney-Barrett and calls it a victory for women. The mirror world defends workers by stoking xenophobic fears about immigrants.

But progressives let it happen. Progressives cede anti-surveillance to conservatives, defending reverse warrants when they're used to enumerate Jan 6 insurrectionists (nevermind that these warrants are mostly used to round up BLM demonstrators). Progressives cede suspicion of large corporations to conservatives, defending giant, exploitative, monopolistic corporations so long as they arouse conservative ire with some performative DEI key-jingling. Progressives defend the CIA and FBI when they're wrongfooting Trump, and voting machine vendors when they're turned into props for the Big Lie.

These issues are transformed in the mirror world: from grave concerns about real things, into unhinged conspiracies about imaginary things. Urgent environmental concerns are turned into a pretense to ban offshore wind turbines ("to protect the birds"). Worry about gender equality is transformed into seminars about women's representation in US drone-killing squads.

For Klein, the transformation of Wolf from liberal icon – Democratic Party consultant and Lean-In-type feminist icon – to rifle-toting Trumpling with a regular spot on the Steve Bannon Power Hour is an entrypoint to understanding the mirror world. How did so many hippie-granola yoga types turn into vicious eugenicists whose answer to "wear a mask to protect the immunocompromised" is "they should die"?

The PastelQ phenomenon – the holistic medicine and "clean eating" to QAnon pipeline – recalls the Nazi obsession with physical fitness, outdoor activities and "natural" living. The neoliberal transformation of health from a collective endeavor – dependent on environmental regulation, sanitation, and public medicine – into a private one, built entirely on "personal choices," leads inexorably to eugenics.

Once you start looking for the mirror world, you see it everywhere. AI chatbots are mirrors of experts, only instead of giving you informed opinions, they plagiarize sentence-fragments into statistically plausible paragraphs. Brands are the mirror-world version of quality, a symbol that isn't a mark of reliability, but a mark of a mark, a sign pointing at nothing. Your own brand – something we're increasingly expected to have – is the mirror world image of you.

The mirror world's overwhelming motif is "I know you are, but what am I?" As in, "Oh, you're a socialist? Well, you know that 'Nazi' stands for 'National Socialist, right?" (and inevitably, this comes from someone who obsesses over the 'Great Replacement' and considers themself a 'race realist').

This isn't serious politics, but it is seriously important. "Antisemitism is the socialism of fools," its obsession with "international bankers" the mirror-world version of the real and present danger from big finance and private equity wreckers. And, as Klein discusses with great nuance and power, the antisemitism discussion is eroded from both sides: both by antisemites, and by doctrinaire Zionists who insist that any criticism of Israel is always and ever antisemetic.

As a Jew in solidarity with Palestinians, I found this section of the book especially good – thoughtful and vigorous, pulling no punches and still capturing the discomfort aroused by this deliberately poisoned debate.

This thoughtful, vigorous prose and argumentation deserves its own special callout here: Klein has produced a first-rate literary work just as much as this is a superb philosophical and political tome. In this moment where the mirror world is exploding and the real world is contracting, this is an essential read.

I'll be Klein's interlocutor tomorrow night (Sept 6) at the LA launch for Doppelganger. We'll be appearing at 7PM at the @LAPublicLibrary:

https://lafl.org/ALOUD

Livestreaming at:

https://youtube.com/live/jIoAh-jxb2k

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

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gortash-did-nothing-wrong · 1 month

Text

Fatherhood

Warnings: mentions of spanking children, mentions of Enver being abused as a child, incredibly brief mentions of a child wandering off and their mother panicking, implied murder but it's barely touched on.

Enver is a bit of a conundrum as a father, you've come to realize by the time your oldest is seven. He is equally strict and lenient. He demands his children have a rigorous study regimen with the best tutors money and blackmail can get, and an active lifestyle. He's less strict about their physical activity, allowing them to simply pick a hobby that requires physical prowess and he arranged for tutors and coaches to help them excel at it. Their oldest takes a fancy to horseback riding and Enver arranges for a purebred warhorse to be delivered to his stables.

"Absolutely not." You say firmly, disappointing your seven year old daughter. "She's not even four feet tall yet, a fall from that beast would kill her!"

"Well my dearest, I believe the point is that she stays in the saddle." He teased.

You threw a handful of hay at his head. The next day there was an age appropriate pony in the stables instead.

Your second child wanders off in town one day, and three panic attacks later, you find him at a blacksmith shop, staring wide eyed as a lovely tiefling man explains to him the process of smelting ore. You grab your five year old boy, holding him in your arms as you apologize. "I am so very sorry, he's a very curious boy, and fast on his feet!"

"No trouble at all." Damon, he introduces himself as, says. "In fact, I'm in the market for some help around the forge?"

Your son spends his weekends at Damon's shop, carrying buckets of coal, writing down orders, and even sometimes swinging a hammer. Enver is beside himself with joy at the sight of his son dirty with soot and his hands blistered.

"And a fine young smith he'll make!" Enver proclaims. "He's got my broad shoulders after all, and look at those hands! They'll only get tougher with every blister, my boy!"

"Isn't he a bit young for so much labor?" You asked, applying some ointment and bandages to your son's hands. "He's not even getting paid."

Damon had offered your son five copper a week, generous for the labor a five year old could provide. Enver had refused, instead sending his son to Damon with one hundred gold a week for the blacksmithing lessons.

"Experience is more valuable at his age than coin. And come now, my dear wife, money is of no issue to us. Anything he wants I'll just buy him!"

Ah, yes, Enver's leniency. As strict as Enver was about demanding his children perform well in their studies, when it came to other areas of life your children were somewhat spoiled. Your daughter had a new outfit every other week it seemed, and both your children's pockets were often filled with candy. They had new toys monthly, their old ones being donated to the orphanages whenever they piled up. Enver saw no point denying them anything.

Until they required discipline. Something you found out about your husband was that he refused to ever hit your children, not even a light smack on the back of their hand. The idea disgusted him whenever you mentioned it. He forbid you from raising a hand to them, something that you found difficult on days when they tried your patience but ultimately you managed. One of your nursemaids had spanked your oldest lightly when she was caught trying to climb out of a window to see if she could run across the rooftop like a cat. Enver had found out, and despite you trying to save the woman's job, you had never seen her again. You doubt she was simply fired, though. Even after the nether brain was defeated and certain activities of your husband stopped... He always had some kind of experiment or tribute to Bane going on. You suspect the woman was a victim to one of them, despite her spanking being a product of fearing for your daughter's life.

The only punishment Enver ever inflicted on his children were stern lectures, and denial of free time. Or the introduction of chores. Watching your oldest try to wash dishes in the kitchen as a punishment had been mildly amusing. Soap suds had gotten everywhere, and she was causing more issues than helping the staff, but the point was she hated doing it.

Your son was the more well behaved child, his only frequent bit of mischief was wandering off unannounced. And whenever he was found, he was either pouring over books in the library, up to his elbows in dirt outside, or sneaking into his father's workshop to 'borrow' tools.

Still, Enver was strict on both of your children conforming to the rules of the house, of which no running off was one. Your son was frequently punished with chores like sweeping, scrubbing, even laundry. After one particularly boring afternoon, you walked into the back yard of the estate to see your son having rigged up a mechanical washing system powered by a donkey your daughter had helped him lead over by his reins.

"Menaces." You mumbled, before going to fetch Enver. Thirty minutes later, you sat in a chair, drinking lemonade and watching Enver and your son both work on the mechanical washing system. "Men."

Your daughter, sitting next to you with a glass of apple juice, grunted in agreement. "Overgrown boys."

You remark on his odd parenting one evening as you feed your third child, a darling little girl that's only two. "I must say, I've never met a man of your status that doesn't occasionally hit his children. My father was quite strict with his belt, so are all of my brothers with their children."

"Your family hardly ever sees each other." Enver said pointedly, sipping a glass of bourbon as he reads the evening newspaper. "Didn't you go five years without even speaking to your father?"

You pause, weighing his words. "Yes... I'm not saying you're wrong, I'm just curious what caused you to be so different. Is it a Lower City cultural norm to not spank your children?"

Enver snorts, abandoning his newspaper to go find his snuff box. "My father was more fond of his fists than his belt."

You feel your face grow pale. "Oh... I'm-"

"Don't." He says firmly, forgetting his pipe and tobacco in favor of coming to stand beside your chair. His hand, calloused yet gentle, pets your hair. "It's the past. It's over. And all those who have wronged me are either dead or worse." He says lowly.

He bends down, kissing your two year old on her chubby little cheek. "And my children will never fear their parents."

#enver gortash #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 enver gortash #dad enver #fluff #domestic #enver gortash headcanon #enver gortash x reader

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autisticandroids · 1 year

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been listening to you're wrong about and like. okay @barren-and-trivial-words said once that on hannibal, serial killing is fundamentally considered a type of artistic pursuit. and they were right, obviously they were right. that's the basic structure almost, of the series. my favorite example is the eye sculpture serial killer where hannibal is literally like. we are situated in his gaze and he is evaluating the sculpture on artistic merit. but overall hannibal is a tv show about aestheticism and the inherent amorality of aestheticism - it is of course immoral to kill, but it is also often beautiful to kill, and shouldn't beauty outweigh morals sometimes?

and the thing is, media is... a good place to make this point. obviously because making a point is going to be in media, but the nature of hannibal as a tv show for consumption means that aesthetics will always trump morals. because the people on the show aren't real, but the beauty is, beauty does by default outweigh morals.

so hannibal kind of becomes this fascinating metatextual text on the nature of stories, or, you know, it can be read that way. because it is in the nature of all stories for beauty to outweigh morals.

but it's also a comment on the nature of serial killers as a concept. i want to link the two episodes of you're wrong about that got me thinking about this - both of these episodes are about the symbiotic relationships serial killers have with media. with fiction but even more especially with news and non-fiction. serial killers sell papers, and in fact the figure of the serial killer is kind of invented to sell papers - in one of these episodes, sarah marshall reads off a letter sent to a london paper "from" jack the ripper that was probably actually forged by a journalist to heat up the news cycle. it's very cinematic, it reads as absolutely cliche to the modern ear and maybe to the victorian one as well, but i'm sure it made the paper that printed it a lot of money.

and one of the things that i already kind of knew but was reinforced in these episodes is that most of the common knowledge that the public has about "serial killers" both in general and in specific cases is just... wrong. and that's for a lot of reasons. some of it is definitely because it's convenient for the police to have access to the figure of the mastermind serial killer for all sorts of reasons, especially to cover their own incompetence or to just pawn off unsolved cases. but also it's because the media needs sensation to sell papers, and so lurid stories of superhuman killers are just a lot tastier than some guy who murdered three women for obvious, petty reasons and also molested his stepdaughters. the public demands uniqueness, spectacle, extremity. it's not enough to bleed if you want to lead, stories have to bleed spectacularly. so the modern concept of the serial killer was built almost entirely on the back of newspapers, true crime paperbacks, and silence-of-the-lambs-alike feature films. it's not like. a real thing. it's a product of the spin factory, re-working reality into something marketable.

and hannibal lecter - the original, fava beans and a nice chianti hannibal lecter - is perhaps the height of this cultural concept, the star of the serial killer... craze? moral panic? i suppose the word is phenomenon. so it's interesting to read bryan fuller's hannibal as a kind of indulgent commentary on the existence of the newspaper-literary "serial killer" figure.

[i would also recommend ywa's episodes on ed gein, jeffrey dahmer, and the dc snipers for more perspectives on serial killers. while i'm at it you should also listen to their episodes on gangs, human trafficking, sex offenders, the satanic panic, stranger danger, and true crime, but i realize i'm kinda pushing it.]

#hannibal #you're wrong about #csa tw

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sarsaparillaart · 25 days

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“Poor metal forged by poorer men.”

Swordtember 1 — Wings

The short sword of the Pentapolitan Host—affectionately nicknamed “the tegmen” due to resembling an insect wing— is part of the required kit for Host soldiers, guards, and mercenaries hired out throughout the Chain.

The Host provides military service to hundreds of minor guilds and traders in the archipelago and so have a high demand for cheap weaponry. This demand is met through a number of methods, but the most common way is through deals with local smiths.

Because of the reputation of the Host and the notoriously low quality of their weapons, these deals are often considered an embarrassment, but are still highly coveted, especially by those smiths new to the trade.

Host manufacturing deals are typically short term orders for bulk tegmen and various other weapons, but the company provides molds and materials (pig iron and wrapped with cord made from human hair), thus requiring only labor from the smiths. The deals pay well, but additionally, the company allows hired laborers to sign their work, providing a huge marketing boost to up-and-coming smiths.

Decided to participate in Swordtember this year! I'm trying to slaughter a number of birds with this, but I'm mostly here to have fun and flesh out a world I’ve been ignoring for the better part of a year. (The same world that this piece is from). I'm really hoping that I carry through all 30 days, but I'm not very good at follow-through so we'll see.

#swordtember #swordtember 2024 #concept art #worldbuilding #diyar #my art #artists on tumblr #digital art #fantasy

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poetryvampire · 2 months

Note

"Yeah, baby," Dammon gasped in his ear. Behind the thin wall, the neighbor was loudly fucking his new conquest for the night. Zevlor bit the pillow as his lover slid just right against his prostate. Tonight, Dammon had told him he'd do all the work for once, so he could relax after his exhausting day at work. The Commander felt guilty to be serviced in such a way, spread out on his belly on Dammon's bed as the young man fucked him with his tongue and then his cock. Zevlor had always loved his vigor and his passion, fucking him hard and fast until the old tiefling was a quivering, wet, whimpering mess beneath him. Tonight was no different. Zevlor had come twice already while Dammon had yet to climax. The bed was creaking under the young man's thrusts. Zevlor tightened his tail around Dammon's hips as he felt the pleasure swell within him, dragging him mercilessly toward his third release.

"I'm gonna get a better place, sugar, I promise you," Dammon hotly whispered in his ear, "so I can hear you come on my cock."

Zevlor swallowed back his moan as he couldn't help but constrict around the young man. The sheets were sticking to him, damp from his sweat. The petnames always happened when Dammon would lose his filter with the pleasure, babbling sweet names he'd call his past female lovers. For a reason the Commander didn't care to examine, it only served to heighten his arousal. It should feel ridiculous to be called like that, yet it only pushed him toward release.

"Dammon!" he gasped, so achingly close and yet so far.

His lover sunk his teeth in his shoulder, coming to a stuttering halt inside him as he spilled. Zevlor shoved his face into the pillow as he came, whimpering. On the other side of the wall, the neighbor was making his conquest scream. Dammon licked the mark he left on him as the Commander tried to catch his breath, mind finally blank after an exhausting day of frustrations.

OMGOMGOMGOMG

That is 1000% what I'm talking about. GOD. Push out all that doubt and anxiety by overstimulating Zevlor so hard 🧡🧡🧡

I love the idea of Dammon getting Zevlor into so many things he's never thought of or let himself enjoy. Sweet lil pet names? He secretly comes to adore them. Trusting his lover to take total control? Wants to feel bad but it's the best he's ever felt.

Also imagine these lovesick fools both in less than ideal living situations. Like after the fallout of the final battle a lot of people end up living in cramped housing. Which makes alone time pretty difficult. Luckily Dammon's so mad for Zevlor he's willing to find risky solutions.

He'll invite Zevlor over to the forge to keep him company one evening, knowing it'll be totally dead. Going about his normal business for awhile while his lover sits off the side, watching him closely. Zevlor keeps it together even with his eyes glued to Dammon. The way his sweat soaked shirt clings to him from the heat of his work. He keeps his distance until Dammon ends up straddling him demanding his attention.

Or one afternoon they find a short cut out of a busy market through a quiet alley. Zevlor takes advantage of the sudden peace by drawing him into a languid kiss, perhaps a taste of what their evening may hold. But Dammon has other plans, he's so in love with the feel of his mouth, his body, he needs more now. He moves Zevlor against the stone wall taking his lips hungrily. Soon their hands are everywhere as Dammon begins to grind against Zevlor's quickly growing need. Before the commander can chuckle and wave away his lovers actions Dammon's on his knees before him, freeing his erection.

"Dammon! We can't just-Ahhh-" Zevlor's protest dies in his throat as the blacksmith swipes his tongue over his head.

"Cmon, no one's gonna come down this way." He pressed hot kisses to the shaft. "Even if they do. Let them watch." Dammon purred before suddenly taking his lover deep into his throat, eyes never leaving his.

Zevlor cried out, the raw pleasure of Dammon's words and actions coursing through him. He had never really seen the appeal of fooling around in semi public places. But that hammering in his heart told him differently. That and the blacksmith wanting him so unashamedly that he'd be willing to be caught in such a position. It made him almost wish they would be.

Ahh I'm losing it 💜

#God #What a great ask #I love team work #zevlor #Zevlor x Dammon #bg3 #dammon bg3 #Asks #Nsft

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hermesserpent-stuff · 7 months

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I definitely think im going with the first option with leaving before hiccup gets toothless (still need to figure out how they end up together because I demand that be a constant in my aus lol) @lirabuswavi feel free to build!!

(and anyone else who have ideas)

id love them to flee when hiccup is 13 and dagur is 16 and they both sail north during one of the treaty signings after making the plan for a year and both preparing for it.

they sail north and set up shop on a tiny island alone where they can easily sail to the northern markets to trade. hiccup takes over naming the island while Dagur takes over giving them a new last name. both generate... interesting results that I still need to figure out. Hiccup sets up a forge on their island and takes weapons, jewelry, and inventions to trade at the northern markets. his spyglasses are very popular.

dagur hunts and sells off animal pelts and stuff.

#hermes speaks #httyd #httyd au #stolen heir au #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock #dagur the deranged

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joyfullyacat · 2 years

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The Beginning to the End (of you)

haha wow i've now written my first all hurt no comfort!!! and BOY ITS THE MOST I'VE EVER WRITTEN FOR ONE THING.

Inspired by this au drawing here from @just-a-drawing-bean

CW: death, violence, suicidal ideation and vaguely committing, bloodshed, it's not a good time for anyone! Word Count: 5.5k -

Never did you think you’d end up here.

The screaming crowds you were once a part of in much better times, witnessing blood baths and massacres for sport. They now roared at you, crying for your spill into the sands. For your last echoes to be drowned out by their frenzy.

You used to be a warrior for this kingdom, a soldier - proud and decorated. Sent into battle after battle, hardly given rest, oh how you missed a soft bed.

How’d you get here?

Not many humans could keep up with the automatons that became part of societies - some were more mindless, faceless recruits with a directive and nothing more than indiscriminate slaughterers. Those in your region held personality, a mind you’d even dare to admit.

Some had even made it to protect the royal family, eternally loyal followers with strength that would be written about for ages beyond.

But if there was a way to get money solidly - quickly, it was through fighting. Humans or otherwise. As a Human, fighting the seemingly hulking beings of metal was a good way to get a grand status.

You were once an individual who had to get money quickly. Now hopefully, that coin would go far with your family. If they weren’t shamed for your audacity at least.

Your penchant for mercy.

The gate that keeps you caged groans with its weight as chains rattle in your ears and ensnare your feet to where you stand currently. Trepidation makes you swallow thickly despite the dryness in your throat and mouth that protest.

Those above were at least kind enough to allow you the weaponry bestowed upon you from your beloved brothers in arms, your trademark tool of the trade. Authorities still had some respect for you it seemed. If a bit mockingly.

A greatsword, a hefty demanding two-hander. Forged by a legendary blacksmith - a friend… Perhaps once friend if you were to be pessimistic. The black leather wrappings creak as your knuckles tighten about the handle.

You wonder again how it was you got here as the announcer practically rips their vocal chords apart in announcing the upcoming battles.

First it was your youngest sibling, so new to this world and still holding bright eyes for what it held for them. It started with shivers - a fever… Then it was shallow breaths and rattling coughs.

Money was scrounged up by the slivers hidden beneath furniture from previous fumbles but they were saved, treated. Didn’t really have scraps after that moment.

Then your parents were the next sign. Your father getting accosted one day in the market and losing his head over it… Literally.

As the then eldest and most abled in the household while your mother clutched at straws for a sign above in her spiralling despair, you had to do what you could for the family.

You taught your sibling everything you could that they’d be able to do so they could take care of mom.

Then you left, never looking back. You’d either make it or die trying.

In a handful of day-to-night then back again cycles, you made it from the outskirts town of everyone knowing everyone to the far more bustling city of high stone walls and an ambience that reached far beyond its border. You snuck in with nothing but the shirt on your back, dirtied slacks and worn out boots to your name with the passing crowd of traders.

You knew of automatons, sometimes they’d be in your little village for trade or a quick rest. Fleeting but memorable, there was a travelling duo that you gave directions to once. Personifications of the celestial bodies themselves it seemed - Sun and Moon respectively.

You told them how to get to this city.

…You didn’t think you’d ever meet them again.

Rather, you didn’t think you’d run into them as you did in a hurry to get away from some suspicious characters. Ramming your face straight into a metal plate with a resounding bong of hitting against metal.

You’re holding your face in your hands with haphazard apologies as a stranger's hand graces your shoulder.

“Why - it’s you again! Our little helper. Moon, you remember them don’t you?”

The familiar voice brings you from your stunned stupor, trying to fight the ache and desire to sneeze with an ugly scrunch of your nose that brings a snicker out of the silent counterpart of the duo, Moon.

“Yeah, I remember them,” He quips quietly, moving just past you to stand behind instead, “What’re you doing out here all alone? In such a hurry…”

You realize after gaining your bearings what he was doing. An attempt to shield you from view, make it look like you were already occupied while they played catch-up.

“Sun, Moon - good seeing you… I - stars… You didn’t have that before, did you?” The breastplate shines even in the shadowy alley between buildings, the daylight unable to pierce the tall buildings and their overhangs.

There’s a smudge where your dirtiness bonked into it.

“Oh this? Nope! Moony made it - he’s been making armor for the soldiers recently.” Sun offers transparently, not missing a beat and garnering your attention to inspect him further.

On a once-over, you see the rest of his armor - his weapons. A shield on his back, a simple scutum on his hip, the sword in a gorgeous engraved leather holder. A dagger was hidden away just beneath the belt of leather straps that fell along his legs to his knees almost.

With a single nod of approval, you look between him and Moon to see what he beared “...You look like soldiers.”

“Because we are. I just happen to also be able to make things.” The lunar half of the duo quips dryly, “Will you answer my question now?”

“Right yeah. I was being chased - something about me being in the wrong part of the city or something?”

The two share a look over your head before looking back down to you.

“...Friend, what are you here for exactly?”

“Money and a chance to help my family.” You state curtly, looking up at Sun who looked to you with upturned brows of worry.

“All alone?”

“Just me.”

A few moments of silence pass before you’re abruptly scooped up and tossed over Moon’s shoulder.“He-Hey- now! What’s the big idea?!” You writhe, kicking your feet some like a petulant tantrum throwing toddler as your face warms up, now distinctly not because of the time of day or season.

“We’ll teach you how to fight.” Is all you’re told.

Sun trails after you and Moon with an apologetic smile.

…

That was the start of it all. They had been so kind to you, a stranger who offered them the most simplest of help when they needed it way back when. The brothers even offered some of their money at the time to send back to your family at first.

The beginning months were rough on your mind, even with the support of the automaton duo. They crafted you into a fine weapon of their own design it felt like now. With all the lessons instilled into you about clean deaths and graceful passings.

They taught you everything you knew. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

They were the reason you became a soldier. To serve with them. To fight for them. To ensure they would see another sunrise and set - a sentiment they shared with you.

Sun took you in his arms, Moon took you under his metaphorical wing. They plucked you from your world and integrated you into theirs.

The three of you were terrors on the field.

Gossips labelled you all as harbingers of the end. The murder of crows. Some used the term vultures.

Creatures that cleared the remains, picking them clean.

You only gave the proper burials that your enemies deserved - that’s if the bodies weren’t collected by their home compatriots.

“...Moon.” You ask one night, your arms are aching from the battles today. There’s pain all throughout, you’d be bruised for the weeks following. You’re bandaged up and should be taking the chance for a much needed rest…

Yet, you’re driving a shovel into the dirt again…

Smoke is hanging heavy in the air, there’s smoldering remains of artillery from both sides. The smell the winds carry with them is acrid.

Again…

Many faces are indistinguishable in the smears of dirt, blood, and cruel fire that doesn’t distinguish between friend and foe from the source of its creator.

And again.

He looks over to you briefly before continuing with digging with you. “What is it, my soft soldier?”

“Why do we do this?”

“...Because no other will. They had their own lives and they gave it up for the chance of a new home. It only makes sense they should feed the grounds and trees that’ll one day tower over us. To be part of creating a new home beyond you and me.”

“I see…”

Sun heaves the fallen into the pits you dig. The thump of hitting the dirt gets replaced soon by clangs of metal on metal on metal. It echoes in your ears long after you leave.

The lifestyle had been… Grating. It tumbled you around like a stone in the ocean. One day you’ll be spat out, smoothed by the tumultuous currents that never allowed rest - or you’ll be broken upon impact when your time comes to leave the waters as you were discreetly made fragile from the cycle.

It felt like ghostly claws grasped at your ankles as you walked each day now, mementos from your battles, they’d find purchase in your scars and tear them new each night in your dreams.

The greatsword crafted just for you was enough of a symbol that people ran from it. Even though Sun loved it - he designed the weapon after all.

You loved his art. You didn’t realize what the sketch he presented you with was a blueprint - you thought he was just showing you his work like you made him promise to do.

It was when he painted for the first time, a simple messy thing with what he could afford to do in a little amount of time, you were enamoured. A splattering of colors on a fairly large shell, a flower painted within.

“My strong sword lily.” Sun called you then when you managed to get it on a leather cord and wear it around your neck. His pinky linked with yours shortly after.

“Seal it with a kiss?” You had asked jokingly, only to be made flabbergasted when he kissed the back of his hand and ushered you to do the same with his free one that wasn’t linked with yours.

The smile he wore was so bright that day, bright as his namesake and twice as warm.

The two-hander was a work of art in theory. A list of materials was scribbled in the corner - it’d shine so beautifully in the light, engravings would let it tarnish down the line to be proudly displayed on a wall.

He wanted to call it “The Sunderer.” Pun included.

Moon got to it not even a week later and added his own touches. The pommel holding the symbol of a sun embraced by a crescent moon, things like that.

Your strength with your new blade then made it into the ballads and poems of bards. People ran from you or fawned over you in the streets. Those who contested you were out until the next morning.

Never did you strike to kill unless it was on the battlefield.

You watch as another duo enters the ring. It’s not much longer now - it shouldn’t be at least. They wouldn’t plan actual fights before your turn. Not when it was known you’d go for hours on end.

It’s a scrawny young man - practically a boy. He’s up against one of the older champions of the pit, Monty you think his name was? A hulking gladiator with claws and knuckles of sharpened spikes with a large, sweeping tail that knocked many into walls with sickening cracks. A lizard-sort of mechanical work with sharp teeth.

The boy was running him in circles.

The sun-warmed sand is scalding to your toes now.

A part of you wants to run in as the gate is open and impale yourself on your own blade. How much would that shake your once brothers and sisters in arms? The ones watching with bated breaths for your appearance. Those who looked up to you as a guardian.

The stalwart protector you once were.

Reduced to becoming a reddened water fountain.

It’s tempting. It shouldn’t be.

You look at your wrists and focus on the raw lines where the cuffs dug into your skin. Those would be weak spots, they’d probably start bleeding as soon as you started swinging and that was alright.

It was better than being chained to the wall like a rabid beast…

“Release me - I’ll take you on! I’ll make you a wet smear upon these stones!” Your cries and threats fall onto deaf ears as you’re taken away by guards. What have you done against your home? What did you do?

Sun and Moon look at you, shocked and frightened.

You left some of the strongest people you had ever met in your life, scared. It silences you almost immediately, reduced to no more than pitiful whines and struggles as you wished to go back in time. To get back to them.

The look of seeming disappointment on Moon’s face would forever be ingrained in the back of your mind.

You could only desperately pray to whatever gods that would be foolish enough to listen to you - that your family would still be cared for in your absence.

Insubordination - that was your crime. Apparently. It was reported you had been smuggling escapees from neighboring taken-over territories through borders instead of offing the forest of family trees. Letting the bloodlines flow freely along your blade and feeding the earth below.

Was it not enough to torch their memories? Their homes? To defile the grounds of their dead?

How were you supposed to thin the numbers when they can’t even fight back to begin with. How were you supposed to protect your kingdom from the orphaned and sick?

The needy needed someone to help them…

Even if that person was part of the cause of all their misfortune to begin with.

You were not instilled with the laws of mercilessness and cruelty.

You were given kindness, taught that very kindness and basic respect, you returned it tenfold…

And this was what you were repaid with.

Trying to fight your way to freedom - cheap, free entertainment. There’s a part that’s ready to be out there again with your weapon in hand, longing for the hum of battle in your blood. The rest of you is disgusted you ever supported this sport to begin with.

The reptilian automaton was knocked to the ground with an agonized cry but distinctly he wasn’t dead. You could see his tail twitch in various places with a jerkiness that made it seem like he was trying to regain his sense of self.

The man-boy, Gregory, you vaguely heard in the cheering, stood a foot on the chest of the champion, hands on his hips. Evidently proud of his work. It seemed he didn’t learn a very valuable lesson in the field.

Always make sure they’ve stopped moving - or breathing if they’re human.

The gladiatorial monster suddenly grabbed the new fighter by the ankle on his chest and wretched it away.

You didn’t have to look anymore.

The fervor of the crowd was enough, practically deafening in the echoey walls of the arena. They got the blood they were after - that the new blood was denying them.

Soon, you could just make out a title being announced as the victor growls out his cheer, a foul guttery noise before dragging himself and his conquered foe out of the ring.

It feels hollow being called the Vulture of the Wastes.

Not when you knew the truth of it. Of all of it. How the people who recognized you for you saw you as an anything but an omen of disaster. Your correction stewed in your mind.

It’d probably be your last thought. That you’d be dying fruitlessly. For futile beliefs.

Though, distractingly, you didn’t know who the Blade of Brilliance could be. The title called after your own.

It’s been some time since you were in battle and similarly just as long since you were last outside without restraint. You were only able to retain your strengths by pulling at your chains. Utilizing the bars above when they’d briefly leave you without your restraints.

It wasn’t ideal but it had to do.

You drag your sword behind you, letting it screech across the stone to announce your approach.

The people somehow seem so much louder outside of your little crevice. Maybe it’s the daylight that blinds you. Maybe they just got more excited seeing the familiar gleam of your blade.

You stand in the middle of the playing field, staring beyond to the opposing alcove.

Never did you think on such a blistering summer’s day, you’d feel so cold as a familiar silhouette breaks from the shadows. One you hadn’t seen in…

How many times did you see frost make way for flowers? For verdant greens to turn to yellows and reds?

It didn’t matter now.

None of it mattered now.

The royalty above sat in their viewing box in pillowy comfort, idly being fanned and no doubt snickering to themselves in selfish gratification for the pain they’ve inflicted this day. Onto their most loyal soldiers with differing values.

Pitting once comrades in arms against one another.

Pitting you against a lost love.

Sun looks at you with a broken smile, the sharp stare he greeted you with, meant to intimidate became much more rounded - softening at his recognition of you. The loneliness that falls from him in waves creeps up with every step he steals towards you, the distance steadily closing.

“Oh what have they done to you…” He speaks openly once he’s just a few feet away, brandishing his sword and shield, the very same you first met him wielding.

So he was the Blade of Brilliance.

You want to smile for him, you want to crack a joke and get him giggling in that intoxicating way that baits you into laughing along with him… But you can’t. This isn’t a matter where you’re companions on the road or wary souls seeking comfort in the night.

You are enemies fighting for freedom as a show for others.

“I’m sorry I’ve wilted over the years - what did they do to get you here?” You ask, raising your sword up in a readying stance as a wave of antsy jeers crowd around you and your opponent.

They want you to start fighting soon.

The announcer hasn’t said anything yet.

“...Moony and I put ourselves here. Hoping to be met with you one day.” He admits with a half-hearted laugh that sounds empty, “I had so many words prepared for you, genuinely I did-” “FIGHT ALREADY!” The announcer screams with finality, you both jolt from your moment with one another.

Right.

“...Like training?” You ask cheekily, the barest of smiles pulling at your lips when he seems to perk up at the suggestion.

“Like training.” He echoes and you charge at him with a swing from your side, heaving the greatsword into his shield with an audible clang of metal against metal and an ear piercing shriek as sparks go flying from the collision.

“I’m sorry I left you and Moon - is he here?”

Another strike, you brandish your sword like a shield to block his overhead swing.

“He is, he’s watching now no doubt. You’ll be fighting him next.”

The statement said with such totality makes your brain short circuit, taking a bash from his shield and being sent backwards with a breathless wheeze. Something definitely cracked. Sun walks over easily and if you didn’t know any better, you’d be terrified of the confidence he strides with. “Oh I should have warmed you up for that better,” He speaks casually even though he’s standing over you, sword positioned to sink into your flesh. But he’s being theatrical for the people around.

You’re both putting on a show.

So you brace for the pain, taking the sword at your chest and closing your hand around it. Thankful for the cloth wrappings they spared you with as you push at it and into him, “What do you mean I’ll be fighting Moon after this?” The cheap material absorbs the blood of the cut along your palm easily but your fingers would prove to be an annoyance.

The automaton plays the stumble well, acting surprised at your retaliation as you’re quick to re-arm yourself with a wild cleave.

Your blade slices clean through his metal side - a hit he could have avoided but he doesn’t flinch or falter, he looks at you proudly.

“I don’t plan on winning this fight, my warrior.” He explains simply, you’re able to see a twitch in the hand that’s occupied by his shield. He wants to reach out and touch you - you long to hold him the same. “Neither does he.”

“They won’t accept a forfeit.”

“The royal family will accept our deaths.”

Tears spring to your eyes, blurring your vision and falling rapidly at his content admission. He’s so calm about all of this. Sun has been placid from the start… It makes you wonder how long he’s been stewing over this with Moon. Where this was their mutual final answer to everything that had occurred.

“Your tears are appreciated - but they are wasted, you know this, don’t you?” Sun quips in an effort to get you to smile - or maybe hit him. You choose the latter as your weapon goes swinging, your heart clenches painfully in your chest. “There has to be another way - why isn’t there another way, Sun?” You utter brokenly, looking between your locked blades and him.

“Even if they accepted the forfeit. You, me, and Moon would all still be trapped.” He swings his arm so his sword is free from the lock. More shrieking metal, more sparks sent flying.

“Him and I have won many battles. They promised us freedom, we’ve long since rejected it. I don’t think they’d let us go now, not when we bring them so much… Everything, really.” Sun elaborates further, dropping his sword before reaching out and grappling you.

For a moment, you’re scared at the hand that holds your neck as you’re forced to the ground and made to unhand your only means of defense, his mechanical strength easily outdoing your current abilities but then you realize where he’s dropped his sword.

He’s giving the two of you time to speak and seeing himself up for his end.

They always were so good at thinking ahead.

Sun lovingly strokes along your jawline with his thumb despite the hold on your neck. “You made us realize that without you - life is… Tragically dull. Lifeless really. You brought so much color to our mundane existence, a meaning to the fight. Do you know fighting without purpose is practically torture? Nothing to return to - no one to keep safe…”

You kick your legs against his chest in a show of struggle but you’re still a blubbering, sobbing mess. “You - you have each other!” Your wailing is pathetic and he looks at you in sorrow.

“But we would much rather have you with us, sweet one. Even if we got out of here together - there would still come a time where you would pass and we would have to march on eternally… Do you think you could stomach that sort of existence?”

Your flailing hand that seems desperate to find something to use against your opponent finally lands on the sword.

“We have accepted our end at your hand. There would be no greater honor and besides… Maybe in the next life - you can have that garden you wanted… I can be the painter I longed to be…”

“And Moon?” “Moon would get the family he wants, little ones in tow - how we’d get them…” He looks to the side then shrugs, the smile he flashes you is so heartwarming, sickeningly sweet and unbelievably him as you knew from back then that your sobs subside to a hiccup.

You go limp in your seemingly fruitless struggles against him. “...You’re sure about this? All of it?” You don’t want to go into the philosophy of machines not having souls. They came out of nowhere, they were created somehow, surely there’d be a second chance for them… For you too.

“We’ve planned to the last detail.” He confirms, pulling away and “accidentally” kicking your fallen greatsword closer to you. “Give them what they - and we… Want.” Sun gives you a wink of all things before standing up, hands in the air and prematurely celebrating his victory.

Steadily, you reach for your greatsword, you’d leave Sun’s weapon here for the moment.

They’d probably appreciate the theatric brutality of killing a brother with his sibling’s sword.

The thought makes you ill.

You act like you’re dazed from just being strangled, briefly clutching at your throat in a hunch before you get both hands on your sword, holding it out in front of you…

And charge.

The ear splitting screech of metal grinding against metal fills the arena and it actually manages to silence the crowd as you impale the perceived victor from behind…

And twist. You respectfully lower Sun’s now lifeless body to its knees, letting him slide off your sword with an irate grinding cry at the friction before he falls to the sand in a heap, face down.

You don’t think you could stomach seeing the lights of his eyes as dark pools of nothingness.

There is a bloodcurdling thunderous cry of rage from the alcoves and you realize that Moon had just witnessed everything.

You want to cry again. Even if it was planned - this was betrayal. It all felt like a betrayal to their trust. To everything they told you, taught you, and gave you. Now they entrusted you to throw it all away and give them their final wish.

You hold your sword over your head as if you didn’t just hear a lion be released from their cage and pretend you don’t see the glinting flashes of dual wielded blades or the blur of blue coming at you.

You get tackled to the ground with a very genuine shout of surprise however.

There’s a broken wheeze that leaves you before you can speak, your voice strained. “They really wanted to make this hard for me, huh?” You ask in a huff, finding some spirit to grin up at Moon who, in all of his animalistic snarling, looks at you with the kindest eyes you’ve seen on him yet.

“They were never one to play fair - you look terrible by the way.” He notes dryly before you’re sending him back with a smear of your blood across his face from your hand swiping wildly.

“Glad I could service you well one final time.” You utter morosely, eyeing the streaks of your fingers from one side of his face to the other.

“So he’s told you?”

“Every last detail. Including your wants for a family.”

You’re beginning to feel numb - but the way he looks away, flustered, makes your heart flutter.

“Not quite possible but… Maybe we’d get a dog or two. Something that’d fill in that gap.” He tosses the idea in his head, lowering himself to the ground and reversing the hold on his dagger while his sword faces you.

“I thought you were a cat person?”

Moon doesn’t answer your question. “Are you ready for the flurry, brave soldier?”

You ready your greatsword, letting the shine of it reflect into the face of your opponent who squints at your nonsense.

“Always.”

He’s swinging before you blink and you can only maneuver yourself and your weapon to fight off each blow that sends you back inch by inch, despite the way your feet are dug into the sand.

Moon does get you here and there, your blood is splattering the ground in little rose bud blooms that get lost in your movements, buried as soon as they land.

You drop your greatsword after long enough of the onslaught, trying to run away for your life - with little dignity in tact.

You’re running right to Sun’s blade that glints at you playfully in the dancing sunlight of a cloud overhead.

Moon’s chase has your adrenaline flying as whenever he’s close enough, there’s a new slice or nick somewhere in you. Your clothes are blood stained tatters at this point.

You reach down for the sword and send it soaring, unused to its lightweight compared to your usual heavier weaponry and it makes its mark…

Right into Moon’s left eye.

The agonized bellow is very genuine but there is nothing you can do.

You inflicted this pain, agreed upon it may be but the logic did little to soothe your haywire emotions as a strangled gasp leaves you almost fumbling with the blade while you tear it out from his head.

“Please - I - Moon I’m-”

You’re interrupted when he waves a sword wielding hand in a seemingly blind swipe but it’s a signal of dismissal as he staggers back and loses that very sword in his agony. “You’re doing good…” Is all he can get out before it all continues once more.

Your swords clash against one another again, this time very much one-sided as your foe visibly struggles just keeping himself upright.

“We’ll feed these grounds in the wake of a new world, just like I told you.” He hisses out, if he could breathe, no doubt his breath would be heaving in his pain. The shake of his shoulders is indicator enough as one hand keeps the damage you did to his eye hidden from you.

Trying to comfort you, even in a time like this.

“Will we be reunited?” You ask, when you manage to accidentally knock his remaining blade free from his hand - his hand going with it.

“Time and time again, we will find each other. Just like the stars above.”

The shorter blade you wield demands you get closer for the final blow and much like Sun, you strike it through his chest.

He falls forward prematurely though as you're driving the blade in and you can just barely feel the nuzzle of his teeth against the crown of your head. One final note of affection - public even, something he hated the most.

You finally let out the yowling pain of your heart that echoes across the arena and gets lost in the battle frenzied crowd.

“Our VICTOR!” The crier announces with hands raised to the skies above as he steps up onto the little stage that overhangs the arena. “The prisoner, the Vulture, will be let free for their abilities this day!”

Never have words of empowerment proved to be so meaningless to you.

You don’t wait for the fanfare. You’re walking out towards the opening exit that guards await you with, taking the blades that belonged to you, Sun, and Moon all in tow.

You held onto the idea of once again seeing your companions in your time spent forcefully away from them.

You see now what they meant by a world without the dynamic duo.

Even though you’re actively bleeding and you’re pretty sure you're missing pieces of yourself like a bit of ear there or a wedge of flesh here. You deny seeing a healer.

You deny seeing the royal family.

You instead walk.

With one sword in a sheath you make from your wrappings, you hold your greatsword and Sun’s blade while clenching Moon’s dagger between your teeth.

And you walk.

Even with the keen shriek of your greatsword on the ground that draws attention, not one person goes to you. They recognize you, they recognize your sword, they see your blood. They see the other tools you brandished unwillingly.

They know what you’ve done.

You know what you’ve done.

They never told you that you had to live a long life for them after this - just that you had to give them their final dues and earn your freedom.

There is no freedom without those two in your life, for that you can be certain.

If any were to follow your trail of blood and scratches in stones and along trees from the swords… They’d come across you.

Who put every blade into the ground, hilt up in the sky as final resting places, markers that not one soul would dare touch in fear of retaliation…

On the bank of a very… Very empty lake.

Not one bubble in sight.

#joyfic #hurt no comfort #sun x reader #moon x reader #dca x reader #sun x y/n #moon x y/n #dca x y/n #fnaf sb #fnafsb #im not sorry but im kinda sorry #you can yell at me its alright

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generalpierrotdameron · 28 days

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[...] That idea – to present something entirely new within George Lucas’ world, not drawn from the animated series or connected to a previous film – was one of the biggest reasons for audiences to be excited by The Acolyte. It was also, always, going to be a tougher sell. Sure, its array of Jedi characters allowed for plenty of lightsaber-centric marketing – but it didn’t have a Baby Yoda to capture the hearts of Star Wars agnostics; nor did it have a character like Ahsoka with its own built-in audience; even Andor spun off a character (admittedly not one people remembered particularly fondly) from the $1 billion-grossing Rogue One. According to Deadline, it was the viewership for The Acolyte that resulted in it not being renewed – it had the lowest-viewed finale of any Star Wars series so far. Regardless of any opinion on the show itself, is that really a surprise, given the lack of name recognition? Should season finale numbers be the measure of success for any Star Wars project going forward? A series like The Acolyte would, undoubtedly, have picked up more viewers discovering it at their own pace on Disney+. The worry here is that Lucasfilm – or the Disney overlords – may be more hesitant to move ahead with original Star Wars stories down the line. The Acolyte was a risk, extricated from the Skywalker Saga. And it took narrative risks too: its unusual structure delivered two equal-and-opposite flashback episodes at apposite points in the season, each illuminating contrasting viewpoints on its central conundrum; in Lee Jung-jae’s compelling Sol, it gave us a Jedi Master character to put your faith in, only to have you, resignedly, root for his demise in the finale; it dared to take several cast members off the board in an astonishing mid-season brawl. [...] For a franchise caught between being reverent to its own near-50-year history and trying to forge a new future, The Acolyte was hell-bent on accelerating both. Meanwhile, those who did support the show are the ones being let down. Fans are not entitled to art; artists are not beholden to their audiences. And yet, Lucasfilm getting behind The Acolyte was a statement of intent: there was a story that demanded to be told here, and it would introduce Star Wars fans into something fresh and new. Not renewing the show for Season 2 feels like a refusal to commit to that story; a creative backing-down, leaving viewers’ personal attachments to the ongoing narrative unfulfilled. Sure, The Acolyte – like any Star Wars series – is an expensive proposition (reportedly $180 million). But the financial investment isn’t just in creating the show itself; it’s in fostering fans’ trust and attention and imagination for the long road. A cultural force like Star Wars can’t afford to be one that lets its fans down. The disappointment, then, is seismic. Which doesn’t take away from what The Acolyte Season 1 gave us. It presented a refreshing take on a galaxy we’ve long come to know; some of the greatest fight choreography in the franchise; connections to deep Expanded Universe lore; a big-screen representation of (the end of) the High Republic; Trinity from The Matrix using Force-fu. Hopefully, in time, more fans will appreciate what The Acolyte achieved – or, at least, strived for. Opinions on Star Wars rarely remain static; this is the way. But like those decisions made by the Brendok Jedi, the choice to end The Acolyte here is flawed; perhaps fatally so. Here’s hoping it doesn’t send more Star Wars fans to the dark side.

👉 Renew the Acolyte - Sign the petition!

#the acolyte #star wars #renew the acolyte #starwarsblr

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athingofvikings · 7 months

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A Thing Of Vikings Chapter 56: Perils Of Popularity

Chapter 56: Perils Of Popularity

Compared to the drama of dragon-dug underground canals and dragon-forged skyscrapers, the Financial Revolution in the century and a half after Hiccup Haddock's taming of dragons is generally overlooked, but is perhaps even more fundamental to an understanding of the economic structure he left behind. Prior to the taming of dragons, bullion currency was comparatively rare; while gold and silver coins were certainly in circulation, as witnessed by the famous bride price paid for Hiccup's wife Astrid, overall, the Europan economy was cash-starved and functioned primarily on the barter economy at the lower levels. After the taming of dragons, however, an even more scarce commodity currency entered the economy in the form of dragon scales.

As is common knowledge, dragons shed their skins each spring; prior to domestication, they used these materials for the construction of nests for newly hatched young. Under human auspices, however, the shedding amounted to the annual input of pure currency into the economy. Properly treated and cured, dragon leather and dragon scales can last for decades of use before wearing out. While the leather itself acted as a trade commodity, the single scales from hide that wasn't of sufficient quality to be made into leather were not worthless. On the contrary, they functioned as currency, quickly displacing bullion metals as the currency material of choice.

In this role, dragon scales offered numerous advantages, including being nearly impossible to counterfeit or debase, being easy to substantiate as genuine, and naturally removing themselves from the money supply over time as they wore out or were repurposed (such as for industrial use, decoration or even insulation). However, even with this removal, the most productive gold or silver mine could not hope to match the net output of dragon shedding, and the resulting injection of funds into Europa's economy—spread by the effects of the Dragon Mail and the existing trade network—caused rampant inflation, averaging between 3-8% a year over the next century. While this would cause problems to the modern developed economy, in the cash-starved environment at the time, it was an economic blessing, allowing for a rapid shift from the barter economy and feudal taxation system to a market economy and currency taxation system, giving even the peasantry access to funds with which to pay their expenses and taxes and receive payments. Increasing per-person productivity from Haddock's innovations and the agricultural impact of dragon labor pushed urbanization, as demand for labor—human and dragon alike—exceeded the available number of hands and wings for most of the next several centuries…

—The Dragon Millennium, Manna-hata University Press, Ltd.

AO3 Chapter Link

~~~

My Original Fiction | Original Fiction Patreon

#a thing of vikings #httyd #how to train your dragon #alternate history #historical fiction

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humanpurposes · 7 months

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(Teaser) It Will Come Back

Chapter 3, Broken Bonds

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

A/n: I feel bad that it's been forever since this series had an update, and I'm just feeling silly today so I thought I'd share a lil something of what I've been working on (to hopefully motivate me to finish the chapter lmao).

Now…

The heat is relentless this summer. Light bleeds through the ancient stained glass windows of the Red Keep in beams of red, green, blue and gold, only to be lost to the dark wood floors, furniture and panelled walls. It is Aemond’s least favourite time of year, when the weather makes him irritable and the harsh light gives him a headache, when business tends to be busy and everyone is preoccupied with holidays and garden parties. He’s less inclined to distract himself with frivolity.

His sleeves are rolled up, his long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, sweat starting to pool underneath the eyepatch over the left side of his face. He’s leaning over Aegon, one hand on the back of his chair, staring down at his laptop and they check over some details for next week’s event.

Why their grandfather wants him to look over PR and marketing nonsense is understandable, but irritating nonetheless.

Their father has been planninging this event for years, Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary gala, with all the pomp and grandeur of a bygone era, held at their ancestral seat of Dragonstone Castle, just outside the city. Five hundred years since one of their ancestors forged a throne for himself in King’s Landing, building an empire that still has most of the country under their family’s thumb. Viserys intends to use the occasion as a reminder to every individual and family in Westeros who thinks they are even slightly important that they cannot compare to the might of the Targaryens.

There can be no oversights. Everything has to be perfect.

His eye scans over the diagram on the screen, circles surrounded boxes with names; the seating plan in the main ballroom. Then a name catches his eye and it makes his heart stop. He doesn’t want to believe what he sees but there it is on the screen, in Times New fucking Roman: Jaya Velaryon.

“Fine!” Aemond snaps, staggering back from the chair. His head feels like it’s been run through with a knife and his fingers fumble to get his eyepatch off. “Fine– fuck! I’m fine.”

“Sit,” Aegon orders, quickly standing and guiding Aemond over to one of the leather sofas on the other side of the room, where the sunlight isn’t so direct.

The pain is often like this, striking suddenly, spreading quickly like a forest fire, eating away at him like a disease, and he has no choice but to endure it.

He feels the eyepatch slip from his face before something cold presses against the worst of his scar. He reaches up to clasp his hands around it: a glass water bottle, one Aegon is holding. His brother is useless most of the time but he does have his moments.

“Fuck it’s all red,” Aegon mutters. “Have you got meds with you?”

When Aemond opens his mouth to speak his jaw is trembling. “Office,” he says, gritting his teeth together, trying to control his breath and the extent of the pain. “It’s in the office.” He can see where the packet is in the first draw under his desk.

“I can go and grab some–”

“No,” Aemond says, grabbing Aegon’s arm so he won’t move.

He closes his eye and breathes in counts of three. In through the nose, hold, and out. Between that and the bottle against his face the pain starts to feel a little duller and the room doesn’t feel so close.

“Is it… you know,”

Did seeing Jaya’s name shock him so severely that his body went into meltdown? Is his heart still pounding in his chest at the thought of reading her name and the possibility of seeing her again?

Aemond exhales irritably against the back of his throat, defeated, but always stubborn.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months

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The Bezzle excerpt (Part II)

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me next in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!

Today, I'm bringing you part two of this week's serialized excerpt from The Bezzle, my new Martin Hench high-tech crime revenge thriller:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

Though most of the scams that Hench – a two-fisted forensic accountant specializing in Silicon Valley skullduggery – goes after in The Bezzle have a strong tech component, this excerpt concerns a pre-digital scam: music royalty theft.

This is a subject that I got really deep into when researching and writing 2022's Chokepoint Capitalism – a manifesto for fixing creative labor markets:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

My co-author on that book is Rebecca Giblin, who also happens to be one of the world's leading experts in "copyright termination" – the legal right of creative workers to claw back any rights they signed over after 35 years:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/26/take-it-back/

This was enshrined in the 1976 Copyright Act, and has largely languished in obscurity since then, though recent years have seen creators of all kinds getting their rights back through termination – the authors of The Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley High Books, Stephen King, and George Clinton, to name a few. The estates of the core team at Marvel Comics, including Stan Lee, just settled a case that might have let them take the rights to all those characters back from Disney:

https://www.thewrap.com/marvel-settles-spiderman-lawsuit-steve-ditko/

Copyright termination is a powerful tonic to the bargaining disparities between creative workers. A creative worker who signs a bad contract at the start of their career can – if they choose – tear that contract up 35 years later and demand a better one.

Turning this into a plot-point in The Bezzle is the kind of thing that I love about this series – the ability to take important, obscure, technical aspects of how the world works and turn them into high-stakes technothriller storylines that bring them to the audience they deserve.

If you signed something away 35 years ago and you want to get it back, try Rights Back, an automated termination of tranfer tool co-developed by Creative Commons and Authors Alliance (whose advisory board I volunteer on):

https://rightsback.org/

All right, onto today's installment. Here's part one, published on Saturday:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/17/the-steve-soul-caper/#lead-singer-disease

It was on one of those drives where Stefon learned about copyright termination. It was 2011, and NPR was doing a story on the 1976 Copyright Act, passed the same year that was on the bottom of the document Chuy forged.

Under the ’76 act, artists acquired a “termination right”— that is, the power to cancel any copyright assignment after thirty-five years, even if they signed a contract promising to sign away their rights forever and a day (or until the copyright ran out, which was nearly the same thing).

Listening to a smart, assured lady law professor from UC Berkeley explaining how this termination thing worked, Stefon got a wild idea. He pulled over and found a stub of a pencil and the back of a parking-ticket envelope and wrote down the professor’s name when it was repeated at the end of the program. The next day he went to the Inglewood Public Library and got a reference librarian to teach him how to look up a UC Berkeley email address and he sent an email to the professor asking how he could terminate his copyright assignment.

He was pretty sure she wasn’t going to answer him, but she did, in less than a day. He got the email on his son’s smartphone and the boy helped him send a reply asking if he could call her. One thing led to another and two weeks later, he’d filed the paperwork with the U.S. Copyright Office, along with a check for one hundred dollars.

Time passed, and Stefon mostly forgot about his paperwork adventure with the Copyright Office, though every now and again he’d remember, think about that hundred dollars, and shake his head. Then, nearly a year later, there it was, in his mailbox: a letter saying that his copyright assignment had been canceled and his copyrights were his again. There was also a copy of a letter that had been sent to Chuy, explaining the same thing.

Stefon knew a lawyer—well, almost a lawyer, an ex–trumpet player who became a paralegal after one time subbing for Sly Stone’s usual guy, and then never getting another gig that good. He invited Jamal over for dinner and cooked his best pot roast and served it with good whiskey and then Jamal agreed to send a letter to Inglewood Jams, informing them that Chuy no longer controlled his copyrights and they had to deal with him direct from now on.

Stefon hand-delivered the letter the next day, wearing his good suit for reasons he couldn’t explain. The receptionist took it without a blink. He waited.

“Thank you,” she said, pointedly, glancing at the door.

“I can wait,” he said.

“For what?” She reminded him of his boy’s girlfriend, a sophomore a year younger than him. Both women projected a fierce message that they were done with everyone’s shit, especially shit from men, especially old men. He chose his words carefully.

“I don’t know, honestly.” He smiled shyly. He was a good-looking man, still. That smile had once beamed out of televisions all over America, from the Soul Train stage. “But ma’am, begging your pardon, that letter is about my music, which you all sell here. You sell a lot of it, and I want to talk that over with whoever is in charge of that business.”

She let down her guard by one minute increment. “You’ll want Mr. Gounder,” she said. “He’s not in today. Give me your phone number, I’ll have him call.”

He did, but Mr. Gounder didn’t call. He called back two days later, and the day after that, and the following Monday, and then he went back to the office. The receptionist who reminded him of his son’s girlfriend gave him a shocked look.

“Hello,” he said, and tried out that shy smile. “I wonder if I might see that Mr. Gounder.”

She grew visibly uncomfortable. “Mr. Gounder isn’t in today,” she lied. “I see,” he said. “Will he be in tomorrow?”

“No,” she said.

“The day after?”

“No.” Softer.

“Is that Mr. Gounder of yours ever coming in?”

She sighed. “Mr. Gounder doesn’t want to speak with you, I’m sorry.”

The smile hadn’t worked, so he switched to the look he used to give his bandmates when they wouldn’t cooperate. “Maybe someone can tell me why?”

A door behind her had been open a crack; now it swung wide and a young man came out. He looked Hispanic, with a sharp fade and flashy sneakers, but he didn’t talk like a club kid or a hood rat—he sounded like a USC law student.

“Sir, if you have a claim you’d like Mr. Gounder to engage with, please have your attorney contact him directly.”

Stefon looked this kid up and down and up, tried and failed to catch the receptionist’s eye, and said, “Maybe I can talk this over with you. Are you someone in charge around here?”

“I’m Xavier Perez. I’m vice president for catalog development here. I don’t deal with legal claims, though. That’s strictly Mr. Gounder’s job. Please have your attorney put your query in writing and Mr. Gounder will be in touch as soon as is feasible.”

“I did have a lawyer write him a letter,” Stefon said. “I gave it to this young woman. Mr. Gounder hasn’t been in touch.”

Perez looked at the receptionist. “Did you receive a letter from this gentleman?”

She nodded, still not meeting Stefon’s eye. “I gave it to Mr. Gounder last week.”

Perez grinned, showing a gold tooth, and then, in his white, white voice, said, “There you have it. I’m sure Mr. Gounder will get back in touch with your counsel soon. Thank you for coming in today, Mr.—”

“Stefon Magner.” Stefon waited a moment, then said, for the first time in many years, “I used to perform under Steve Soul, though.”

Perez nodded briskly. He’d known that. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Magner.” Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared back into his office.

ETA: Here's part three!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#copyright-termination

#pluralistic #the bezzle #martin hench #marty hench #red team blues #fiction #crime fiction #crime thrillers #thrillers #technothrillers #novels #books #royalties #wage theft #creative labor

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melestasflight · 9 months

Note

For the December Silm asks, Aredhel/Eol and "call upon her name out of the darkness." I'd love to see you explore their relationship more. Thank you!

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @sallysavestheday. Thanks, friend, for encouraging me to come back to this controversial couple. Posting the collection of stories on AO3 here.

Aredhel returns to Gondolin and considers the price for her decision.

call upon her name out of the shadows

After more than eighty years under the Sun, Aredhel finds herself returned to Gondolin. She is a guest now, a refugee of sorts, in the very city that was once her home.

On their way from Himlad, Aredhel’s heart had been beating wildly like a drum on a festive day prompting bodies into reckless dance. From fear, excitement, or some other type of strange agitation, Aredhel could not tell then. The horse beneath her legs had felt her restlessness and had kept speeding up, faster, fiercer, the closer they were to the Dry River.

‘Mother, wait for me!’ Lómion’s voice would echo behind her from time to time. Ensnared in her thoughts as she had been, she would almost forget that her son had never known the way to the Hidden City.

It was the overwhelming impatience that had filled her, fed by the homeache of many long years, to know how her brother’s city had changed in her absence. To learn who in Gondolin still spoke her name with longing.

Now that she walks the fair white streets, Aredhel feels as if she has fallen into some queer dream she has already dreamt before. The city seems frozen in time, a well-preserved image in rock carved over eighty years ago.

Certainly, a few new houses are perched around the Great Market and streams flow down freshly built channels along the Way of Running Waters, but most things look precisely the same as she remembers them. The rows of trees stand immaculate along the walkways, their branches trimmed in the orderly fashion that Glorfindel’s house has favored since Vinyamar. The same gossip about the same century-old romance is still murmured between the greenery at the Square of the Folkwell. Aredhel even recognizes the song that spills from a corner house where some of Ecthelion's folk reside.

It is a shocking contrast to Nan Elmoth where all things are in constant evolution. Birds there come and go with the changing of the seasons, and colors blend endlessly in the glades. Even the giant trees of the forest move, making space for each other under the starlight, creaking as they lean against each other in a song that no one ever hears twice.

Gondolin lacks the deep shade of the ancient woods, and the trees here are too young to shelter Aredhel from the Sun that is too warm against her skin. The gardens she passes by are rich and tempting to the eye, but they are maintained with skill alone. They are, as with everything in Gondolin, too perfect. An abundance of skill and a lack of soul.

Aredhel recalls Eöl’s words from summers ago when Lómion had begun growing eager, too eager, to know all that can be learned in the forges, when his young heart had already departed the forest for the marble city from Aredhel’s stories. He must learn that everything has a cost, Aredhel, even his craft. For the land gives, and the land demands.

Eöl had been right, Aredhel reckons, about that and many other things, but by then the two of them had run out of patience for love. Over the years, the differences that had at first kindled the flames of thrill and curiosity had grown into impassable mountains.

By the end, Lómion had become their battlefield where they contested their opposing worlds — East against West, Noldo against Sinda, a newcomer against a native, light against dark, change against preservation — it had all come crumbling down slowly but steadily until the meager contentment that remained was no longer worth the effort. So she had stolen her son, at last, a bitter victory against one who was not her enemy but her husband, the lover her heart had chosen. Aredhel wonders now what Eöl will feel when he returns to Nan Elmoth and an empty house.

Was it wrong to leave in the manner she did? Had she taken Lómion away from the forest too soon?

Trapped beneath the weight of her uncertainty, Aredhel gasps for breath. She inhales but nothing comes in, the air escapes her like smoke that cannot be trapped between one’s hands. Nothing stirs around, but Aredhel feels the city alive, almost menacing with its high towers that pierce the sky and its perfectly geometrical shadows that cut the streets blade-sharp. She avoids them on purpose as she walks, thinking they will slice her if she dares step across their boundaries.

Left, right, right, left, Aredhel quickens her steps, running from what, she cannot tell until her feet hit the northern walls of the city and there is no path beyond. The Echoriad rise as far as up as the clouds, and beneath, nothing but the black rocky forest of the Caragdûr. Behind her, Gondolin catches up, pressing her against the wall above the precipice as whispers of things to come call upon her name out of the shadows.

Aredhel closes her eyes and waits, ready for anything, she is a hunter that has pursued a beast beyond her strength. The call draws nearer.

‘Mother!’ As the voice rings out behind her, clear as silver bells, Aredhel loses sense of the ground beneath her and all but topples into the abyss. She snaps her eyes open.

‘Mother,’ Lómion continues, ignorant of his mother's anxiety, ‘lord Rog has agreed to take me as an apprentice into his house. I can start learning as soon as I’d like!’

When Aredhel finds the courage to face her son, he glows with the joy of eagerness. She focuses on his face to steady herself. Gondolin appears tame behind Lómion’s shoulders; the city has withdrawn its claws, and the white streets are now bathed in the soft light of early evening. Elves greet each other here and there, and the scent of dinner being cooked fills the air from someone’s window.

Lómion waits for her answer, wide-eyed. He seems changed already, the braids and attire of the Gondolindrim making him look both so young and grown all at once. He is happy here, Aredhel thinks, and for that, it is all worth it.

‘I am most proud of you, my dear,’ she says and draws her son into an embrace.

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

#aredhel #eol #maeglin #nan elmoth #gondolin #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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lullabyes22-blog · 1 year

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Snippet - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - The Council

Silco meets the Council. And ponders his history.

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Hatred rises like a toxic effervescence in Silco’s veins.

(These Pilties, eh, Vander?)

(These fucking Pilties.)

In a city whose lifeblood is old money, they are the crème de la crème: an elite group steeped in Piltover's rich heritage of trade and commerce. A century ago, the city was a drowsy backwater, a middling port of fishing settlements and warehouses. The Council's forefathers were Shuriman midshipmen, Ionian merchants, Noxian brigands and Demacian bureaucrats. Men and women who made their fortunes through sheer tenacity and hard graft.

Then came the boom.

Beneath the settlement lay caverns with rich deposits of minerals. Soon, smelters dotted the waterfront, and shipyards sprang up along the bay. Steel became gold. Iron turned to platinum. The age of industry dawned: Piltover blossomed into a manufacturing metropolis.

Then came the Void Wars. In a trice, the city's population doubled. Zhyunian refugees fled by boat; Noxian merchants came by steamships; Demacian scholars boarded trains and Freljordians rode in on zeppelins. Language diversified; the city grew cosmopolitan.

In the coming decades, successive waves of migrants were swept onto Piltover's shores: from noble families seeking to expand their power across Valoran to small-town traders laden with cheap luggage and big dreams. By the century's end, they'd propelled Piltover into a global megacity of palatial mansions, art deco skyscrapers and pristine streets hosed clean every morning before the business hubs threw open their gilded gates to the bon ton.

The population boom meant more houses to build, more food to eat, more clothes to wear. All of which required labor, capital investment, and raw materials.

All of which came from the Fissures.

In theory, the Undercity should have prospered hand-in-hand with Piltover. Yet little of the riches from the Fissures’ recesses was ever relished by the Fissurefolk themselves. They were cut from a different cloth from their over-the-Pilt brethren. Their ancestors were miners and craftsmen, not shipmasters and merchants. Their culture was a clotted stew of customs and dialects; most didn't even speak Piltovan. They weren't born in the city itself but in its shadow, living in close-knit riverside settlements and twilit caverns.

Physically, they resembled deepwater piranhas compared to their sun-kissed kin—narrow bones, wan skins and sharp teeth. Culturally, they were foreigners. And socially, they were inferiors.

Their economy was a rich relic of the Oshra Va'Zaun empire. Their gemcraft and metalworking industries were well-established. Their artisans were peerless and prolific. Their alchemical scholars were the backbone of innovation. They had a robust labor force, a thriving entrepreneurial class, and a history of keen ingenuity.

Their forbearers traded along a flourishing network of maritime ports and river routes. They bartered with Bilgewater; bankrolled the gold mines in Shurima; forged trade deals with Ionia. They even had stakes in the black markets of the Shadow Isles and the mercenary guilds of Noxus.

They did business with every corner of Runeterra. And they did so proudly.

A century's time would turn the glad tidings into bitter tides.

During the first wave, the Undercity's wealth was a windfall for Topside. The demand for labor and resource was insatiable. But the Undercity's resources were finite. When Piltover's population ballooned after the Void Wars, the Fissurefolk were forced to compete. Lacking the natural advantage of fertile terrain and plentiful sunlight, they had no choice but to cut corners. In a trice, the factories and mines teemed with orphans and the elderly, each one paid starvation wages and offered none of the protections aboveground. By the century's end, the Undercity was squeezed dry, a sweatshop with a single employer.

Piltover.

As the upper-city's wealth quadrupled, mercantile clans rose up, each vying for control over the mineral deposits in the Fissures. These overlords were no friends of the poor. Their purview was profit, and profit meant one thing above all else:

Exploitation.

Their first order of business was stymieing the Undercity's trade routes and keeping its resources under lock and key. The collapse of the old Sun Gates and the flooding of the Undercity’s ports gave them the perfect pretext. The borders were sealed off in the guise of a safety net. The only routes were now through Piltover's Bridge, and each shipment was heavily taxed.

In time, the Undercity’s local markets choked. A slow strangulation of wealth reduced former artisans and alchemists to scavengers. Tariffs trapped them in a perpetual cycle of debt and debasement. Once-proud traders stooped to selling their own daughters for coin. Others tipped over into outright smuggling.

Then Piltover launched its second phase: a systematic strangulation of the Undercity's voice.

Fissurefolk were barred from owning or leasing property aboveground. Their children were denied access to Topside schools. Their customs were deemed barbaric. Their traditions were branded as backward. Their dialect was derided as guttural filth. They were derogatorily referred to as Sumprakers—as if their entire existence was an aberration.

By the century's end, Piltover had transformed from a trading partner into a hegemony. The Fissurefolk were no longer perceived as citizens, but as the Other.

An enemy within.

Soon, Topside began consolidating power by buying up land around the Fissures. Displacing the poor and demolishing their homes, they drove them deeper and deeper belowground, while putting the leftovers to use. Historic districts were privatized. Temples were razed. Marketplaces were shut down. The Undercity was reduced to a febrile womb of raw material, ready to be ravaged.

And ravaged it was.

When the first mining rig was installed, the Fissurefolk rioted. The unrest was put down. More mines followed, and more violence. It wasn't until the Enforcers were established as a body of justice that the tide turned in Topside's favor. These overseers were a law unto themselves, their ranks composed of mercenaries and miscreants. Their uniforms were black; their hearts were blacker. Their methods were a brutal amalgam of medieval torture and modern bureaucracy.

Under the banner of peace, the Enforcers were tasked with quashing dissent belowground.

They did so—brutally.

Piltover's third phase was total dominion.

The first mercantile houses had grown rich off the Undercity's spoils. But the new generation hungered for something more: absolute rule. They were no strangers to political maneuvering. Their forefathers had been shrewd tacticians: men and women who'd honed their wits through war, diplomacy and backroom deals.

They knew how to twist the knife, and keep their own hands clean.

Before long, they'd allied with Piltover’s industrial magnates and the monied elite. Together, they formed a cabal of oligarchs, each as ruthless as they were influential. Thus, the Council was born: a body of seven self-appointed sovereigns charged with regulating trade, enforcing laws and levying taxes.

They saw the Fissurefolk as a means to their own end. Disregarding their petitions for better sanitation, downplaying the contributions of their labor, and turning a blind eye to the rampant pollution, they proceeded to carve the Undercity's soul from its body.

When the Fissurefolk protested, the Council responded with Enforcer raids.

And bloodbaths.

By century's end, the Council had built a wall of bureaucracy between themselves and the Fissurefolk—most of whom were treated with neo-colonial contempt. Meanwhile, their wealth continued to reach dizzying heights, with every merchant ship that sailed through the port's grand arches and every sculpture patronized by celebrated virtuosos in their mansions.

The Hex-Gates only quadrupled their fortunes. With every invention by Talis, investors flocked and the Council’s influence grew. The wealth they had hoarded was now limitless. They could build a brand-new city, if they so desired. But why should they, when the Trenchers had already done the hard work for them?

Today's Council—Hoskel, Salo, Bolbok, Shoola, Medarda, Kiramman—are Piltover's pivotal political force, decreeing laws with a gesture from their grand parlors. They're the ones who decide whether jobs are created or lost, how many schools are funded, what taxes are levied.

They make decisions that affect every citizen in the city—every bloody day.

They are also corruption incarnate. Yearly, they’ve swallowed over one-third of the allocated Undercity budget, without accounting for a single cog. Between them, they preside over an empire of private business interests in everything from real estate to racehorses, stowing away their wealth in Demacian bank accounts, Noxian jewelry splurges and private islands dotting the annexed Ionian shores.

To them, Silco's coal-mining origins are as offensive as a rat turd in their caviar. Among Topside's upper-crust, he's a social climber, a rabble-rouser, and a scabrous opportunist. He wasn't born into privilege: he made his wealth through the cutthroat crudeness of industry.

More offensive still, he keeps a singlehanded stranglehold on his fortune, no different from a smuggler stowing all his coins in his codpiece. He never invests in stocks or allows Piltovans to buy shares in his enterprises. Like his factories, everything he owns belowground—publishing houses, restaurant chains, repair garages, gyms, nightclubs, salons—employs Fissure-bred workers, and is rumored to be a front for funding anarchism.

As if that weren't bad enough, he has no inhibitions in debating money or politics in their glittering ballrooms. Worse, he mocks them for entertainment—all while displaying impeccable manners.

Case in point—

With grave courtesy, Silco bows his head, "Councilors."

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