#I know how those who wrote everything was for naught feel that is why i felt the need to post this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

andolinii · 4 years ago

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𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

❛ The mind of the subject will desperately struggle to create memories where none exist ❜ ❛ One goes into an experiment knowing one could fail. But one does not undertake an experiment knowing one has failed. ❜ ❛ At least that's something we can agree on. ❜ ❛ It does seem like a dreadful place to be stranded. ❜ ❛ Heaven, friend. Or as close as we'll see till Judgment Day. ❜ ❛ I’m afraid of you. ❜ ❛ We had a deal! Open this door, right now! ❜ ❛ So you expect me to shoulder the burden? ❜ ❛ Just 'cause the city flies don't mean it ain't got its share of fools. ❜ ❛ Heads? Or tails? ❜ ❛ I told you...I'm not gonna do it! Now go away. ❜ ❛ I never find that as satisfying as I'd imagined. ❜ ❛ I guess you're expecting me... Is anyone here? Hello? ❜ ❛ Why are you following me? ❜ ❛ Violence is not the answer! Blood must not be shed. ❜ ❛ Violence is not a foregone conclusion. ❜ ❛ I see every sin that blackens your soul. ❜ ❛ Not all debts can be repaid. ❜ ❛ Chin up. There's always next time. ❜ ❛ Prophecy is my business, as blood as yours ❜ ❛ thy crook is bent and thy path is twisted. ❜ ❛ It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. Just sit down, and everything will be fine. ❜ ❛ Is this some kind of sales pitch? Because I am not interested. ❜ ❛ I'm a friend. I've come to get you out of here. ❜ ❛ I don't dance. C'mon, let's go. ❜ ❛ This will end in blood. But then again, it always does with you, doesn't it? It always ends in blood. ❜ ❛ Oh, can you smell that? I've never smelled anything like that before, have you? ❜ ❛ Give a man a little power, he falls in all kinds of love with himself. ❜ ❛ Coming here was your idea. ❜ ❛ that fall into the water did you no favors. I'll keep an eye out for something that might ease your pain. ❜ ❛ Knock it off! Will you stop it? Will you stop it! I'm not here to hurt you. ❜ ❛ If you're going to be a sore loser, then I shan't do this again. ❜ ❛ You're a roguish type, what does it look like? ❜ ❛ Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt. ❜ ❛ Where did you learn to pick locks? ❜ ❛ Whatever that was, it's got nothing to do with the job at hand. This job's getting worse all the time. ❜ ❛ What interest does a prophet have in a bunch of carnies and carousels? ❜ ❛ I never even heard of this place before I got here. ❜ ❛ They frown on gardens in my part of town. ❜ ❛ I don't really understand what I just saw back there, but it sure as hell looks like a shortcut to getting us killed. ❜ ❛ You've always been different, haven't you? You crave no glory. ❜ ❛ You see? You're a killer, like it or not. ❜ ❛ Now that you're out of yours, you might realize cages have their advantages. ❜ ❛ I can handle whatever comes along. Trust me. ❜ ❛ A choice is better than none. No matter what the outcome. ❜ ❛ What happened back there, that...that's not the last of it, is it? ❜ ❛ Maybe you're the man I remember, maybe not. ❜ ❛ There's survival...and then there's finding pleasure in the act. ❜ ❛ Look, you seem like a decent enough sort. That said, the less you know about me, the better. ❜ ❛ I'm leaving and there's naught you can do to stop me. ❜ ❛ Me busting you out, what do you think that was? Charity? ❜ ❛ I got no quarrel with you. ❜ ❛ Are you afraid of God? ❜ ❛ I never claimed to be no hero. ❜ ❛ There's already a fight. Only question is, which side are you on?❜ ❛ Just hold up for a minute! I'm not angry with you. ❜ ❛ You killed those people. I can't believe you did that...they're all dead... You killed those people. ❜ ❛ I have no need for one such as you. ❜ ❛ Don't get too comfortable with my company. You are a means to an end, no more. ❜ ❛ You’re either a great hero or the worst of scoundrels, depending on who's doing the telling. ❜ ❛ I am a believer, but I am not a fool. ❜ ❛ What is the most admirable creature on God's green earth? ❜ ❛ Does this strike you as good news? It doesn't strike me as good news. ❜ ❛ I don't much care for you… but I must admit, you know your way around a brawl. ❜ ❛ Now, now, All I ask is that you finish what you started. ❜ ❛ Son, I do say I like the cut of your chin. ❜ ❛ You know, when your name was first passed to me, I wasn't quite sure you were the man for the job. ❜ ❛ What could people have done to deserve to be locked up in a place like this? ❜ ❛ You're a lion. But you can't blame me for looking after my own interests, can you? ❜ ❛ Lions walk with lions, not hyenas. ❜ ❛ I killed them. They were dead. ❜ ❛ You must think me some sort of...freak. I must seem ridiculous. ❜ ❛ Like all bastards, we serve it best by smothering it in its crib. ❜ ❛ Let me tell you about sin. ❜ ❛ Are you going to just sit there? ❜ ❛ the biggest sin of all, the mother of all sins, is that we sit back and take it. ❜ ❛ In this world, you were a martyr. ❜ ❛ These folk need a better class of hero. ❜ ❛ This isn't our responsibility - none of it. ❜ ❛ Why, that sort of ambition will serve you well. ❜ ❛ I had a role in this catastrophe, if you want to pretend we're innocents in this, then that's your prerogative. ❜ ❛ I saw you die. Saw it with my own eyes. ❜ ❛ I know how this feels. Listen, I think you should talk to me. ❜ ❛ How do you wash away the things that you've done? ❜ ❛ Once people get their blood up, it ain't easy to settle it down again. ❜ ❛ This prophecy business... You don't think anyone can really see the future, do you? ❜ ❛ These are dire times and I could ever so use your aid. ❜ ❛ That is an oath you cannot keep. ❜ ❛ If you were to take me back...that's death. Or something so like it, I cannot tell the difference. ❜ ❛ A mother who abandons their child doesn't draw a lot of sympathy in my book. ❜ ❛ You just got dealt a bad hand. ❜ ❛ The only difference between past and present is semantics. ❜ ❛ If we could perceive time as it truly was… what reason would grammar professors have to get out of bed? ❜ ❛ You couldn't have known this would happen. ❜ ❛ One doesn't expect a picture of one's corpse to come across so lifelessly. ❜ ❛ Listen to me. what you've been through… ain't nobody in the world deserves that. ❜ ❛ We are gettin' outta here, you got it? And you're never gonna have to look back. ❜ ❛ Child! Child! You are the lie that spewed from my womb. You are the lie, the lie, the lie. ❜ ❛ Some men dream of money, some men dream of love. My father dreamt of a flood of fire. ❜ ❛ I can see all that would be, might be and must not be. ❜ ❛ Child, would you like to pray with me? ❜ ❛ All I ever wanted is to see you live up to your potential. ❜ ❛ Humanity wrote a bad check, and the flood was the only way to settle the accounts. ❜ ❛ You'll need to eat sooner or later. If you hold out, you'll just starve to death. ❜ ❛ God put his faith in men once, too. It seems that we have something in common: disappointment. ❜ ❛ Why do you ask ‘what’ when the delicious question is ‘when?’ ❜ ❛ All I can do is watch as what I set in motion slides into its terminal stage. ❜ ❛ Time rots everything, even hope. ❜ ❛ We're going to cure you. ❜ ❛ When the body cries out, the spirit listens. ❜ ❛ Do you hear that screaming? That is the sound of your interference. ❜ ❛ Is this where you start moralizing? You forget, I know you. ❜ ❛ What are you going to do to stop me?❜ ❛ You struggle against prophecy, like a stone loosed from a sling. ❜ ❛ I don't understand. I heard you screaming, I was… I was coming to get you. ❜ ❛ Do you think...it's possible to redeem the kind of things that we've done? ❜ ❛ We're doing this together, or I'm doing it alone. Either way, I need to know the thing's been done. ❜ ❛ Rejoice! Rejoice! Death has no sting. ❜ ❛ I may be the one who strikes you down, but you've always had a knack for self-destruction. Who's to say you won't beat me to the punch? ❜ ❛ Some sins can't be forgiven.❜ ❛ I'm not going to let you kill him. ❜ ❛ I won't abandon you. ❜ ❛ You come to wipe your slate clean, but time will walk backwards before you find redemption. ❜ ❛ Everything I've done...I've done to keep you safe. ❜ ❛ You killed him. What did he mean? Huh? You tell me, what did he mean? ❜ ❛ Just drop me off if you want to. This isn't your problem. ❜ ❛ I'm a fool. I've sent mighty armies to stop you; I've rained fire on you from above. ❜ ❛ Will you do this for me, just...just this one last thing? Please… ❜ ❛ You thought the streets were paved with gold, but they were paved with blood, sweat and tears. ❜ ❛ Look at that. Thousands of doors...opening all at once. My god, they're beautiful. ❜ ❛ Baptism is the rebirth of the spirit...but sometimes the mind gets in the way. ❜ ❛ There are a million million worlds. All different and all similar. Constants and variables. ❜ ❛ We swim in different oceans but land on the same shore. ❜ ❛ Are you ready to have your past erased? Are you ready to have your sins cleansed? Are you ready to be born again? ❜ ❛ I can see all the doors, and what's behind all the doors. ❜ ❛ Hey, the deal is off, you hear me? The deal is off! ❜ ❛ You think a dunk in the river's gonna change the things that I've done? ❜ ❛ If I don't get caught, it's going to be a very long time before we see each other. ❜ ❛ Do you hate your wickedness? ❜ ❛ Are we worth saving if we will not save ourselves? ❜

#sentence starter #sentence starters #rp meme #rp sentence starter

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autumnslance · 4 years ago

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((Shadowbringers 5.3-5.4. I wanted to have this done by the 15th of January but didn’t quite manage it because these two idiots are wordy as heck, and I initially started in the wrong place and POV. I wrote roughly 8000 words total and only ended up using half of them. There are letters and pining and admitting things happening here.

Below the cut as usual for those who prefer Tumblr to Ao3, but the formatting may work better on that site.))

Aeryn stepped through the mirror and into the familiar space of the Ocular, taking a moment to reorient herself after the rush of journeying between worlds. Once the vertigo had passed she left the Tower, the Crystarium guards greeting her as she crossed the Exedra. It took some questioning before she was finally pointed to where Ryne was currently; training with Captain Lyna just outside the city gates.

She simply watched for a time as Lyna tried to keep her distance while Ryne tried to close in. Aeryn did not announce herself, simply noting how Ryne’s bladework had improved, at least one new trick learned since the last time Aeryn had watched her fight.

“That is enough for now,” Lyna said as they reached a breakpoint in their dance. “And the Warrior of Darkness has waited long enough,” she continued with a wry smile in Aeryn’s direction.

Ryne started, then turned with a grin, hurrying over to give Aeryn a hug. “It’s good to see you! Oh sorry, I’m all sweaty…”

Aeryn laughed, brushing damp strands of hair from Ryne’s reddened face. It was still winter in Eorzea, but in Norvrandt spring was on the horizon and the morning was warm. “Not to worry. Hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

Lyna waved them off. “Go on; we can catch up later.”

Aeryn nodded, knowing the captain wanted word of her grandfather, and G’raha had given Aeryn a small package to deliver, but that would wait until Lyna was off duty and had readied herself. There was an order to such things with the stoic woman.

Instead, Aeryn turned back to Ryne and smiled. Had she gotten taller? “I have a question, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Of course!” Ryne answered as they walked across the bridge into the city. “What is it you need?”

“I have a note from Thancred; he and Urianger are currently on a mission, but he left me instructions for tod--well. The day it is back on the Source.”

“I see. What are the instructions?”

“I’m to ask you about the black willow box he kept in his room here.”

Ryne paused, a little sharp breath escaping. “Ryne?” Aeryn asked.

“Sorry! It’s just I was under strict instruction never to open the box, though I have the key now, of course; I still didn’t dare. It’s where he kept,” she hesitated.

“Kept what?”

“I’ll show you; it’s a good thing--I think--that he wants you to see. Come on!” Ryne dashed toward her apartment as if she hadn’t just completed a long practice session with the captain of the guard. Aeryn picked up her own pace to follow along after.

It did not take long for them to reach the apartment Ryne used to share with Thancred. As the girl opened the door, Aeryn realized it was the first time she had returned to these rooms since the Scions’ departure from the First. It was much as she remembered, though lacking Thancred’s continued presence. Evidence of Gaia’s frequent visits were visible instead, from lipstick-stained coffee mugs at the sink to dark ribbons left on an end table to a book that did not seem to be to Ryne’s taste on a sofa cushion.

Ryne paused in front of the door that had led to Thancred’s small room. “I haven’t been in here since,” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Gaia and Taynor sorted most of it, actually, so only a few personal things remain. I should probably move to a smaller suite to let someone else use the space…”

“Maybe you need a roommate,” Aeryn suggested. “Perhaps Gaia could stay with you.”

Ryne reddened. “We’ve considered it, but I’m just…” She gave a helpless little laugh as she shrugged, looking up at Aeryn apologetically. “I’m just not quite ready, I think. It’s silly, but there’s a part of me that keeps hoping they’ll find a way--a safe way--to return. Even just for a little while.”

Aeryn squeezed Ryne’s shoulder. “It’s not silly,” she said quietly. “And I keep hoping that, too. Fairly certain Y’shtola has it at the top of her projects list.”

Ryne laughed, truly this time. “She would!” She looked at the door again. “The box should be on the shelf above the writing desk,” she offered Aeryn a small key. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Aeryn nodded, taking the little key and entering the room.

It was familiar, yet unfamiliar. Always small, it had kept from being cramped mainly by virtue of Thancred’s own minimalist tendencies with his added reluctance of accumulating things on the First that he would have to leave behind in the end. Even so, the room felt barren, many necessities and items missing, given away to be used by others in need among the Crystarium’s residents; naught went to waste while still usable.

The bed was neatly made; her eyes lingered for a moment, recalling a handful of pleasant times curled up together in it. They had often met in her own chambers for privacy, especially when feeling the need for more than simple closeness. There was a bench under the shuttered window; he used to clean his gunblade there, storing materials and parts in a chest beneath the bench. Nothing remained but the seat.

The writing desk was really a tall square table, a stool for the chair, in a corner of the room. Two simple shelves hung on the wall above it, some of Thancred’s personal effects that remained neatly placed upon them. The black willow box was a simple but lovely piece of old Nabaath make. It was familiar only in that it was a part of the room, always upon the shelf above the desk, a background decoration.

She had to stretch a little to pull the small box down. She unlocked it, pondering what it could contain for one last moment before opening the lid to find out.

Neatly folded pages, Thancred’s familiar handwriting covering them, five different bundles marked by Vrandtic dates in Eorzean lettering. The earliest one was dated five--no, six years ago now, in the midst of Thancred’s first year in this world, just after the Vrandtic new year. The second bundle was dated a year later. Then the third, then a fourth. The final bundle broke the date pattern, written...She shivered. The dates would have been the time after they assaulted Mt Gulg and before seeking Emet-Selch and the Exarch in the Tempest, when she had lain in a Light-induced fever for days in between.

All of the letters, long and detailed, were addressed to her.

Aeryn carried the box to the window and opened the shutters, letting in the natural light of day. She sat at the bench, picked up the first letter, and began to read, brows already rising at the first line.

My Dear Aeryn,

It’s been roughly half a year, to me, since I arrived in this world. We search for a means to send me back, but given the dangers, it’s difficult to say if we shall ever be successful. I hold onto hope, given we have made the impossible happen more than once—particularly when you are involved.

I know so much less time is passing for you, even as time is difficult to track beneath the eternal Light, but the people still mark the hours and days as best they can--perhaps better than we do in the Source, reliant as we are upon the sun and stars. So as the calendar year turns to a new page, I find myself confronted by reminders of you at every turn, my own mind noting the dates, as if counting down to your nameday in truth.

Violas grown in the Hortorium call to mind your favored hair decoration and your scents carried with it. The heather meadows and clear mountain springs of Il Mheg make me think of the taste of your magic. Treasure hunters in Mord Souq unearth duelist rapiers reminiscent of your combat style. The grey waters of a lake, shifting in color and tone under the burning sky, remind me of your eyes and ever-shifting moods.

I think of our new situation, how fragile it all still seems, our duties as Scions, the distance between Ala Mhigo and Doma keeping us apart more often than I liked. Especially after already having denied my own interests for far longer than I care to admit.

I fear now, not knowing when I may return to your side--in whatever capacity--that I am forgetting important things, and I very much do not want to. So indulge me as I list your various qualities that I admire, to remind myself why I allowed myself to maintain my impossible infatuation for so long, even as you became one of my dearest friends...

Aeryn eyes widened as she turned to the next page, then quickly checked the several pages following; Thancred had indulged his bardic habits, writing in verse and engaging in wordplay. Even the most innocent descriptions and memories of moments together, professional and extremely personal, were laden with puns and innuendo--not entirely unexpected from him.

She was mostly through the verses, trying to parse every dedicated line, when a knock at the door startled her.

“Aeryn?” Gaia called. “Everything all right?”

She cleared her throat. “Fine; I’ve quite a bit of reading to do, though; I may need some water.”

The door opened, Gaia appearing with a tray already in hand. “Ryne thought you might--are you all right? You’re redder than I have ever seen, and that’s saying something.”

Aeryn pressed a hand to her warm cheeks. “I’m fine. Just...wasn’t expecting some of what I found so far.”

“Is that good or bad?” The girl asked, setting the tray on the nearby side table in easy reach. There was a small tea service and also ice water, bless them.

“It’s...Better than good,” Aeryn replied. “I may be awhile, though.”

Gaia shrugged in her nonchalant, pretending-not-to-care way. “Doesn't matter to me, but I was going to drag Ryne out for a while, just so you know. You’ll be fine here by yourself--won’t you?” A little genuine care came through in the last two words, despite her attempts to seem otherwise.

Aeryn nodded.

“All right. Enjoy your reading, and we’ll see you later.” Gaia gave a little wave before leaving, quietly closing the door behind her.

Aeryn cleared her throat again, sipping the cup of minty green tea--bless those girls again--and set the first letter aside for now. She would get back to that later; alone in her own room, where she could bury her face in a pillow and shriek like a schoolgirl when overwhelmed by his words, godsdamn him. For now, the second bundle had her curious.

My Dearest Aeryn,

I almost let the date slip by, I am ashamed to say. So much has happened in recent weeks...

She read through two pages of his recounting Minfilia’s story and the reincarnations that had followed, offering a small hope to Norvrandt; of Urianger and Y’shtola’s arrival, his anger at the spell’s failure and yet relief at seeing Urianger again; and their shift in focus upon learning of the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

...Urianger’s vision of the Calamity, of our deaths, is a sobering thought. The idea of you fallen especially freezes my blood. I cannot bear the thought.

So I redoubled my efforts to rescue the girl bearing Minfilia’s name and appearance. She sleeps now on a cot in this Mord town as I write. She can’t be more than twelve or thirteen summers; a frail little thing with no skills aside from reading books thicker than she is, and asking innumerable questions. They taught her nothing, simply locked her in a windowless cell under the waterline. For at least ten years, that is all the child’s known. If the fate Urianger saw for us makes my blood freeze, her situation makes it boil again. Should I chance to meet Eulmore’s General--the man responsible for her “care”--I will let him know exactly what I think.

Tomorrow Minfilia and I shall attempt to reach Nabaath Areng, the site of the Flood’s halting; the girl says she must go there, as if pulled. I have a hope I dare not voice yet. The Blessing of Light does work in such interesting ways.

But that is on the morrow; tonight, though a day late, I wished to write to you as I did last year. With the date in mind you have also been in my thoughts--when I’ve had a moment to think, at least--and I find myself recalling more and more often the little things. Simple things. Things I fear I may forget, having been here for years now, years without the way you tilt your head when you have a question. It initially annoyed me actually, you were so quiet but now, gods I would give much to be in your silence again, to see that quizzical look. Anything to see the little furrow between your brows when you’re thinking. When you prop your chin on your hands as you stare out a window, tea forgotten in your hand. How you unconsciously wriggle and make faces as you read, reacting to the pages, lips silently moving as you devour each word...

“Oh I do not,” Aeryn muttered--realizing in the same moment that she was doing that now. She sipped her tea and kept reading, noting how he wrote, as much as what; the moments where he had scratched out words, or underlined others. The splots where the pen had sat on the page a moment longer than normal as he thought of what he wanted to admit to. The way the letters slanted in places where he was eager. There was no poetry this time, fewer puns and word play. He had written when tired and possibly injured, given the shakiness of some lettering.

There were places where he couldn’t remember clearly--what perfume had she worn on the day of a particular memory? Was she wearing her red coat, or a blue dress in another? He wasn’t certain.

The letter wrapped up several pages later.

...I must get some sleep, given the long trek across the Amber Hills awaiting. I don’t know what will happen when we arrive, but whatever it is, I’ll keep the girl safe. Taking care of her is the only thing I can do, lacking the skills of the Exarch and our colleagues. Particularly now that we have abandoned the idea of going home--yet. I still don’t know how I feel about that, having struggled to find a way back for so long now, but there must be a home to return to. To save ourselves, we must save this realm. Forgive me; as much as I yearn to see you again, I wish for you to live far more. Despite everything, I still remain

Yours, Thancred.

Aeryn drew in a sharp breath; the previous letter’s signature had been much simpler, after all the floweriness of the verses. This simpler, newsy, reminiscent letter had such a different feel to it, so much changing for him in that year. Her eyes kept drifting to that closing.

It took a few moments before she was able to refold that bundle and open the next.

His next year in the First; this one another detailed description of events he survived, and quite a lot about Ryne, still only known as Minfilia at the time.

...I actually began this letter yesterday, as we rested in a small inn at the edge of the Greatwood. I thought of seeking out Y’shtola, but am unfamiliar with those dark and twisting paths, and was low on ammunition. Minfilia was exhausted, unable to fight or imbue cartridges, and I won’t risk her more than our constant travels already do.

It was she who reminded me that I had been writing, before she made me take my rest as well. I’ve never told her about these letters, but she’s a bright girl and I have told her of you. Sometimes it’s simply because she is curious about you, and the hope that you’ll come here and save yourself, as well as the rest of us. Many times though I don’t mean to say anything, but the stories simply come, like a slumbering spring awoken by new rains, bubbling up and overflowing the riverbanks.

It’s something about her, I suppose, that makes me remember, and so I must speak before the memories fade back into the dustier corridors of my mind. Perhaps an effect of her unique Blessing? Or perhaps simply her childish curiosity drawing it out of me.

There’s a selfish part of me that wants you to meet her. It would mean that you’re here, for one, but also I think you two would get along. She’s a good girl--with her moments of petulance and stubbornness, as many youths are wont, but she’s come such a long way already, has learned so quickly.

I fear influencing her. The choice she must make is so important, and it must be hers. You would be a much better role model; you inspire others to do what’s best simply by your presence. I’ve felt the lack of you more keenly this last year than ever before...

Aeryn read through, noting he wrote it more like a conversation she had yet to answer. Memories of their adventures and companionship were woven through the words more naturally as he spoke to her. She smiled as he spent a good chunk of the letter not even realizing how he had gushed about Ryne and all she had learned and how she had grown in that first year they spent together, as if he were trying to ensure Aeryn would love the child as much as he so obviously did--even if the foolish man hadn’t been able to tell the girl so until it had almost been too late.

But then, that was Thancred; locking his thoughts and feelings behind stoicism, snark, and literally in a box on a shelf.

She traced her nail along the letters of his name--again signed “Yours”--before tucking that bundle away and picking up the fourth.

By this time the twins were somewhere in Norvrandt, though Thancred had no opportunity to see them as Eulmore’s hunters were ever close. He wrote to Aeryn of his frustration with how many Scions had come to the First but she was still so far away and still in so much danger, alongside the rest of the Source and this shard itself. If she couldn’t come to Norvrandt to break the Light’s hold over the realm then the girl would have to make her choice sooner rather than later--and perhaps face the same fate as all of her predecessors.

He admitted that he feared both of those outcomes. He seemed to have begun to cross out that line, but had stopped himself.

...A nasty part of me believes you will never receive these nameday letters. That these are simply my way of remembering yet another important woman in my life I will never see again. I try not to dwell on such thoughts, try to keep busy, but you know me. Perhaps better than anyone since our Minfilia. How I wish I could speak with you again; patrolling through Mor Dhona, lunch at Rowena’s cafe, stargazing on the roofs of Ala Mhigo, reading in the Waking Sands’ dusty library. Simply holding you until we fall asleep, those few, rare moments we had. You always made me say more than I ever meant to; you’ve a way of drawing me out despite myself—and failing that, of simply being there as a brilliant, warm presence.

There are places here I want to show you, things I want to share. Yet I fear your coming, what it will mean. What changes I’ve experienced. What we had was...comfortable, and felt right, after so long, and yet it was still so new and fragile. I used to be confident in my ability to be delicate, but these last few years with this girl have made me feel boorish and clumsy. And I know I have changed, not just because of her, but everything in this hard world. Will you recognize me when we meet? Will you still want me, when you were already so uncertain before?

I suppose I shan’t know until you’re here, or we find a way home. Given the Exarch’s record, the former seems more likely. And it still worries me, much as I know it’s the better course to preserve all we hold dear...

Aeryn stared out the window for a long moment; she had known of his doubts, his fears; when she had arrived and finally found him again, it had been difficult. Yet despite everything, they had gotten past it.

She eyed the final bundle, slimmer than the rest, those dates seeming so heavy though she had no conscious recollection of them, given her state at the time. Having finished the tea, she poured a glass of water and began to read.

Aeryn,

Ryne assures us you will still be Aeryn when you wake; her wards hold for now. I pray long enough to find a cure for what those bastards did to you. What we did to you, unknowing. Will you be pleased to know I have not struck Urianger for his part? I was too tired and injured as we returned, and occupied with carrying you besides. Now I simply am too weary in heart and mind to conjure that initial anger, and he has had time to explain how the Exarch coerced him into his confidence.

I am still not happy about it.

For five years I waited to see you again, thought about you through many days and most nights--such as they are, here. It’s funny what one can become accustomed to in time. Finally seeing you again was a jolt to every one of my senses as the missing you had long since become more real to me, much as I longed for your presence.

And as I feared, you hesitated. I don’t blame you; I know this place changed me. What we had back home was still so new, despite the prior years we had known each other. So I tried to be content to merely be in your company once more. We had rebuilt our friendship once, we could do it again. I had been a fool to think I deserved more.

Then you sought me out in Rak’tika. Do I need to tell you how you intoxicated me that day? I hope I was a comfort, both in words and in the release you needed. The distance still felt too great, but this much, at least, I could give. I thought it would be enough, to simply be what you needed in the moment.

I know now that I was once again fooling myself.

These last few months traveling and fighting and just being together have been a strange mix of stress and relief; our mission had been dangerous and difficult in so many ways, and yet working together, it was hard not to get caught up in the optimism, in the feeling that things would turn out, that we would find a way.

And you were here; your quizzical headtilts, your faces when you read, the white flowers in your hair. Your silences, your laughter, your strength in combat and your helping with every common chore in the vicinity. I thought I could simply be happy to bask in your steady light.

But now, seeing it tear you apart, it is not enough; it never was, and never will be. I can live with it, should that be your wish. My wish, however, is to continue what we had once begun. To hold you close not only occasionally but always.

Aeryn felt a hard lump in her throat; there was a decent space between the lines, the ink thick where he had hesitated, the initial letters shaky. Still he had written them:

I am in love with you, Aeryn.

It’s taken me time to collect myself after rereading what I just wrote and fighting the urge to burn the whole page. A part of me fears that you will scoff, though the greater part of me knows--hopes--better of you.

And the gods know you deserve better than me, but if you’ll have me, I certainly won’t complain.

I know after everything with Ryne I ought to say it to you aloud. That it may already be too late to do so. I pray that isn’t the case. I pray I find the courage and the words both to say what you deserve to hear. Even should you never reciprocate; if that should be the case, you shall never hear another whisper from me on the matter.

But I hold out a small hope, that you will, that you do. That we will have the chance to discuss the matter further. That you survive.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I only know I’ll be at your side until the end; there’s nowhere else I can be.

Ryne is calling; hold on just a little while longer, darling.

Yours always, Thancred.

She covered her face with her hands, emotions and memories flooding over her. There were words before finally confronting Emet-Selch in his memory of Amaurot. More than words on returning to the Crystarium, bodies twined together in relief and comfort.

Then she had returned to the Source to report their success. She came back to the First as quickly as she could, though; not only was there still much work to do, but he was here, and things were...not exactly different, but not quite the same, either.

As she reread the last page, she noticed a swiftly written addendum on the back. She turned it over.

I carried these letters all the way to the Tempest, thinking if I failed to say anything I might at least give them to you--they are yours, after all. But of course no time seemed right, and with a screwing of my courage (and pointed prodding from Urianger), at the last I was able to say what I wished. Miraculously, you said it too.

And now here we are, you peacefully asleep while the night sky wheels overhead and I still hear the celebrations outside despite the ungodly hour. I’ll rejoin you in a moment, but I needed some time to attempt to process the last few days. What happened in the Tempest. The fact you’re alive, and healthy, and claim to love me in return.

I’m not entirely certain why, but I won’t complain, either.

Rereading these letters, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to hand them over yet. They’ll return to their box for now, and perhaps in a few days I’ll be ready to show you.

Aeryn laughed lightly; of course he had hesitated to share them. The letters showed all his vulnerabilities behind the serious, confident facade he had developed. And with everything in the Empty, and then Elidibus, it was no wonder the letters had fallen to the wayside.

Until her actual nameday on the Source had come around, his note delivered with her breakfast by Tataru per Thancred’s instructions while he was on his latest reconnaissance. It wasn’t as if he could have brought the letters with him, after all--nor given them to her in front of the rest of the Scions in the Ocular, nevermind how public their relationship was now.

She rubbed her face--she had cried more than a few times while reading--and replaced the letters in the box. She locked it, and pocketed the key.

The girls were still out so it was no trouble to take the tea service to the sink and clean it, along with the other dishes, giving her time and activity to settle. She finished by washing her own face, removing some evidence of her emotion.

Since the first year she had joined the Scions, they had given each other gifts; she had discovered his nameday from Minfilia, gifting him the orchestrion roll of a song she knew he liked from a favorite minstrel. Her own first nameday as a Scion had been missed due to Lahabrea and Baelsar’s schemes, but Thancred was certain to make up for it. Sometimes they were late, or even early, but they always managed a little something, even as friends.

Aeryn took the box with her as she left Ryne’s apartment. She still had a few people to see while here on the First--starting with Lyna and the messages from G’raha--but then she would retire to her own suite in the Pendants and do a bit of rereading.

And maybe a bit more once she returned home, too; after all, if she timed it right, it would still be her nameday, and the best time to reread her present.

#Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Shadowbringers #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #Shippy Nonsense #Aeryn Striker #Pining

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crystalliccs · 4 years ago

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FEELINGS TOWARDS THE PLAYER’S CHARACTER

Note: In case you do not like this ship I highly suggest you to NOT read this. This is my personal headcanon which takes ONLY effect in my drabbles and/or plotted and approved threads. I will not write him with these heavy romantic feelings in normal asks, non-plotted threads or when I do not get the approval of the mun; which also includes other muses besides the WoL, in order to not make people uncomfortable. I wrote this gender neutrally, since I believe the gender of the character has no influence on his feelings. ________________________

As young boy, branded to be the sole bearer of the Eye of the Allag of his father’s sired children, he had little in common with anyone else. He grew up mostly by himself, never having any friends to accompany him on his path of growing older – often only exchanging words with his father who knew of his fate. Who had to tell him the very truth his father had once told him whilst being a child himself. Unsurprisingly the young boy started to acknowledge strength and heroism more than anyone else; reading much about the heroes of eld whilst he relentlessly studied to unravel the very truth of his eye. His fascination for the Warrior of Light, the one hero as people had told him, mostly had his origin in his endless interest of such individuals. After all, in his young and reckless naivety, he was also striving to become one like them.

As their paths crossed over and over again, however, he soon realized that all of his skills – the many hours he had spent honing his proficiency with the bow – had been all for naught. His entire existence seemed pale in front of the one hero; and in some way he came to terms with it that his true destiny laid elsewhere. For two decades he had pondered why he bore the sanguine hue, what his destiny meant him to do; and as the opportunity rose to finally grab it, he did. ( See also: my drabble.)

Back then his feelings for the warrior of light had been naught but platonic – tremendously respectful even – remembering their kind confidence, their encouraging words. Without them believing in him, he doubted he could have done what he ultimately did. Yet the deep impact of these memories led his path further as soon as he was awakened in a long distant future; seeing naught but the destruction of the world he once loved, hearing naught but the very tales of these people he had once known – dead and cold. Naturally he had not expected to ever see them again – or to even open his eyes ever again for that matter – but learning of so much he had missed, of events which could have been prevented, utterly pained him. His mind, still young and naïve, suddenly had to face so many horrendous memories which attempted to break his very soul.

Like so many other of that age, however, he found hope and comfort in the many tales people still told each other during the chaotic, hopeless nights. And there was only one name which kept being muttered; the very name of the hero he once knew – his friend. Whilst opening the doors of the Crystal Towers for the researchers of that timeline, assisting them in fulfilling the final plans Cid had left for them prior his own death, G’raha also studied history itself; the many heroic deeds his friend had done during his slumber. Seeing the people’s smiles in these dark times, when naught more but a single spark was giving them hope, it was his hero’s smile he saw in them; the same determination, the very same resolve. Even generations later their kindness had reached their hearts; had given them strength to stand tall and stare at the endless abyss of the end of their beloved world. It reminded him of the very words he had received himself. The kindness they had granted him.

His feelings for a person long dead – one so very precious to him now, finally being able to see clearly what was in front of him – made him to believe once more. Albeit he also once more regretted – even mourned – the little time they had spent together. Had he truly been so very blind, concerned over his eyes and destiny that he had not noticed long ago? Had this excitement of his to discover the truth of the ancient Allag blinded him so that he had not noticed his feelings far sooner? And still, the outcome wouldn’t have changed. If he had not sealed himself away so very quickly, wouldn’t his friends found a way to stop him? Seeing the destruction of the Eighth Umbral Calamity with his own eyes, listening about Cid’s struggles in his final years to give hope of rewriting their history once more, he did not wish for them to end this way. If his sacrifice could help to prevent it, he would do it again and again – for all eternity.

As he travelled to the First within the Crystal Tower, missing the expected final days of this shard by almost an entire century, the young man immediately began to prepare the inevitable. And all this time, for longer than a lifetime, he could indeed watch them from afar – see it with his own eyes, although not with them directly, what the hero had done for their world. Perchance he should not have watched them as much as he had, but to see their face was rather calming and…inspiring. It did not take him long to know what he truly felt; that this ephemeral, painful and yet so very beautiful love for them resided inside his heart. So many times he wished to share their fate; if only to lift the burden on their shoulders for a little. He wished he could speak to them, openly, like they once did. He wished… to be with them.

However, knowing that his blooming feelings are unrequited – and futile, as he was also well aware – he had banished the chapter of his emotions inside his very heart, in the darkest corner he could possibly find. After all who was he to so deeply love the one person who ignited the spark of hope in people’s hearts? The one person who had touched the souls of so many with their endless kindness and warmth? And albeit he truly wished for them to find happiness, after everything they had done, endured and sacrificed – no matter what their heart desired – he could not imagine that he could give them what they truly deserved. Not the very way he was now – and, truthfully, this was the only path he could take which ultimately lead them to a future full of hope.

He could not permit his own feelings to become an obstacle, preventing him from doing what needed to be done. What if his affections would transform into a leash, which kept them from spreading the spark of hope among the people? An unforgiveable thought, indeed – one which had troubled him many nights until he realized that he had to bury it all. Everything he felt - everything he imagined them to become for merely a moment - could not be allowed to exist. Not even for a day, not even merely in a fragment of time itself. Had they not suffered enough already? Losing so many, dear and unfamiliar faces, whilst he slept his imprisoned slumber? He could not beg his destiny to be changed; as he knew, deep within his soul, that it was the only way.

If the hero learned of this hopelessness which he had borne for so many years until letting these emotions wander off to the oblivion of his very own heart, would they pity him? Would they attempt to comfort him ere leaving once again? Knowing them all too well, after the short adventure they had together during the times of NOAH and the ninety years of watching them through the rift of the worlds, he was quite certain they would, kind as they are. But he would never experience such blessing; knowing that rising their awareness of his affections would only increase their suffering along the way. Another tragedy he wanted to prevent, as there had been too much of it already.

He had never intended to survive saving their worlds – he had never intended to become more than Unei and Doga, merely shades of their originals who both were long lost in their history. He never needed to be given a name; be called a hero. All he had ever wanted ever since he understood his destiny was to carry on those hopes, these dreams the people had entrusted to him after awakening him from his deep slumber – at the end of their world and time. He was the only one who could remember and honor them; who would remember the many generations to come who had not seen a future brighter than the rubble in front of their very eyes.

It was for this very reason he concealed his identity; less to deceive than preventing them to stray away from their path. Even if he revealed his face underneath the cowl, would they truly remember? The years he had been slipped from their memories and mind, only to be replaced by far greater souls than his own? Like this one noble knight of Ishgard who had sacrificed his very life for them? Oh, how much he wished to be able to do the very same – as final act of kindness, of redemption. One last proof of his feelings ere he finally could rest for all eternity. Nay, the man believed they would not remember him being more than a brief acquaintance. And he could hardly resent them for forgetting him. It was him who had lived more than an entire life to see what they had done to history, to the future and to hope. It was only him who had followed their movements, their impactful decisions. How could he not feel the way he did? After all they had done? The words of encouragement - of acknowledgement – he had received from them personally, long in the past?

He also did it for them. All of it. Bearing the heavy burden by himself, if he had to – bearing the dead’s dreams and hopes lest they had to bear them alone again since no one else could. And nonetheless… He had to ask them of so much. He had to ask them to suffer once again, to go through so much pain because of this plan of his. What else could he do than watching over them, remembering them to rest when needed? To give them support without ever voicing what his heart wanted to yell out loudly? Truthfully, to not reveal any of it was certainly the best approach, or so he thought.

His own humanity had been long sacrificed to the very beacon of hope, the Crystal Tower – one long century ere he could even face his beloved again. He far from being the one he used to be – the reckless young man who thought not so much about the future. The crystallization of his body became gradually worse over the years, spreading with each ticking of the passing time. It was not his high age which made him to painfully realize the limits of his current body – ultimately still bearing the very body of his twentyfour years old self – but the coldness he could feel filling his very limbs. By the time his hero, his true inspiration, was summoned to the First almost his entire upper body half, including his entire right arm, back, neck and parts of his thighs were already covered in the crystalline masses. It was the inevitable truth that he was unlike Emet-Selch not immortal; that he kept losing more of his humanity by each passing day. That ultimately, one day, his entire body would have transformed to cold azure blue, ending his very throbbing heart.

With the current state of his body his dependence on being present inside the Crystal Tower itself became almost inevitable, as staying too far from it was gradually worsening the pain and weakening his abilities. One century ago he might have freely wandered for several days without noticing any significant changes within him, but nowadays even one single day fatigued his entire existence. He did not dwell in any illusions about his condition – it was more severe than he allowed anyone to see. It was all a matter of time; the few years he might have left – years, he had never thought to see to begin with. Years, in which he might still be able to enjoy the face of his beloved for a bit longer ere he had to retreat fully, lest anyone would notice that he was standing at the brink of his own death. No, this was none such sight he wanted to give anyone dear to him; whether it was his hero or Lyna, who had become family to him.

For the same reason he kept silence once, he decided to keep this as another secret. He never wanted to be saved; he only wanted them to find happiness – somewhere, in a long distant future mayhap, even if it was not with him at their side. And oh, how much he would be able to stand there with them… And yet, he never wished for his own happiness. It was enough to see those around him smiling at a better, brighter future. It was enough for him to know…that mayhap someday, the hero he so much loved, could finally lay down to rest. Even if it meant to let his own feelings to rot and wither.

___________

Additional details concerning the end of Shadowbringers.

His resolve was certainly unbroken as he helped the Scions and his hero to create this gigantic Talos to reach the peak of Mountain Gulg – however, the strains and the amount of time he had spend outside the Crystal Tower clearly started to show despite his best efforts to keep them hidden. When he left Amity in haste, lest than more people noticed his condition, his fatigue claimed him and granted him the very same dream he always dreamt when closing his eyes on rare occasions. Through his awakened blood could always hear them – the many whispers, the laments, the hopes, the prayers of the ancient Allag who now resided inside his very soul. He did not expect the hero to find him resting, however, and as he awoke a rather pleasant opportunity rose. Truthfully, he had not expected to ever find time to sit with them ere he would finally close his eyes for all eternity.

Mayhap, only in this very moment, when he could clearly see the spark of concern inside their kind eyes, the slumbering part of his love and affection awakened. Knowing the hero would not leave without knowing that he was indeed well, he revealed for the very first time what he wished to conceal. The truth he had kept a secret for a long hundred years. The condition of his body, this one dream he wished to come true. Asking them to sit with him was bold, indeed, but perchance this was indeed the last time they would speak. The final time he could hear their voice…The final time he could listen to them speaking of the future they would create – together.

Oddly enough, he had also not expected the question to ever be returned. To be asked what he wanted to do once this was all over, knowing full well that his final day had arrived. Yet the very truth could not leave his lips, even now – only parts of it. Letting them see naught more but a glimpse of his true feelings, speaking about all the things his heart desired to do with them…How happy it would make him. Those were the only words of affection he could allow himself to voice, albeit he shouldn’t have – one they even might learn to understand, given the time.

He would rather die as villain than as hero, knowing full well that those are easier forgotten and forsaken. After Innocence defeat, G’raha fully intended to take his secret with him to the grave – all of his feelings, his plans for the never arriving future. And yet, perchance by some cruel twist of his destiny, as his identity laid bare in front of anyone, the feelings he had contained deep inside started to burst out like a raging wave. Knowing that this very spell would claim his life, leaving no time for long explanations, he laid bare of what he had hidden for so long. Final words of encouragement like he had once received from them – one final goodbye for the person he loved…Yet his life did not end just yet, with Emet-Selch preventing him to complete his spell.

As he was ultimately rescued from the Tempest, however, hearing for the very first time since one hundred years to be called by his true name once again – by the person who was the dearest to his heart – he could no longer hold back the emotions. How long had he been waiting for this moment he knew would never come? To be recognized, to be remembered? Did the hero truly remember the words he had muttered three long years ago to them as he sealed himself away? Had they…kept the memories as dear as he did, all the time? Always?

And albeit the joy filled his heart, preventing him to do more than to just smile at them whenever their gazes met each other from now on, he would keep the secret. Asking for naught more of them besides being remembered.

#putting the rest under read more because this is...too long #★ | UNWRITTEN HISTORY ( HEADCANONS. )

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sorrynotharry · 4 years ago

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You don’t be on here no more and that don’t sit right with me. This was my go to page in 2014-2015. Then you left!!!

Aww hello anon! Thanks!

I am definitely almost always lurking on this page, like a ghost in the night haha, however I know that I’m not nearly as active as I used to be, and I haven’t posted any fic in like.........3 years? Maybe 4? Jeez time really flies!!

I do often get messages like this, usually very sweet anons like you who ask where I went, how I’m doing, saying that they miss the times when my page was more active and I was posting Harry fics pretty much weekly and honestly, I miss it too! It was overall a very positive experience during what ended up being some overall not-very-positive years of my life.

I’ve wanted to post a little ‘update’ for a while and I think this is as good a time as ever to do that. I’m gonna put it under a cut for 1, length 2, potential triggering content regarding death/grief. So anyway here goes:

This is mainly me kind of going on a reflection rant so it may not make a lot of sense but I’m going to do my best!

So I started this blog in February of 2014, and I think I pretty immediately started posting my writing and to my astonishment I ended up getting lots of new followers and readers really quickly. I was not at all expecting this blog to EVER reach as many people as it has, but I’m so grateful for it. To be honest, of course the 1D fandom can be a complete clusterfuck, but in comparison with other fandoms that I’ve been involved in, this is definitely the one that I felt most “at home” in, and had the most fun being a part of. So so so many of you who are still around to this day (which is incredible to me!) were SO kind to me, so lovely and accepting and supportive of my writing and my little blog corner of the internet and it meant so much to me. There are friends I’ve made through this blog who I still talk to, people who have been there for me when life was really kicking me down the road.

For some context, since the start of this blog, both of my biological parents and my stepfather have passed away. My dad (who I wasn’t super close to but you know, still my dad) passed from cancer in April 2014. My stepfather who I lived with died in June of 2015, also from cancer (if you’ve been on my blog for a while you might remember this, I posted about it because it was very sudden and I was really struggling with it).

Then, in August of 2017, my mother died. This has been part of the reason I really kind of stopped being active in this blog; I wanted to talk about it, if even just to say that I was going on hiatus or something but my grief has been so powerful that it’s in the last few months that have I felt like I can actually type these words out on here.

My mom was chronically ill for most of her life, and her health really deteriorated in the last 7-8 years of her life. She was also my best friend and my biggest supporter in everything from the time I was a child. The last 6 years of her life I was her main caregiver with some help from my stepdad - when he died all of her care fell to me to handle on top of grieving him. It was May of 2017 that my mom made the decision to go into hospice (if you don’t know what this means, it basically means she didn’t want to have life-saving treatments anymore and wanted to be allowed to pass away in peace). My sister and I begged her to hold on for a few more months so that we could prepare, get her affairs in order, and be on summer break from school while we accepted the fact that we were losing our last living parent.

That summer passed in a very weird and painful blur, and honestly I don’t remember much of it, but I remember most the moments in her last weeks when we would just hold each other’s hands and talk, laugh, cry, whatever came up. If you’ve ever begun grieving someone before they even pass, you probably know what I’m talking about. It was in those moments that she very insistently made me promise her that I would keep taking care of my sister (who was only 16 at the time) and graduate college, that I wouldn’t just lay down and give up because she was gone. So I have done my best to honor that promise to her. I quickly got legal guardianship of my sister (she’s an adult now but we still live together and are very close), and less than a month after my mom passed, I was training for a volunteer position at a center on my new college campus which later turned into a paid position. And this past June I graduated!!

If you’re reading this and also class of 2020, you know it’s a sucky year to graduate lol, but I hope you’re able to be proud of your accomplishments because regardless of the circumstances, you still did it! It’s taken me years and years to get my Bachelor’s because of changing my major, having to take breaks due to mental health issues and relocations, and having to take only 2 classes at a time while working 2 jobs. I finally did it and now I have to figure out what my next steps are from here (in the middle of a whole ass pandemic no less, smh!).

I realize that I just basically wrote a whole essay that I didn’t necessarily mean to, but I promise I’m not saying all of this to make you feel sad for me; I just want you all to understand why my presence has been so sporadic the past few years and I feel like I just have to be honest.

Coming back around to this blog, every once in a while I check my activity and follower count, very much expecting to see naught but 12 bots left and a single tumbleweed blowing across a dry activity page...but that’s never the case. So many of you are still here, I get new followers all the time, my fics and posts still get notes almost every day, and I still get messages like this from people who care about me, who remember the heyday of this blog and miss it.

I’ve said ‘thank you’ to you guys so many times I don’t even dare to count, but really, honestly, truly, thank you. It’s because so many of you are still here, even though it’s been 4 full ass years after I’ve even posted any fic at all, that I haven’t deleted this blog or gone on indefinite hiatus and just archived this blog.

I can’t promise that I will ever post any new writing again. I still love Harry but it’s almost in a different way...the heart-racing, goosebumps raising, heart-eye inducing giant crush I had on him in the earlier years of this blog has significantly subdued, even though it’s been known to make its presence known from time to time. And I honestly am just a different person in general. You can’t go through stuff like what I described above without changing at least a little bit.

That being said, I don’t think I’ve written anything that wasn’t a college essay or long-winded work email since I posted my last one-shot on here, which I think was early 2016. I very much miss writing for pleasure, and particularly if anyone remembers the fic ‘On Fire’...that story sits untouched and neglected in my Masterlist, haunting my steps and my dreams, because I had all kinds of grand ideas for it and it was pretty well-received I think! I’ve toyed with the idea of just trying to finish that fic up, if only so I can say that I finished at least ONE multi-chapter fic in my whole life. Again, not making promises, but it’s a possibility.

Anyhoo, if you have made it this far down on this very long and dramatic post, again I say thank you and bless you! I hope for those of you who have been around for a while (and for that matter those who are newer followers as well, hello!), this provides some clarity and maybe some closure if you were just wondering where the hell I went and what I’ve been up to. I didn’t mean to kind of drop off the face of the earth like I did, it was just how I was dealing with everything at the time. I’m heading into a new chapter of my life now that school is finished, and who knows what that will bring, but for now, I’m still around, and I hope you’re all as safe, healthy, and happy as you can be right now :)

Thank you again and take care <3

#mine

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conversationswithme · 4 years ago

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You would be 7 years old today. Many times over the years, I have pulled you out of your crypt. The crypt that I never closed. 11 weeks of reverie, a romanticized word for looking in the rear view mirror too long.

Tonight is your burial. I'm remembering now how in the few weeks after your removal from my body how I begged Planned Parenthood to let me have your remains. So I could have a proper funeral for you. As cruel as it was to me at the time, I'm grateful for the women who took time to show me the pictures of my uterus before and after I had been scared bc they talked about taking pictures during the procedure. It was explained to me that by law pictures needed to be taken to prove that a complete abortion took place.

I abhor that word - it's laden with so many socio-politico connotations. All blasphemous when I remember the time we spent together. My baby.

How you came to be was an ugly truth. I had this whole fantastical mindset then, that I was an angel, sent here by God - to take on the familial abuse.

In those moments on the kitchen floor, I remember being told that he was God, that this is what God wanted.

And I believed it. Bc I wanted to be believe anything but the truth.

Ed had visited that year, our professors had fucked with our student body* Panza betrayed my trust 3 of the 4 college assaults had already taken place of the 8 that would occur in my life. And I wasn't sober. Far from it.

I stayed stoned, and when that stopped working I took research chemicals and acid to trip away what ... what was left.

You, sweet little baby, never had a chance. Not from the damage I had done, the psychotropic meds I took, and the other things.. made sure you were not a viable option.

I remember in the hospital when a doctor told me that the meds would save my life but injure yours.

The meds would save my life but not yours.

You were the size of a strawberry. With little fingers and a heartbeat and small shapes for your nose, and beginnings of eyes.

Bc I was pregnant, during the 11 weeks that you lived in my body, I was able to receive reduced payment* for my treatment. Think they billed me for the ambulance, that carted me from one place to the next.

The memories are blurry, I put them away, partially, so that I could breathe in between the weeks that didn't revolve around when you were with me.

You were not created out of love. There was fear, and desperation, and punishment. This was a time when I used my body as a weapon to litter myself with bullets.

If you take yourself out, no one else can.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I chose myself over your life. I wasn't ready to die.

I push people away before there's a chance to.. leave me.

It was the first time, that I chose myself, and a life.

Squandered 7 years, stoned, numb, empty warm bodies, loveless marriage, religions were my solace. Dreamt of God, tried to kill myself -- and not how you think.

it wasn't glorious or worth a spotlight, it was a slow death. Cigarettes... It felt so good to burn.

Until that feeling stopped... Depression stopped being the best friend replacement. Agony got tired of D's bullshit. Anger replaced her. Mad at the world - a new burn.

The burn started to smolder, and I think I did just about everything to keep those cancer sticks in my life.

And older version of me liked the fact that I'd die a slow death. Slow burn, choked out by nicotine fumes, the same cigarettes my family used my body as an ashtray for. Oh what color, those scabs must have been, when I was a baby like you. -- Fuck, this hurts. The constant pain. I cannot hold you.

---

You are my lemon baby. You liked Italian frozen ice, lemon always. I couldn't crave anything besides lemon. We sat by the lake, and I talked to you about Big Blue - how I lost both of you at the same time. I wrote you notes, faithfully, for Seven Years. Some time ago, I painted a brick for you, and him. And tried to sink the.. memory of you. Fold it up, chuck it in a lake, had been a year**, for fucks sake. -- and that's the thing about time, you never know when it's time to wake up. It's all individual. -- in 2020, I found music that I wanted to be for me. (apologies for older songs and tokens that the love hadn't died) that BB wrote with you referenced. -- You are a baby that wasn't built out of love, but you did not deserve those first slime songs, but We understand now that the veins of that monster are now calcified. BB was healing, too.

We forgive him***

& it was a nice thought, that OWC of 2018 was for me, and by proxy you. --

but in actuality, my release of you, and BB, and lemon daze, are up to me to undo.

You changed my life, little baby, a strawberry is on my foot, and while it could be viewed as many things, I know that my little berry, on my right foot, is to remember that you are in every step I take down this New Life Path.

You changed my life, little baby

YOu would have been 7 this year, but you are not.

Today marks 11 weeks, seven years ago, and I am going to let you rest now.

that dream when you were crying in the grocery cart, I...could have held you forever.

Yet -

You are in Zion now,

I am releasing you with your burial will be mint. It can grow wild and rampant at the place where we sat and shared a heartbeat.

-- Stevie said it best that there's a heartbeat and it never really died. -- It echoes in my mind, thuds against my skin, encasing the soul that burned. -- IF I don't live now, your death would have been for naught. -

I am letting you go. You deserve to be free.

I'll send Tokyo soon, and he'll be the best boy to you, in Zion.

-- You made my life better. Your name is J'ami. In Hebrew, it could mean victory. In French, it could mean "a friend". Now, as I look back from this new place, it could mean Just All (of) My Insides -- My name is AOMI now, after all.

It means all of it, you are my victory, you are why I am sober now, you are my friend, my guiding star, you are my child, and I am your mother.

--- Here rests J'ami 4.20.13-6.6.13 --

ly.

#poets on tumblr #writing #poetry #spilled ink #writingthestorm #twcpoetry #twcprose #writerscreed #writerscreedchallenge

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thevividgreenmoss · 5 years ago

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1. On What the Road to Hell Is Paved With

There is nothing in all Freud’s writings that I like better than his assertion that artists’ work is motivated by the desire “to achieve honour, power, riches, fame, and the love of women.” It is such a comforting, such a complete statement; it explains everything about the artist. There have even been artists who agreed with it; Ernest Hemingway, for instance; at least, he said he wrote for money, and since he was an honored, powerful, rich, famous artist beloved by women, he ought to know.

There is another statement about the artist’s desires that is, to me, less obscure; the first two stanzas of it read,

Riches I hold in light esteem And Love I laugh to scorn And lust of Fame was but a dream That vanished with the morn— And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is—“Leave the heart that now I bear And give me liberty.”

Emily Bronte wrote those lines when she was twenty-two. She was a young and inexperienced woman, not honored, not rich, not powerful, not famous, and you see that she was positively rude about love (“of women” or otherwise). I believe, however, that she was rather better qualified than Freud to talk about what motivates the artist. He had a theory. But she had authority.

It may well be useless, if not pernicious, to seek a single motive for a pursuit so complex, long-pursued, and various as art; I imagine that Bronte got as close to it as anyone needs to get, with her word “liberty.”

The pursuit of art, then, by artist or audience, is the pursuit of liberty. If you accept that, you see at once why truly serious people reject and mistrust the arts, labeling them as “escapism.” The captured soldier tunneling out of prison, the runaway slave, and Solzhenitsyn in exile are escapists. Aren’t they? The definition also helps explain why all healthy children can sing, dance, paint, and play with words; why art is an increasingly important element in psychotherapy; why Winston Churchill painted, why mothers sing cradle-songs, and what is wrong with Plato’s Republic. It really is a much more useful statement than Freud’s, though nowhere near as funny.

I am not sure what Freud meant by “power,” in this context. Perhaps significantly, Bronte does not mention power. Shelley does, indirectly:

“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." This is perhaps not too far from what Freud had in mind, for I doubt he was thinking of the artist’s immediate and joyous power over his material—the shaping hand, the dancer’s leap, the novelist’s power of life and death over his characters; it is more probable that he meant the power of the idea to influence other people.

The desire for power, in the sense of power over others, is what pulls most people off the path of the pursuit of liberty. The reason Bronte does not mention it is probably that it was never even a temptation to her, as it was to her sister Charlotte.

Emily did not give a damn about other people’s morals. But many artists, particularly artists of the word, whose ideas must actually he spoken in their work, succumb to the temptation. They begin to see that they can do good to other people. They forget about liberty, then, and instead of legislating in divine arrogance, like God or Shelley, they begin to preach.

In this tale, The Word for World Is Forest, which began as a pure pursuit of freedom and the dream, I succumbed, in part, to the lure of the pulpit. It is a very strong lure to a science fiction writer, who deals more directly than most novelists with ideas, whose metaphors are shaped by or embody ideas, and who therefore is always in danger of inextricably confusing ideas with opinions.

I wrote The Little Green Men (its first editor, Harlan Ellison, retitled it, with my rather morose permission) in the winter of 1968, during a year’s stay in London. All through the sixties, in my home city in the States, I had been helping organize and participating in nonviolent demonstrations, first against atomic bomb testing, then against the pursuance of the war in Viet Nam. I don’t know how many times I walked down Alder Street in the rain, feeling useless, foolish, and obstinate, along with ten or twenty or a hundred other foolish and obstinate souls. There was always somebody taking pictures of us—not the press—odd-looking people with cheap cameras: John Birchers? FBI? CIA? Crackpots? No telling. I used to grin at them, or stick out my tongue. One of my fiercer friends brought a camera once and took pictures of the picture-takers. Anyhow, there was a peace movement, and I was in it, and so had a channel of action and expression for my ethical and political opinions totally separate from my writing.

In England that year, a guest and a foreigner, I had no such outlet. And 1968 was a bitter year for those who opposed the war. The lies and hypocrisies redoubled: so did the killing. Moreover, it was becoming clear that the ethic which approved the defoliation of forests and grainlands and the murder of noncombatants in the name of “peace” was only a corollary of the ethic which permits the despoliation of natural resources for private profit or the GNP, and the murder of the creatures of the Earth in the name of “man.” The victory of the ethic of exploitation, in all societies, seemed as inevitable as it was disastrous.

It was from such pressures, internalized, that this story resulted: forced out, in a sense, against my conscious resistance. I have said elsewhere that I never wrote a story more easily, fluently, surely— and with less pleasure.

I knew, because of the compulsive quality of the composition, that it was likely to become a preachment, and I struggled against this. Say not the struggle naught availeth. Neither Lyubov nor Seiver is mere Virtue Triumphant; moral and psychological complexity was salvaged, at least, in those characters. But Davidson is, though not uncomplex, pure; he is purely evil—and I don’t, consciously, believe purely evil people exist. But my unconscious has other opinions. It looked into itself and produced, from itself, Captain Davidson. I do not disclaim him.

American involvement in Viet Nam is now past; the immediately intolerable pressures have shifted to other areas; and so the moralizing aspects of the story are now plainly visible. These I regret, but I do not disclaim them either. The work must stand or fall on whatever elements it preserved of the yearning that underlies all specific outrage and protest, whatever tentative outreaching it made, amidst anger and despair, toward justice, or wit. or grace, or liberty.

Ursula K. Le Guin, Introduction to The Word for World is Forest

#*#ursula k. le guin #the word for world is forest #emily bronte

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realm-sweet-realm · 5 years ago

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Breaking the Time Loop chapter 12: Closure

The group found themselves in a hallway painted blue. "Where are we?" Lacie asked.

"Right outside Joey Drew's apartment," Henry answered.

"Perfect. Now we can bash his teeth in," Lacie returned, cracking her knuckles.

"Yeah," Susie agreed, "I'd love to give him a piece of my mind. I'm not leaving until he knows how bad he hurt us!"

"Or," Grant said, "we could handle this like adults and sue him for every penny he has."

"Well, how much could that be?” Bertrum asked, “We already know his empire fell. How is he doing, Henry?"

"Terrible. He's broke, sick, stuck in the past, and looks ten years older than he is. He's miserable."

"Then I say the world gave us all the revenge we could need. Let us be off."

"Yeah. I'll take you guys to a police station to connect you with your living family members so you can get back on your feet. But first, I need to go in there. He has some things I need." Henry stopped before the apartment door and took a deep breath. In the last few days, he’d done a plethora of neigh-impossible things. He’d come to think of himself as brave. But this was the moment of truth. If Joey said those evil words: “Henry, come visit the old studio. There’s something I need to show you,” then he'd be walking into that studio in a trance, just like every time before. It would all have been for naught.

A hand touched his, making him realize that it had been shaking. He looked back to see it was Sammy. “Scared, Henry?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? He must be like a hundred years old by now, right?

Henry smiled nervously. “Yeah.”

“I could come in with you. I want to be the one who handles the dimensional stuff anyways. It's my people, after all. I could even go instead, and ask for your things for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, “And sure, if you want the church to be your project, I'll respect that. But no. It's not about the things, Sammy. Until I face him, I won't know if this is truly over. I won't know if he still has power over me. And yes, it has to be alone.” Henry would never forgive himself if he let Joey hypnotize them both and throw them into the time loop.

Henry collected himself, entered, and marched right through Joey’s apartment. Joey looked up from his book, a look of awe and appreciation on his face. “Henry. You’ve finally done it. You’ve found the optimal ending. Oh, thank you so much! I would never have been able to save everyone without you.”

Amazingly, Henry could still muster some exhausted awe at how twisted Joey’s mind was. “You know what?” he began in a firm, but even voice, “I’m not even going to address every twisted detail of what you just said. I’m here for two specific things, and then I’m going to leave. Please don’t contact me after that.”

Joey’s face fell.

“First, I want the rights to Bendy’s character.”

“He hasn’t made money since-“

“I’ll tell you why I want it if and when I decide to.”

“Okay,” Joey conceded, and slowly began getting up from his chair.

Henry was still jittery- whether that was from nervousness or anger he couldn’t tell. “I’ll get it!” Henry cut in. He couldn’t have stood staying still any longer. “Where is it? And don’t tell me you didn’t keep it.”

“It’s in my filing cabinet.”

Henry knew the man’s home from having gone through it in his last two loops. He knew where that was. Thankfully, the cabinet was well-organized and he found what was looking for quickly. He took out a pen, crossed Joey’s name out and wrote his own before returning to the living room. “Alright. I don’t know what needs to be changed here, so you’re doing it for me,” he ordered, his confidence finally building up. Joey wordlessly obeyed.

As Henry watched, the realization settled in that this was actually happening. Joey wasn’t going to say those words. His confidence bloomed into boldness. Henry took a seat across from Joey, looking on as a king might look upon a subject. “After you’re done that, you’re going to write a letter of apology to Bendy. You messed him up pretty badly by isolating him in the ink machine for years. That would be considered torture if you did it to a human being. On top of that, you convinced him that everyone would hate him until he drastically changed his appearance. That is not okay.”

“Well, was I wrong? What should I have done with him? He was an abomination by anyone’s standards. You can’t just blame me because he realized that.”

“I don’t know,” Henry admitted. His old friend did have a point. “Just write the letter, Joey.”

A few minutes later, Joey handed the two papers to Henry. Henry gave the letter a quick read over to make sure it was appropriate, then, satisfied with its contents, put the papers away. He looked on at Joey for a moment. If he wanted to, he could have dressed him down, shoved his mistakes in his face until he cried. But for a single moment, all Henry saw was a frail, lonely old man. “Joey,” Henry said, sure to keep his voice businesslike. “You have people to visit you, right?”

“Yes. My sister and her granddaughter come once a week.”

“Good. Now, listen: a lot of the people I released are angry. If I were you, I’d get the best lawyer and the best home security system money can buy.” Henry got up to leave, taking the letter and the adoption papers with him. A small part of him felt that Joey was following, and sure enough, he felt the old man touch his hand to get his attention. “Don’t touch me!” Henry snapped, instantly regretting the hint of vulnerability he’d shown. He stopped, pulled his hand away, and curled it into a fist.

“I just wanted to ask one last thing of you.”

“What?” Henry growled.

Joey paused, taken aback by Henry's anger.

“What?" Henry roared.

“I could have put a SWAT team in a time loop, you know. I did it to you because you matter. Henry, what you think means the world to me. And now, you know everything about about my mistakes. Now that I- well, we, but I made it happen- now that we’ve saved everyone who could be saved, do you forgive me?”

All Henry could think was that Joey was pathetic. “You need to forgive yourself,” he sighed, not bothering to look back at his old friend. “No one else will.” Joey could hear the tiredness and disappointment in that gentle voice. Henry was sure of that. He left, closed the door behind him, and leaned wearily against it, feeling almost too exhausted to stand.

Bendy hugged Henry’s leg, which got his attention. “You looked like you needed it,” Bendy explained.

Henry smiled and stroked Bendy’s head. “Thanks, bud.”

“Can I see Joey now?”

Henry shook his head.

“Why not? He’d like me now. Right?”

“Well, probably. But trust me, Bendy, that man isn’t worth it. I was his friend and business partner for years, and the only good thing I ever got out of it...” Henry fumbled the paper in his hands and pulled out the adoption papers. “Was this.”

Bendy was awestruck. “Y-you mean...?”

Henry knelt down to meet Bendy’s eyes. “Yeah. I’ve warmed up to you, bud. I’m going to take you home and treat you like my own child.”

Bendy wiped away a tear of joy. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Ha, no problem. Now, let’s get these people on their way home, and go home ourselves. Linda’s waiting for me. I’ll explain everything, and if I know anything about her, she’ll be totally open to you living with us.”

The duo walked home hand in hand. Henry thought about the five people they’d released. Each of them had wanted something different from Joey. Some different form of closure. As for Henry, all he wanted was to never see him again.

As for Bendy, well, Henry knew what Bendy wanted, but he was hoping that he didn’t need it. That enough affection from people who weren’t twisted beyond belief would mend the hole that Joey Drew had left in his heart.

That evening, Henry put the apology letter in his bedside drawer. He never touched it again.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #my fanfiction #Henry Stein #joey drew #Toon bendy #breaking the time loop

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ask-the-crimson-king · 5 years ago

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The Fool

[A small thing for the 40k Feels Week. Story under the cut so I don’t spam the dash with my writing.]

[It’s a long, long one folks. Also a UA based on the ending of The Crimson King]

This chamber had become something of his home.

He had not kept in contact with his Legion for quite some time. He felt he did not need to. Not now, anyway.

Not after everything that had happened.

The room was organized somewhat neatly, a good mask for the tumult and turmoil brewing within. Shelves lined with various books, interrupted by a small artifact here and there. But this room was a lie.

This place was not real. it was not physical. It never was.

This was a part of his own small section of the Warp, a place where no other could truly find him. And here he dwelt, the days, weeks, months, time sliding through his fingers like silky sand.

The creator of the room was in the center of it, seated and scrawling things down into the grimoire usually kept on his person or close to it. He found that he wrote much as of late, but there was so much to record and preserve.

So many memories that needed to be shared, so much knowledge that cannot be lost no matter what the cost to himself was. He let out a small sigh, taking the small bookmark and closing the tome, slowly rising and putting it on the desk nearby. He stared at it for a moment or two, some lingering thought plaguing him before it ran away. Most of his thoughts did in here.

Except for a few.

He walked over to a window that looked into the madness that bled around this precious space. He watched the myriad colors all blur and blend before dissociating into their constituent parts once more. He saw shades and creatures hiding and lurking within its depths. He saw many things through this window, though much of it, he ignored.

Once he called those colors beautiful. Once he called those creatures naught but predators lurking within a Great Ocean.

Now?

He understood more than he ever did about what the truth of this un-reality was. Was it truly an un-reality? It felt as real as his own, of what some called the Materium, But yet it was not real. This was all imagined. All of it.

Life created this realm.

But did that make it truly unreal?

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. His gaze flickered back to the shelves. More and more they grew, and more and more books filled their shelves. Where did they come from?

He could feel someone coming. Someone calling for him.

Where they calling for him? The name they used felt familiar. They felt familiar too, but... he did not know why...

He quickly covered the window, not wishing to be found by whomever was chasing him. He was safe in here. He was secure. He was...

Who was he?

What had happened? Why was he here?

He remembered vaguely some vast destruction, but... It felt like a dream, as though it wasn’t real. Was this room real? It felt real. It looked real. He walked over to one shelf and stared at the books. Their titles were in dozens of languages, all of which he understood, somehow. He did not remember these books. He plucked one from the shelf, and stared at the cover.

He felt the presence again. Closer. He did not want them to come closer. He did not know who this was. Perhaps they were one of the things lurking beyond.

This room was safe. This was where he needed to stay.

But he still felt them reaching, calling, looking for him. They felt desperate. Why were they looking for him? Was he important? Why?

He found himself questioning many aspects about this place as time went on. How much time had truly passed? He had no chronometer here. He had no measure of time. The colors and beasts outside were no good indicator.

Why were they trying to reach him?

Suddenly, he could no longer feel their presence. Hesitantly, he reopened the window with a thought and a gesture, staring back into the madness and turning from the books he was blankly staring at.

There was someone staring back at him.

+My Lord!+ they cried. +Throne, we thought you were dead.+

He stared blankly at them.

+Who are you?+

Their... their aura darkened. It was sadness that darkened it, and the hope that once brightened it began to fade.

+You... You do not remember?+

+Remember what?+

+Who you are, what happened to our home?+

+This is my home.+

+No.+ The person pressed... hands? He was not sure, but they pressed something against the window. +You are Magnus the Red, the Crimson King, Master of Prospero. Prospero burned. The Legion is fracturing. We need you, father.+

+I know not of who you speak.+ He shook his head, blinking his... his single eye. Why did he have only one? What... what happened to the other?

+You... you do not remember?+ Again, their aura darkened.

+I do not know who you are, nor whom you are looking for, but that is not I. I am sorry to-+

+Then who are you?+

He found he could not answer that question. He pondered for several long moments, but... he found nothing.

+I... I do not...+

+Think, father. Look around you! Look at those books! You ought to remember something, right?+ Desperation colored them. He did not like that color.

But he did as he was told, looking at the books. He walked over and plucked one off the shelf, one called the Liber Prospero. He looked back at the figure at the window, and looked down at the book in his hands.

+I do not know this tome.+ He looked around the library. +I know none of this. Who am I? Where do I come from? Who am I?+

Desperation clouded his own aura, he felt. But his own was also foggy. Faded. Not as crisp as the window guest. He looked back at the figure in the window.

+Who am I?+ he repeated. The figure flickered and darkened, before pulling its hand back. Before he could protest or cast the figure away, the window was broken, and the chaos spilled through. The figure joined him in the swirling morass of color and cacophony of chittering voices, and he saw only blinding light before...

... he awoke. He looked around at the library. Everything was back to normal. He was sitting.

+What do you remember?+ a voice asked him. Before he could register what was happening, the light returned, and he felt himself scream, but never heard it.

He felt pain. So much pain. Physical, emotional, he felt pain. He could not move. He was on hard, polished ground. He saw and felt blood. He heard wolves howling around him. He saw a what he thought was a great pyramid through the rain pounding onto the world around him. He saw red. He could barely see.

He felt pain. So much pain. His sole eye focused on that pyramid. He saw someone. He saw someone who felt familiar, who he recognized. He could not move. He blinked.

+This is my final gift to you...+ He mouthed the words as he said them through aetheric speech. He felt frost beginning to coat him as a blade came near his throat, and with a few syllables, he was unmade.

He was unmade, and he cast himself away. Far away.

Away from the howling.

Away from the battle.

Away from his sons.

+... It burns...+ he said, the room coming back into focus. The colors that were outside were no longer drowning him, its predators behind the window.

+What burns?+ he heard someone ask. It was not the newcomer at the window. It sounded... more familiar to him...

His answer was naught but a whisper.

+Prospero...+

He felt himself sink to his knees.

+And it was my fault...+

+It was the Wolves. The Wolves were the ones who destroyed us. They destroyed Prospero. Russ was all too eager to come slay us and kill the innocent people. He came with the might of the Custodes and the Null Maidens. We were trying to warn Him!+

+We failed... We broke the Legion... Prospero burned...+

+All is not yet lost. The Warmaster needs us now. We must join our brothers and cast down the tyrant. We must show our true power, without regard for the limitations of ignorant hypocrites! We must join together, now, and we must join Horus.+

He understood now why the voice was familiar.

He was speaking with himself. An aspect of himself that he always kept hidden.

+No. I will not side with him.+

+Then what will you do? We are incomplete! Can you not see the folly in this? We will never be able to see our visions through to completion or save our sons in this state!+ The voice turned from fevered passion to a desperate plea. +Please. If not for ourselves, then for our sons.+

He felt a hand reaching out to him. He pondered it for a moment or two.

He reached out and clasped onto it, and the world slammed into being around him.

He was bound within a throne. He felt weakness at first, but soon it turned to strength.

He stood, casting it away, feeling it crumble. He could feel his body reawakening. He saw a sea of red-armored warriors before him, and he felt the presence of his favored son.

The one who saved him from mindless oblivion. He was kneeling. He was weeping.

He felt pride, relief, pain, so many different emotions all at once. But at his core, he saw fear within his favored son, though it had been quelled.

For now.

He looked upon his warriors with his one, far-seeing eye, and he could feel the very world beginning to bend and remake itself according to his will.

He could also feel a void within him, one he longed to be filled.

He looked upon his sons and made his pronouncement.

‘My sons, heed me. The galaxy has been set aflame. Our home has been burned, our ideals and very selves tarnished and cast aside by those whom we once called brothers. The time has come for us to play our part in this war we never wanted to be part of. But make no mistake. We shall not fight for Horus, nor our fallen brothers. We fight only until I can reclaim the part of myself that is currently bound and imprisoned within the Imperial Palace. We fight for hope of a better, brighter future, and not to the capricious creatures lurking within the depths of the Great Ocean, those very creatures who seek to defile us and ruin our great dreams. We fight for what we have always fought for.’

He drew his golden glaive, holding it high for all to see.

‘We fight for enlightenment. We fight for humanity.’

Standing there, in front of these paltry few of his once-mighty Legion, his precious sons who wept and praised his glorious return, his sons who had labored so very hard to bring him back from the brink of death... it was here, here and now, that he remembered exactly who he was.

#40kFeelsWeek #40kartweek #alternate The Crimson King ending #universe alteration #thousand sons #magnus the red

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queenofkings121-blog · 6 years ago

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Duties of a Queen

[\Oh my gosh guys this is so messy! I wrote it in a walmart parking lot awhile back. Forgot about it til now. For what its worth, I hope y'all enjoy this./]

Warning: angst[?], violence [a but graphic]

A lone tear rolled down her cheek as she saw her betrothed placing a sweet kiss on lips that weren't hers.

'My heart belongs to you Gwen. It always has and always will. You know I'm only with her to secure the safety of this kingdom.

She knew that this marriage arrangement didn't begin with love, but she thought they had gotten there. She thought they were in love. Hell, they confessed their love for each other while in between the bedsheets the night before.

The situation would've rendered anyone broken, but Y/N wasn't weak. She straightened her posture, wiped the tear and made her presence known. Arthur and his lover were shocked. Y/N looked into the blue eyes she fell in love with. With a soft humourless chuckle she walked past him towards her chamber.

"Y/N!" Arthur yelled after her. He was hot on her heels. The prince nearly tumbled onto her when she stopped walking.

"If you are to apologize, don't. If you are here because of the treaty, leave." Her answer was simple. He ruined the chances of his kingdom being truly safe.

Y\N's kingdom, Nilanyth, was a small but lethal kingdom. It's got a quarter of the population of Camelot, but the 10 times the skill. All the citizens are required to learn how to defend themselves. Men,women, children. Its a four days ride from Camelot. With this alliance Camelot would've become the most protected kingdom.

Not only that, but what he said to Gwen wasn't the complete truth. Yes he loved Gwen, but he was happy and ready to marry Y/N. He was growing feelings for her but he's ruined those chances as well.

---

Arthur sat with his father for dinner but neither one ate. Uther because he had a lot on his mind, Arthur because the empty seat next to him was a reminder of his actions the previous day. He hasn't seen her all day and he could physically feel her absence. He would expect her to chuckle at something Gwain said, or reprimand Percival for being tall, but all he got was silence. It angered and saddened the Prince but he did not know why. He was about to speak when Y/N walked in.

She was dressed in her travelling gear and it confused both men.

"My King," Y/N said with a slight bow of her head before turning to Arthur. "Your majesty."

"Lady Y/N, is there a reason for this?" Questioned Uther.

"Yes, my King. I'm returning home. " Uther looked confused. "Before you say anything, allow me to explain." Uther nodded at the princess, all the while Arthur looked at her with a hurt expression. It was his fault.

"I will not marry your son. I simply cannot. I thought I could be in a love-less marriage but recent events proved otherwise. But the treaty stays. Nilanyth will assisst Camelot if the need ever arises. We will be allies and become a stronghold. Nilanyth will supply your people its protection, Camelot will supply my people with resources such as cattle and food."

"But your people are well off."

"This treaty is not onesided Uther, and I refuse it to be. My people are well off, but we do not supply without receiving. Selfish, yes, but it secures my kingdom."

"But it is not fair." Arthur piqued.

Aiden narrowed her gaze on the prince. "You know naught of being fair, nor taking care of those whom you claim to love. I do not expect you to understand this." She turned towards the king. "That is all. I return to my kingdom either with a signed treaty or not, it doesn't effect me nor my people at all. I'm merely doing this for your sake."

The King and Prince both relaxed their shoulders knowing that Camelot is safe, and it seems thats all they cared about. Her mother was right. True love is hard to come by when you're royalty. It seems everyone has different needs for a princess, but none for the girl.

"I bid thee a farewell and a safe trip back home Lady Y/N. The treaty will be signed before your departure. For what its worth, I am truly sorry that it didn't work out between you and my son. You would've made a fine Queen of Camelot." Uther replied. Y/N simply nodded and turned to leave. She desperately wanted the Prince to run after her and tell her that he made a mistake. That he truly loved her, but he sat still on his chair.

Y/N mounted her horse later that day with a stoic expression, and with a swift kick she left Camelot and the person who broke her heart.

---

It's been two weeks since the departure of Y/N and Arthur hasn't been the same. He's been moody, snapping at everyone, even Gwen. She was mad that Y/N could have such a hold on him even when she wasn't present. Her and Arthur fought more frequently, and made love less. When they did it was rough and quick, and void of love and affection.

Their fights have gotten more vocal and not a single ear within the walls of the castle were strangers to it.

"It's not a matter of you being a servant Gwen! Its a matter of you not being Y/N!" Arthur yelled and immediately regretted the words. The look on his loves face broke his heart.

"W-what?"

With a sigh, Arthur decided he needed to come clean. "Gwen, there was a time that I truly loved you. You were my world, but it seems that my heart yearns for someone else. Just as yours is." He wasn't stupid. He saw the glances and touches between Gwen and Merlin.

The two talked about what would happen for hours and came to a conclusion to end it. It wasn't healthy and they weren't happy together. Not anymore.

But Gwen went to her lover while Arthur went to his room. He wished to travel to Nilanyth but he knew he was unwelcomed. Especially after how he hurt Y/N. He knew he could go, but it would be for politics. Anything else, he would overstay his welcome. So, he settled for a letter.

---

Its been many moons since he sent his first letter. He would send one every week, and just like the week before, it went unanswered. He hoped and wished that she has been reading them. They would fall on deaf ears. He didn't expect her to answer. He heard of the passing of her parents not long after his second letter was sent. He desperately wanted to go and comfort her, but the funeral for the Royals was private. Only those in the Kingdom were allowed, and close friends of the couple from the other kingdoms.

The late Royal couple of Nilanyth fell ill with a sickness that no warlock, healer, or magician could heal. Y/N was heartbroken. She loved her parents dearly and to have them both gone crushed her soul. She knew the duties of being a Queen and King. Her father taught her that just because she was a female didn't mean she wasn't capable, and so he taught her the ways of a King as her mother did with being a Queen. He also taught her that having a man by her side is a mere accessory. That she didn't need a man to validate her. Her name alone should and is validation enough.

Y/N sat in front of her parents graves, along side of her ancestors, just staring at the headstones. A bitter smile came across her face.

"I miss you guys."

A warm breeze flew by and wrapped around the newfound Leader. The breeze was gentle yet had an aggressive feel to it. It danced around her, almost along to a song she couldn't hear. It felt like a hug from her parents. A hug hinting that everything will be OK. That she wasn't alone, never has and never will.

The Prince of Camelot seized sending his letters for his father had succumbed the same fate Y/N parent's had.

The two were now both crowned rulers of their own respective kingdoms.

---

Camelot was attacked by Morgana and her men and they nearly won if it wasn't for the warriors of Nilanyth. Just as they were about to slaughter the entire Kingdom, Riders of Nilanyth, being led by Y/N, rode in and swept the kingdom of the enemies.

Morgana screeched as she saw her people getting slaughtered by Y/N's warriors. Her eyes changed colors as she chanted a spell to discombobulate the new arrival. She smirked as Y/N's men fall unconscious. Morgana would've killed them, but she knew that whats left of her men would need morality boosts and in order to do so, they needed to kill. Morgana had just made that easier for them, but her thinking of her men would cost her greatly.

Y/N looked around and spotted the reason her men weren't able to fight. She charged her horse towards sorceror, but switched paths at the last second, riding for Morgause. Y/N knew that she had confused the sisters and used it to her advantage.

Y/N raised her sword, gripped the stirrups on her horse, and mightily swung her sword efficiently and effectively decapitating the blonde, as she rode by. She pulled the stirrups and signaled for her horse to stop and turn to face Morgana. She saw the black haired girl stare at her sisters headless body in shock. Y/N held out her blade and flicked her wrist, ridding her sword of the sorcerors blood, all while staring at Morgana.

From the corner of her eye she saw Gwain and Percival slowly approaching them. She shook her head and rode for Morgana once more, only to have her thrown off her horse by the use of magic. The Queen landed and hear a SNAP! and Y/N knew she had broken something, but she had a part to play in history and being dead wasn't it.

She had toughed through the pain, grabbing her sword and circled Morgana. The Queen ran and swung her sword purposely a bit too high. The force of her swing had caused Y/N to stumble forward. She turned quickly and aimed her sword at the enemy. Y/N looked over the sorcerers shoulder and saw the two knights in place. She stepped forwars and swung, partially hitting her target. She huffed and threw a steel star at Morgana. The latter turned her head and raised her hand to catch it. Just as she did Y/N rolled and sliced her sword towards the others midsection. Y/N ended on one knee, both hands gripping the handle of her sword, raised by her shoulder. She stood and turned to face Morgana. The sorceror laughed.

"You mis--" She was cut short as she coughed up blood. She looked down to her midsection and see her guts. Her eyes widened as she tried to fix herself.

Y/N raised her sword to her left, slashing to the right, cutting below her neck. Her sword flew slightly but she was quick to grab the handle, so that the hilt faced her, and swung her hand backwards sticking the sword into Morgana's head, ending her reign.

The two knights scoffed and Y/N smirked at them.

"She knew of your presenc. She assumed that I was going to be distraction, but distraction was not distraction, but merely a distraction to the distraction."

"I have naught a clue of what you just said Lady Y/N." Gwaine said utterly confused and tired. "Do you?" He asked Percival.

"I think?"

Y/N laughed. "Neither do I Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival. Speaking of distractions, where is your King?"

"He and Merlin are taking care of Mordred. Why do you ask?" Gwaine wiggled his eyebrows.

"Duties. Nothing more, nothing less."

The two Knights stared at her receding figure in thought. Both thinking it is shame that their King had let such a wonderful person walk out of his life.

#arthur pendragon x reader #arthur kingsmen #arthur pendragon #sir percival #sir gwaine #sir leon #morgana #morgause #merlin #gaius #y/n #reader imagine #sir lancelot #mordred #uther pendragon #king uther #gwen

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johannstutt413 · 5 years ago

Text

Meeting Prisma has had some unintended consequences - namely, I’ve found myself fixated on her. She hasn’t come to see me again, but I feel her presence sometimes, watching me as I sit huddled over my computer, a mouse and Wacom pad at my side. Sometimes, I smell wet paint or fresh printer ink in rooms I know have never had those things in them while I’ve been a tenant, usually just before a spark of inspiration strikes me. Everything is brighter, more interesting, more inspirational.

And yet, all I can really think about is how much I want to see her again.

I would have expected to appear in my dreams, but so far, that’s proven untrue. Trying to talk to her with my thoughts hasn’t elicited a response, but that could just be her job interfering. She’s been working extra-hard lately to make this all happen, but I’d gladly sacrifice some productivity to see her again…

“That’s sweet of you,” she whispers in my ear, her arms suddenly around my neck.

“Prisma!” I’m sure if there was anyone else in the house, I would have woken them up. “Hang on, let me get up real quick.”

Her arms unwrap themselves from me, and I spin around as I stand to face her. Seeing her head-on is indescribable, especially as it makes it much harder to explain away. For her part, Prisma seems a bit uncomfortable with my full attention. “You were in the middle of a paragraph, so I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“A chance to see you could never be an interruption,” I reassure her, awkwardly shuffling over to my bed.

“But you stopped writing to talk with me,” she replies with confusion. “That would be the definition of an interruption.”

I shrug. “You’re why I create, Prisma. Besides, I like having you out here with me. It gets kind of lonely sitting at work for half my day, and then doing the same thing here, day in and day out.”

“O-oh.” Prisma glances around the room and, as if just to prove her physicality, locks the door. “Johann, have I been a slave driver?”

“What? No, not at all! What would give you that idea?”

She wrings her hands - oddly enough, her fingernails aren’t painted at all. “You seem so intent on seeing me, I thought it might be to lodge a complaint…”

“My only complaint,” I look her directly in the eye, “is that I don’t get to see your beautiful face more often.”

“You’re flirting with me, aren’t you?”

I nod. “Yes, blatantly.”

“...You’re serious.” She blushes. “Maybe I should have thought about that before appearing to you.”

“Is it a problem? I mean, I can try to rein it in-”

Prisma shakes her head vigorously. “No, that’s not it, it’s just...I’m not used to this sort of attention.”

“Really?” I shrug. “I mean, considering the circumstances, I guess many other guys wouldn’t have the opportunity to bear witness.”

“What I mean to say is, you are the only person who has ever seen me...or ever will.”

That makes sense, I guess. “What about other Muses?”

“If we were to both manifest for our chosen, then perhaps,” Prisma...muses aloud, “but the likelihood is just too slim.”

“I could try to make it happen, though - the guys I play DnD with on the weekends are a pretty creative bunch, so maybe I can get a few of them for a brainstorming session and-”

She shakes her head. “N-no, Johann, please, don’t make work for yourself on my account. My purpose is to ensure you are able to create, not to foist unnecessary burdens on you.”

“Prisma,” I reply with a small sigh, “perhaps it hasn’t quite landed yet, but if it’s for you, I really don’t feel like it’d be work. You know how I am, what my life is like, and every moment spent with you is a reprieve from the worst of that.”

“Johann...”

“And I don’t care if talking to you means I’m somehow ‘not meeting my full potential’ - damnit, I know I’m not meeting my full potential, I couldn’t possibly be considering the job I’m doing and why I’m doing it - because it means I get to be a part of your world and not just the other way around. The thought of coming home at night to you lounging in that chair, or on the couch watching something on the TV, or whatever, it just...I want it so much…” I fall backwards into my mattress, my legs dangling over the side. “Sorry, you probably knew all of that already.”

The smile on her face, sad but warm, and her blushing implies otherwise. “Hearing it from you, of your own volition, is different...Could we try something?”

“Sure.”

“I haven’t tried this before,” Prisma continues, walking towards the desk chair, “but it’s possible that I can inspire you while manifested like this. So, um, if you could try doing something while I’m out here-”

I dash off the bed and into my chair. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Alright, let’s see...a new document, if you could? When you’re ready, go ahead and start writing.” For a moment, my mind sputters; after all, I want this to be really good if it’s for her-

Her hand rests softly on my shoulder, and suddenly the fog clears away.

For Her Amusement

“A witty title, if I do say,” Prisma whispers in my ear, her smile audible. “What does it mean?”

I let my fingers answer her questions.

She came to me as if in a dream

An impossibly beautiful tapestry

Of colors and curves, of notes and melodies

Tied together with the bow of her dress’s ribbons

She came to me with words, with songs, and with visions

Asking me to breathe life to these things was her mission

But in truth, her beauty overwhelms me;

The innocence of her soul compels me;

Her loneliness is palpable, and wounds me;

And I dream of her arms around me

“Johann...” I can’t tell if it’s feelings of embarrassment or her coming to terms with the reality of the situation, but despite her voice growing softer, the words resonant more strongly. It’s almost as if she wants me to stop, to get off the track her presence has sent me racing down after disabling the breaks and rendering this train of thought a speeding missile.

But I’m not done.

I dream of her smile, sincere and bright

I dream of her voice setting my heart alight

Naught but three words, that’s all it would take

But I wonder, can she really reciprocate?

She knows me better than most, I imagine

After all, in a sense, it’s her words I’ve been writing

But with each passing day, it becomes clearer to me

That she’s scared of this idea, of what could be.

I’d ask her to tell me, but I don’t have the guts

So I’ll let her read it over my shoulder, and trust…

Trust the power of an honest appeal

Disguised as words on a page so they’ll feel more real.

“...Okay.” Prisma’s voice is the faintest tremor, but I hear it nonetheless. “This proves it. I can be here with you and still fulfill my obligations.”

“What are your obligations?” Instinctively, my response is just as quiet.

She lightly grasps the back of my chair and slides me in front of my bed, where she takes a seat and looks me directly in the eye. “In short, whenever you create something, the mental energy you spend passes through me and into the one who sent me, the Patron of the Arts. They need to receive so much energy from me within a given period of time in order to sustain themselves, and if at any point I cannot provide that level of energy, I would be terminated in order to recoup the inefficiency. At least, that was what I was told when I was assigned to you.”

“Who told you this?” I scoot a little closer. “You mentioned not having contact with anyone else?”

“I heard it in my mind, in a voice I knew wasn’t mine, but one that nevertheless I was meant to obey...a voice like yours, but heavier, and more insistent.”

I swallow. “Have I been able to meet the quota so far?”

“You’ve exceeded it, which is why I’ve had this freedom,” she smiles, albeit briefly. “Which brings us to the most difficult part of this arrangement...to manifest like this requires more energy expenditure. Every word, every motion, increases the demand on us to produce.”

“Oh...have you thought about severing the connection?”

Prisma blinks. “How would I go about doing that?”

“Do you remember anything before being bound to me?”

“Well, no, but-”

“So in theory,” I rush ahead, “all you know for sure is that you’ve been influencing me this whole time and continued to exist, right?”

She nods reluctantly. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

“What if you don’t really need me to create so much as you need my energy?”

“It’s possible,” she agrees, “but why would-”

I stand from my chair and sit next to her on the bed. “Do you know another way energy is transferred?”

“Johann, where are you going with this-”

“I’m saying,” I reply, capping my argument with a sly grin, “that friction-induced heat might meet your requirements just as well.”

And there’s the blush. “That...I...Johann, this is all so sudden. Attention is one thing, but an honest proposition is, well...”

“Have you not felt it when you hugged my neck or rubbed my hair? When you set your head on my shoulder as I wrote that poem, was there no feeling of empowerment? I know I certainly did.”

“Now that you mention it,” she admits, “I did feel some transfer...I guess it couldn’t hurt to try.”

I smile and hold out my hand. “Let’s start small, then.”

“I like the sound of that.”

#story #literal muse #Prisma the muse

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ajanefantasy · 5 years ago

Text

Book Love part 6 - Nova Blast

And now we have Nova Blast. After finishing the Brothers Trilogy, I was in a position I hadn’t been in for a while: What book was I going to write next? Do I start something new or maybe continue writing about the brothers. After a small rest, I started looking about at the various characters I had met in the journey of all the previous books and those that I only knew in passing--characters mentioned, but not introduced.

Well, there was Sari and Jayd, who I had been attempting to write before I wrote about Rum and Gin. But there was also Nova and Thrace chattering at me.

So I tried writing both, see who was talking loudest. Turned out that Nova and his treasure wanted their story told more.

Nova started talking to me...(looks at my files) back in 2007. Wait, really? That would have come around not too long after Golden Boots. Okay then. How time flies. Back in 2007, Nova and Thrace weren’t quite ready. I had an opening. I knew how they met, sorta. There were bits and pieces that weren’t quite fitting together. In 2007, who they each were, what their exact motives were, wasn’t for me to know. I kept checking on them periodically, but nothing.

Flash forward to 2012/2013 and well, these two men started making themselves very well known. Thrace wanted adventure before he settled down to run his estate. Nova wanted vengeance for the death of his sister. What better start could there be to a relationship? (Ha!)

As what usually happens in my stories, the pirate finds their treasure and, surprise, their treasure is not who they thought they were getting (usually surprises me too). Their treasure ends up turning things around and changing the rules while leading their pirates on a merry chase.

Nova never expected someone like Thrace and Thrace wasn’t having any of Nova’s shenanigans...at first. It was adventure Thrace was in want of after all.

[Image ID: Image of a three mast ship sailing through a snowy, icy passage with the words Nova Blast written across it]

Longing for adventure, Thrace never expected to be kidnapped by a wild and lusty pirate seeking vengeance. Looking to avenge his sister’s death, Captain Nova Blast steals his enemy’s betrothed only to find his treasure. But time is short for both men as duty to home and hearth complicate everything. Story contains strong language and explicit sex. 195,000 words

Amazon / Smashwords / Kobo / Apple / BN

A preview of Nova Blast can be found under the cut.

Thrace could not fully relax as he bathed after cleaning the fish. He kept expecting Nova to barge into the cabin, take the cloth and soap from him, and insist upon aiding him. Nova had whispered of such as they were cleaning the fish, whispered what he would do, how he would touch him. He closed his eyes and tried to push away the image of the rotten pirate doing just that.

He failed.

And never could he mind; no one need know his thoughts. A soft moan slipped from his lips, he could nigh feel Nova’s big hands gliding over…

“Then I am not too late.” Nova grinned wide seeing Thrace in the tub. He closed the door behind him and strode over to the tub, pulling off his coat as he went.

“Fuck!” He glared.

“Do ye wish it then?” He tossed his coat aside and started pulling at his jerkin, uncaring if he lost a button. “A hot tumble?”

“Nae. I seek not a tumble, but was swearing that I took too long.” Thrace gripped the cloth tight, ready to fight for its keep. “How is this a seduction when constantly are you badgering me? ’Twas only three days previous that we met, two of which I saw hardly a moment of you for the storm, and suddenly I am supposed to fall into bed with you?”

Nova stopped undressing, realizing what Thrace said was true. He was moving quick, quicker than he usually would. “My apologies. I…” Shit. “Admit I must to being anxious.”

“Anxious to gain your vengeance against Xaev? That makes me want to fall into bed,” his voice dripped with sarcasm.

Nova opened his mouth and then closed it. Again he opened his mouth, certain he knew what to say, but closed it once more knowing that whatever words he thought to say, they were wrong. Finally he decided the truth needed telling. “Nae. Were it just that, I would be moving slow and proper, gain yer trust, yer affection. I… Anxious I am because…because the thought of marrying Yoona fills me with dread. You and Feather spoke of such things so ye know that I am to marry this autumn and unless…unless something catastrophic were to occur, there is naught that can stop it.”

Thrace lessened his hold on the cloth and knew in that moment that something was changing betwixt them. Whether or not ’twas a good thing would be decided later. “I… I felt the same regarding mine. Handsome is Xaev, but when he kissed me, I felt naught for him. I felt much unease with the embrace. Truth be told, never was I able to imagine accepting him into my bed. No desire did I feel to undress him, to touch him, to have him do the same with me.”

Nova grabbed a chair and sat by the tub. He stretched his legs out and crossed his arms over his chest and concentrated his line of vision upon Thrace’s face or he might continue undressing and join him in the tub. “I know not why he would want to marry ye, for never had I known him to be interested in men. Many times when one protests an interest, ’tis oft proven that they do indeed hold interest, but never did he even make face or comment when he would see me seek out a man for the evening. He held nae care, nae thought; ’twas a non-event. Truth is…I never knew what interested him for never had I seen him go off with a woman either. Only do I have his insistence that he would marry naught but a maiden. For all I know that was a joke upon his part.”

“He kissed me not as a man would kiss another man.”

“Then ye have been kissed by other men?”

“Aye, aye. A certain way there is when men kiss, a strength to the kiss that is missing when a man kisses a woman. Though since we are being truthful, I wondered about his own experience for there seemed little in his kiss.”

“And methinks that ye cannot be maiden to know such a thing.”

Thrace laughed and began rubbing the washing cloth over his arms. “Never did I say I was. If Xaev thought it of me, I know not where he gained the notion. Also have I kissed a woman, which I found interesting, but not interesting enough to attempt more than once.”

Nova’s eyes suddenly took notice of the cloth’s movement over Thrace’s finely muscled right arm and found himself staring at an ornate set of markings covering from shoulder to hand. “Tattooed ye are.”

Thrace stopped washing and looked at his arm. “Aye, tattooed I am; tattooed are you.”

“Aye, but I knew not that those of the Northern Seas held such decoration.” He motioned to the tattoo. “What is it?”

“The Asqa Spear.” He held up his hand to show the tip of the spear. “Every Grand Dusal or Dusalla has held it. Received it I did the day I commanded my first splitfan migration—I was sixteen. There was quite the celebration that evening.”

“Most surprising I must say.”

His brow furrowed. “I understand not your surprise when you have tattoos covering nigh the whole of your left side.”

“’Tis…a cultural thing.”

With a nod of understanding, he returned to washing. “’Tis quite extensive the work done. Beautiful as well.”

“A prince I am and first born, and…” He pushed that away. “Do ye have other tattoos or is the spear the extent of yer decoration?” Nova grinned when Thrace glowered at him, again his hand pausing. “’Tis a simple question and one asked in sincerity.” He motioned to a spot on Thrace’s chest, just under the wet mat of hair. “It looks like ye have one over yer heart.”

“Two ravens to represent my father and grandfather’s journey to The Everafter.”

“Ravens? Why ravens?”

“’Tis cultural, dating back to the time of the very first Everdaimon, long before Yeryl and Zasara, when the Northern Continent was filled with unending war over territory. Ravens aided in escorting the spirits of the dead to The Everafter.”

“Surprised I am such things still remain.”

“Those of the Northern Seas hold long memories.”

“I suppose much can be answered with cultural. Any other tattoos?”

“Three…” Thrace paused trying to decide if he mentioned… He tried not to think of that one, but not wishing to lie… He sighed. “Four others do I have. One on my back, two upon my right leg and,” he turned his right arm over to display a bow nocked with three crossing arrows on the inside of the forearm, “this one. ’Twas done after a successful hunting competition. Won it I have thrice.”

“And why there are three arrows?”

“Nae, ’tis three because when I received it, I could hold three, now am I able to hold five. I need prove it at The Hunt so it may be added to.” He pointed to the filigree lines behind it. “These indicate the three wins. ’Tis much the deal, The Hunt; all of the Northern Countries compete.”

“Like yer hoquet?”

Thrace thought about that for a moment. “Mayhap, or very close to it. Hoquet, at least at this time, ’tis just Nortand and her provinces that compete, though the other countries do play. Plans I had to enter The Hunt once more—’tis being held in Sandyl this time—but it looks as if ’twill not bear fruit.” He brushed his hand over the tattoo and then once again returned to bathing, running the cloth under his arms, washing the pits.

“What is hunted?” Nova shifted his position slightly, crossing and uncrossing his ankles as he watched Thrace lift his arm up, exposing the side of his chest, admiring the way the muscles and skin stretched along the ribs. “Is there a quantity hunted, a specific size of the quarry needed?”

“Nae, nae. ’Tis… We do hunt various quarry, but ’tis only a small part, and what is hunted is used to feed those present for the competition. The Hunt, ’tis mostly a competition of skill. Inanimate targets are set up at various heights amongst the trees—small ones, large ones, those that move, those that are still—and each competitor hunts them, strikes as many as possible in the allotted amount of time. No set course is there, so each hunt is different for each participant. The targets are set by magik and counted by magik.”

“Are there those that cheat?”

“There have been such individuals, but always are they outed. The magik used is strict and unforgiving. Does one cheat, one is turned bright red and their scent turned most foul for a year.”

Nova laughed. “Aye, sounds indeed strict. And would make life most unpleasant. So, you have won thrice?”

“Aye. ’Tis quite the endurance challenge as ’tis held within one of the various mountain ranges across the Northern Continent—every two years a different country hosts which keeps the areas fresh, the game plentiful, the competition fierce. Some of the targets, the ones worth the most points, are at the higher elevations. Mayhap next time. ’Twill be in Koniaq then. Never have I been, so should prove exciting.”

“Would ye be my lover?” Nova blurted. He went still, unable to believe that he had actually asked it. He had never asked before, there had never been need to ask. But the words were out and all he could do was wait and try not to call them back.

Thrace went still, even his lungs, but then his prick dared twitch at the offer and his breath continued in and out, but perhaps a little quicker than before. “Captain, whether or not you seek vengeance, ’tis a temporary acquaintance ours. You are to marry and I am to return to Asqala.”

“Is it something ye would regret, being with me?”

“Most likely not, but… Allow me to think upon the matter, at least for a few days.”

“If lovers ye have had previous…”

“I have cared for each of my lovers, some more deeply than others, but I have cared for them. Sex is naught I play with, ’tis a most serious endeavor. I need decide if the ache I will feel at the end of our time is something I could deal with.” He looked at Nova. “And I think I would ache greatly when ’tis over betwixt us.”

Nova dropped to his knees beside the tub and slipped his hand behind Thrace’s neck. He leaned in to kiss the object of his desire, needing to kiss him, but a sopping wet washing cloth was shoved against his mouth.

“I said, I need think upon this, you rotten pirate.”

Nova started laughing. He had never known an individual such as Thrace. He shoved the cloth away and spit out the water that spilt into his mouth. “I just wished a kiss.”

“’Tis never just a kiss with you.”

He bobbed his head from side to side. “When ’tis ye I hope to kiss, I must agree.”

Book Love: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

#© A. Jane #A. Jane #Book Love #Nova Blast #book promotion #my writing #pirates #magic #fantasy romance #story snippet #Nova and Thrace

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starswornoaths · 5 years ago

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📔

I wrote these a bit lengthy, so I’m sticking a cut here bc spoilers for 4.5 but I was an indecisive bean and there’s an entry for Serella, Uthengentle, and just because I write him enough that I might as well, one for Aymeric as well! Thank you for the ask! \o/

(edit: OR IT JUST WON’T LET ME ADD A CUT WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT TUMBLR I’M ON THE DESKTOP SITE SO FAIR WARNING SPOILERS FOR 4.5 AFTER THIS EDIT OKAY THANK YOU I’M SO SORRY WTFFFFFF)

Serella:

My name is Serella Arcbane. (her name is underlined)

Not so long ago I would have found it ridiculous that I needed to remind myself what my name is. Given that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been referred to by my name instead of a title, however, I think I’m allowed. Now that I have another one, however temporary...it seemed a good time to remind myself.

Antecedent...the title carries with it too much pain. Too much loss. The remaining Scions approved of my accepting the title for lack of anyone else with any seniority willing or able to take it. I remind myself that it’s temporary, that the second even one of my companions wakes up, I get to just be the Warrior of Light again.

Just, I say. As if it were an inconsequential thing in itself.

At least then, when I was naught more than the Warrior of Light, I was able to still be Serella. I wasn’t made to isolate myself from everyone I know and love. It hurts, knowing that I had finally found family amongst so many people, so many I hold dear, who now can’t see me, either because they are unable to make the journey or because it would be improper of them to do so.

Ma came to visit me today. Her visit...I don’t know. When she called me by my name...I didn’t even respond to it at first. It was as if I had just...forgotten it. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I will again. She suggested I write it down. Said it’s how she remembers the little things about Da. I don’t know if it’ll help. I wish he was here, too. Of all the things I’ve forgotten, that I can’t remember what he looked like hurts me the most.

I’ve forgotten so many things I took for granted. So many little things about those I love. In writing, I hope I can remember at least a few- or at least, be reminded of them.

Raubahn has this deep belly laugh when I crack jokes with him- and really, he is the one constant patron of my puns, readily exchanging more with me for as long as we both have jokes to spare. Says it’s from years of being a father. I can’t remember how his laugh sounds.

Merlwyb would refuse to admit it- and if she ever catches wind of documentation of it, she’ll throw me to the Sahagin, of that I have no doubt- but I miss her singing. Low and rumbling as thunder, textured like velvet but fills the room like smoke. I’ve forgotten how the tune goes, which is ridiculous. I’ve heard her hum it a thousand times.

Aymeric...gods, for how he haunts my dreams you would think I would remember his smile. I should. I remember the things that made him smile. When I would bring sweets from that one chocolatier in town, or sweets from somewhere I had recently traveled. When I would move his bangs to kiss his forehead. Or sometimes...just when he looked at me.

What shade of blue were his eyes? Were they a deeper shade like the night sky over the Steppe? Or was that the blue of his coat that I’m remembering?

Why am I forgetting everything so quickly?! I have object permanence! It’s only been some moon and a sennight since I last saw everyone! I’m not some geriatric invalid rapidly losing who I am! I’m not some tempered thrall of a primal, adrift in want to serve my master and bereft of all concept of self! I am not-

(The following lines are writ with words made illegible with scribblings of ink and lines frustratedly crossed through them with enough force to nearly tear a hole in the paper. At the bottom, as if in triumph, there are only two more legible sentence:)

I am Serella Arcbane, and no one can take that from me. Not even a god.

Uthengentle:

Visited Ma over coffee this morning. I went fully intending to just say goodbye then and there. Made sense, I figured. We were leaving tomorrow.

I couldn’t say goodbye. I tried, Rhalgr knows I did.

Had written a letter ahead of everything just in case. Only makes sense, given our line of work. Left that instead. Didn’t even have the stomach to say goodbye at the door. I left while she went to make another cup for me. I’ll have to apologize to her later. If we make it back.

...When. When we make it back. No sense in the doom and gloom; we’ve been through such shite before. Doubt this would be the end of it, either, but I can hope.

Ellie’s been having worse episodes with that voice, nearly passing out a time or two from what F’lhaminne told me. I hate I can’t be more help. I wish I could at least understand what she’s going through. All I get is headaches, sometimes a flash of an image, but it never bothers me. Krile suspects that has to do with Serella being more sensitive to aether and the Echo than I am.

I just hope they stop once we leave. They should, right? If we’re going where we’re being called, they have no reason to keep callin’, I’d assume. Or their arseholes, and will do it anyway. Won’t matter. Let ‘em. We’ve got our family to save.

...Well. Some of ‘em. Still feels wrong to abandon everyone on the front lines. We should be there. The closer we get to leaving, the more ill I feel about it. From what Ellie said, she’s not faring much better in that regard. Said Aymeric told her to let them handle this fight, but he’s gotta know without us it could go either way. The man’s not stupid- none of ‘em are. Raubahn promised he’d defend the camp with his last breath...but I don’t want it to come to that.

Riol’s been scouting in Thancred’s place- from what he’s been able to gather, the Garleans are holding their cards to their chest. They have something big planned, and they’re just waiting for the right time to use it. Is that time when we’re out of the picture?

I hate that I don’t know, and I can’t find out before we leave.

I hate even more that we have to leave at all, but it’s clearly not something we have a choice in. Either we go to them, or we’re pulled to them. Better we still have our bodies and our senses and just bite the bullet.

Warned Hilda to up the Watch with the Templars out of Ishgard. Not that she needs that warning; woman’s an unstoppable force already. It could be her and her alone standing at the gate if the Imperials march on Ishgard, and the safe money would still be on Hilda, far as I’m concerned.

I know my friends are capable without me around. I know they don’t need the Warriors of Light to keep them going. Doesn’t mean I don’t just want to be there to protect them- or failing that, die with them- and just fuck off to some far flung wherever.

We’ll be back before we know it. I’ll see to it myself if I have to.

Aymeric:

The battle continues into its fifth week, now. Though we have not lost an ilm to the Imperials, nor have they lost ground to us. Losses on both sides are mounting. We are hitting a breaking point, everyone can sense it. That there is a turning point fast approaching is not in question, but to which side the tide shall turn.

O Halone shield your children from the encroaching dark, I beseech thee.

The Warriors of Light make to leave in search of the Scions. The Alliance had to all but force them into leaving this battle to us, a turning point that came with the fear that (there is a name crossed out) the acting Antecedent had fallen to the same affliction that had claimed the rest. With her restored, however, they yet have hope to find those whose souls have been set adrift from this star. I only hope their path leads to victory, and then to home.

(the remainder of the entry is written in a different ink, presumably at a later point in time. The letters are splotched in places with drops of water.)

I nearly lost her. When Estinien laid her lifeless body in front of me, I feared the worst. We bore her to Ishgard with the full expectation that she would not wake. By the Fury, but when she did...

We are...no longer courting. I remind myself of this every time I am made to respond to one of her missives. That we are only separated by temporary obligation is beside the point: whatever relief I might have felt, whatever ache I carry in my chest will have to stay there, so long as she holds the title of Antecedent.

Only for now. Another reminder to myself.

She yet shields me, even now, so far from the battlefield as she is made to be. Her promise still sits upon my hand. It shall do so unto death, and longer yet. I have already requested she not be allowed to take the ring from my finger. I have no need to be freed from it in Halone’s halls; regardless of her own heart, if I am the first to fall, then I will wait. I had long since decided thus, even before we were betrothed.

I only wish I had not been so reserved with her for so long. I should have made more time for her. I swore to her I would never take her for granted and yet to dwell on our courtship, I always took her return as given. Now...now I only pray, and continue to fight that I might live to see her return.

(there are entire swaths of sentences scratched out, only some words such as, “promise,” “love,” and, “forgive,” are barely legible)

She must return. I know not what to do without her otherwise.

O Halone guide my beloved home in victory.

#chysgoda #thank you for the ask!#why yes I'm still on this feels train!#spoilers for 4.5 #ffxiv rp ask meme #Serella Arcbane #Uthengentle Arcbane #Aymeric de Borel

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