#Like One Sundered Star

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: Who are these shining like one sundered star? [Like kindled lights in untempestuous heaven, Fair flower-like stars on the iron foam of fight] --- Teenage superheroes deal with hormones, mental illness, and extremely secretive guardians in a world of Horrorterrors, giant mutant lusii, mob violence, nightmares of a past life, warring anti-heroes, and asshole carapacians. Sburb AU divergence from Real Men Wear Tights.

Author: @sunderedstar

[leori-the-unlearned]

YYYYEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH DAVE WITH BABY GAMZEE REAL!!!!!

a thing (fanart) for @sunderedstar! :D a looong time coming too dammit. Fireaplaca is boss but i wish it had a smoothing thing xD them face wiggles are creepy… anyways! Im gon do some other stuffs too (especially after the last update sweet jesus) buuut after i catch up with uni :3 oh! I have a bonus of the ‘little bouncing bundle of screams’ too under the cut heheheh

Keep reading

[beast-feast]

Hey...........bites lip....runs away ......

[omegasmileyface]

man. pride discourse in a (homestuck) troll-integrated human society would be NEXT-LEVEL

[lululeighsworld]

my brain's been in a frenzy ever since yesterday when i read "azem's power is the ability to summon heroes far and wide" (a là seat of sacrifice, which explains how others are called forth to a location only your character can supposedly be at that point in time) and ive been permanently going "oh that's cool. wAIT."

[leori-the-unlearned]

would it be too derivative to make an au of a fanfic of an au fanfic (inserting tangle and whisper into the background setting of homestuck fanfic ‘like one sundered star’, in turn derivative of fanfic ‘real men wear tights’, superhero au of homestuck itself)

[goblin-king-jay]

"My darling paramour, my infernal flame, my Figueroth. I sent these meteors to you from the dawn of time when a rogue asteroid almost hit my dad's jet ski. Sundering the space rock with but a gesture of my most potent art, the debris surrounded me and with it came the sorrow of your absence. I sent these rocky chunks across the galaxy, and they have traveled since the beginning of time to tell you that I love you. In each moment of our mutual ignorance, where we had yet to meet, this message was already spinning its way to you through time and space to illuminate the night sky and tell you that I love you.

Us -- our love, like time, has been inevitable and strange. I have walked in its shadow joyfully. It gives me peace to know that in my darkest moments, my love for you was already on its way, flying through the stars. We have been on our way to save us since before the lights of our world were first lit. Pretty cool, my darling paramour.

P.S. I know you have another year of school after this. But I hope one day soon, you and I might travel amongst these stars together.

XOXO Ayda Aguefort

P.S. You are not gonna believe how much my dad spent on this jet ski."

[readerforexiao]

𝐀 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 | 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ

⌗ Itoshi Sae x Reader | fluff, romance | word count: 1k

⌗ A/n: i love this man. I love having thoughts about him. Also is tumblr ruining the quality of my banner?? :(

⌗ "For a peck could leave you breathless and lightheaded, but a kiss— his kiss— could unravel you piece by piece, leaving you vulnerable to everything he promised."

Sae doesn’t kiss you often, but when he does, it is always special and deeply meaningful.

Slow. That is how it begins. Not necessarily in the sense that it drags on endlessly, but in the way he ensures every second counts.

Sae lingers still at first, unmoving, as if savoring the closeness. Then, with the softest, almost hesitant of motions, his lips brush against yours to test the waters, relearning and remembering their shape. His movements are deliberate, intentional, so much that he needs to feel the intimacy bursting between you both before he even dares to consider it a kiss.

He leaves gentle pecks, his tongue barely grazing your lower lip and it sends a shiver down your spine, sparking what you cherished most, his attentiveness.

His eyes remain open and gazing at you before they flutter shut and he indulges himself.

It all happens in mere seconds, yet it feels like time stretches on with every heartbeat sundering and unweaving the threads of your resolve.

His touch. Fingers that brush along the length of your forearms, tracing over soft, pampered skin— provokes a shiver to cascade down your spine. It elicits goosebumps, a subtle reaction but so dearly cherished by him. It ripples through your very being, how he can love you such that it gravitates towards your core and embraces it.

And your soul unfurls for him. Like two ends of a string destined to intertwine, they meet, his love anchoring itself in your heart and becoming home.

The world dissolves into a haze until all that remains is the weight of his forehead resting against yours and his hands steady but sure as they hold you close.

Sae knows that when you kiss, it is meant to be a moment where his guarded walls are lowered and you can feel the sincerity of his feelings.

It amazes you to no end how he, known to be cold and blunt in his ways and relentless in his drive, is able to pour all the words he cannot say, the emotions he struggles to express, and the love that seems to overwhelm him beyond his ability to comprehend— into a single, fleeting gesture and mean it so passionately, for there’s a strange comfort in how he can engulf the emptiness when you’re at your lowest.

There have been times before when others offered comfort, only to unintentionally leave you feeling even more depleted. Sae somehow replenishes you without taking a piece of your soul.

He fills that empty glass with delicacy that not a drop manages to spill through the cracks. His effort is there, albeit subtle. It is never overwhelming and restores what's been used without leaving you more exhausted.

So yes, Itoshi Sae may not be the most expressive or the most forthcoming with displays of affection, but he is far from unware of your feelings and your rights. In his own quiet way, he respects and understands you, always finding a compromise that neither discomforts him nor deprives you.

Like during mundane tasks, such as house shopping when he walks with his arms slack at his sides, the distance between you blurring as his pinky purposefully brushes against yours. Before you know it, he takes your hand loosely in his, not even realizing that simple act is calming the anxiety within you.

Whether it’s a grand event or something small, Sae remains the star of the show and the center of spotlight. Always. And though never one to entertain the crowds, his presence was strong, the protectiveness and loyalty toward you undeniable!

As you leave the venue spent and yearning for the plush of your mattress, under the night sky and stars glimmering the pathway of your leave, his hand settles on your arm, gently running up and down to warm you, because unfortunately he is not wearing a blazer he can offer.

Sae pulls you a little closer to his side, opens the car door for you, straps you in, and presses a passing kiss to your temple.

Or maybe it’s a random Saturday evening, and he has nothing on his agenda. He’s doing what he does during resting periods, not resting, when he hears you moving about in the kitchen.

For a while, he’s content with that— the simple sounds of you being near, a reminder that you’re there. Then, without a sound, he appears in the doorway as the TV hums in the background, a distant murmur. His laptop and work were forgotten.

You’re caught off guard when he peeks over your shoulder to see what’s cooking in the pan.

“Sae?”

He doesn’t respond and merely glances at you from the periphery of his vision, shrugging before he pulls out a barstool and grabs his phone. He settles into the kitchen, preferring to be closeby while you cook or bake.

On nights after long games and yet another win, the front door clicks open, soon followed by the shower spraying. When he finally settles into bed in nothing but boxers, a low hum draws out in relief as he feels your skin against his own, bare and warm. He lays there, watching you from his side of the bed, his hand reaching out to caress your cheek.

“Beautiful” he says softly but aloud, and you hear it. You always do, just before you drift off to sleep. You’re happy, knowing you’re loved by the man beside you.

Thus, the passion beneath his exterior easily seeps through if given time— and time, your relationship had been built upon.

Itoshi Sae, who doesn’t kiss you often, takes every time he does with utmost seriousness! There is nothing more important to him than proving to you that he wants you, he loves you, and he is yours. He will always be yours.

For a peck could leave you breathless and lightheaded, but a kiss— his kiss— could unravel you piece by piece, leaving you vulnerable to everything he promised.

You look forward to every meeting of your lips, and Sae, little by little grows obsessed. Fearing one day, he may not want to leave your lips alone, because already he finds himself losing to the pull of it.

But no matter how often or rarely it happens, whether a little or much more, each kiss is special— and so it shall remain.

All rights reserved | Copyright @readerforexiao 2024 | Do not copy, steal, or repost to any other platform 🧡

[supermarioterrarium]

I've got a pet theory for the ongoing story in FFXIV.

There are lots of little bits and pieces that alone might just be cute nods, but together make me think that FFXIV is and has been laying the groundwork for an eventual Chrono Trigger-inspired expansion or at least a more significant plot beat.

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR FFXIV THROUGH DAWNTRAIL

One of the key elements is the infamous "keening from the earth" mentioned in relation to the Final Days by one of Emet-Selch's Amaurotine simulacrum Ancients. I say "infamous" because come Endwalker, it felt like a dropped detail -- Meteion didn't really fit that description, and nothing we're told about how those Final Days played out really brings it up again.

But I think another plot element is being hinted at in other places that could very well provide us with the source of that "keening".

It's a little odd that we got another Ronka-esque dungeon at the end of Tender Valley this expac, complete with its own serpent! The Yok Huy simply.. finding the ruins suggests that this ruin and the Ronkan ruins on the first share a common origin -- meaning their inspiration probably comes from before the sundering -- perhaps even from before the Ancients themselves, considering its architecture doesn't really share any similarities with structures we know the Ancients built. That period is a blind spot for everyone.

We learned about something else that existed prior to the Ancients in Endwalker's patches -- The Heart of Sabik, AKA the Black Auracite. It came from somewhere not of Etheirys -- somewhere else in the Sea of Stars -- from, or at least from the same place as, the being known as Ultima.

It's interesting, then, that when Pallas Athena manifests, her arena / realm is not only wreathed with the eye motif from the previous fight with Athena, but also with.. what seems to be the body of an unimaginably large serpent.

To rephrase the idea here, through P12S, the concept of the Serpent is connected both to the Ancients -- beings who lived and worked in places like Elpis, which shares more than a few similarities with the Kingdom of Zeal -- and with a dread being that hails from outer space.

That's what I think is "keening". A great serpent that, long before the disaster of the sundering or even before the Ancients' civilization was the dominant one on the star, burrowed its way deep beneath the crust of the planet.

That's a thought, though: what about the sundering? If this serpent existed beforehand, it would be in a similar state to the one we ultimately find Zodiark in, right? Well, before Dawntrail, we know that the star's been rejoined to its reflections seven times, meaning it's 8/14ths of the way to being "whole" again. And now in Dawntrail, we have Heritage Found, a partial "dimensional fusion" between a shard and the Source.

If this counts as a rejoining without a corresponding calamity, then perhaps in the coming expansions, Preservation will use Dimensional Fusion in their conflict with the WoL and, inadvertently, rejoin the serpent as well. Zero and Golbez's efforts to rebuild the 13th, in combination with Dimensional Fusion, could mean that a total (partial) rejoining actually becomes possible!

So, if you've played Chrono Trigger and you're convinced by all of this, why don't I just come out and call the serpent Lavos?

Well, I'm not sure if SE's going to be quite that explicit.

After all, Krile's parents were named Alayla and Robor, not Ayla and Robo. They have the good sense to obfuscate it at least a little.

[suzannahnatters]

Let's talk about what IMO The Rings of Power gets RIGHT about Galadriel as an interpretation of Tolkien & a female character.

I think Galadriel is an inspired choice for a major protagonist of the series. Audiences already know her, yes. But she's also a perfect choice if you're wanting to make a Tolkien fantasy fanfic in the 21st century - which does expect prominent female characters (thank goodness).

This is because Tolkien's Galadriel contains multitudes. The important thing to know about Galadriel is that she was at different times in the legendarium's creation BOTH a rebellious mess AND a wise queen.

It was only towards the end of his life, when Tolkien began to see Galadriel as an analogous figure in his world to the Virgin Mary, that he began to remove the traces of rebelliousness from her backstory. But originally she was up to her neck in a little event called "the Kinslaying."

The version of Galadriel we see in THE LORD OF THE RINGS is one who has been specifically banished from Valinor for her part in rebelling against the Valar in order to go to Middle Earth. She sings a whole song about how sad she is she's never been allowed to go back:

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew: Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew. Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea, And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree. Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone, In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion. There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years, While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears. O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day; The leaves are falling in the stream, the river flows away. O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor. But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me, What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

By the end of LOTR, that exile sentence has been revoked, probably in part because she resisted the temptation of the Ring when Frodo offered it. What we're seeing through Frodo's uncomprehending eyes in THE MIRROR OF GALADRIEL is the end of a REALLY REALLY long character arc.

In Tolkien's published work, Galadriel the wise queen wasn't born, she was made over many centuries of rebellion, temptation, and struggle. She had to learn.

Until Tolkien changed her. A flat arc is also valid, of course. But, for this character, the change arc is equally valid.

In TROP, beginning with a younger, more rebellious Galadriel seems to be a clear artistic decision to follow a change arc. I LOVE, BTW, that in the first ep we see her both in armour AND in beautiful dresses. This character is not going to fit easily into boxes.

Just like she does in Tolkien, TROP Galadriel contains the potential both to be Nerwen, the "man-maiden" and Galadriel the wise queen. TROP Galadriel doesn't seem to be under a sentence of exile, but she DOES start the series with a stated inner struggle.

I'm not going to spoil it for you, but I'm so excited to see where this goes. This is a young, angry, sword wielding Galadriel who is clearly at the start of what could be an epic character arc that refuses to put its protagonist into a tidy little tradwife/rebel binary.

[revelboo]

Revel, this is very important (Atleast to us-). Me and my friend have both been reading Everything is Alright and we both agree on something, we were hoping that you could make Starscream a Girl dad, and make the first sparkling a girl. Only if you want to though and don't have any plans, we'd be alright if you don't do this too. We both really love and enjoy your writing, and check everyday for new updates from you. <3 Also, considering this is a request, If you don't mind and it isn't too pressuring, could we please have updates on the Brainstorm and Chromedome/Rewind fics?

Sure! I didn’t have a plan yet for Star’s kid so that works. I’ll try to update Chromedome/Rewind, Tailgate/Cyclonus, Sunder, Brainstorm, and Metroplex if I can today

Everything Is Alright Pt 123

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• “If I was in charge, we’d have conquered this miserable mudball already and crushed the Autobots,” Starscream says, lip curling and you freeze. “The Constructicons already have a refinery going, mining is in full swing. But we’d be much further ahead if you hadn’t let those disgusting Insecticons just scurry away. I’ve said that those little savages need to outfitted with mode locks and tracking implants they can’t just remove themselves.” You’ve heard Star’s side of the war. That they were fighting for freedom and to overthrow a corrupt senate, but this is the first time he’s mentioned conquering your world and it leaves you cold inside. Because was that his intention all along? Whispering to you at night whole knowing he was going to destroy everything and not even caring?

• “What do you mean about conquering Earth?” You ask and Soundwave tenses as your emotions begin to build. Glares at Starscream to stop, but the Seeker is on a roll, secure in the knowledge that Megatron can’t hurt him too badly now. Not looking at you to realize you’re upset. ‘The only value in this world is the energon Shockwave seeded millennia ago,’ Starscream says. “The only value? This is my world. My home.” And you’re shrugging off Soundwave’s hand to face the Seeker, little hands balled into fists. Furious and he’s never seen you angry like this before. “What do you to do to worlds you’ve conquered?”

• Rant faltering at the edge in your voice, Starscream sees Megatron smirk and realizes he’s just made a mistake. Wings dropping, he turns back to you and forces a smile. “Nothing to worry yourself over, little one. Our home is Cybertron. Yours now, too.” And your eyes narrow, looking from him to the other two and back as your face reddens and your chin lifts. Why are you so upset? You’ll love Cybertron. You’ll be with him and your sparkling.

• “I asked what you do to the worlds you conquer,” you repeat. “What’s left after you’re done? Is anything left?” Hates that the upset edge in your voice bothers him and knows it’s the bond pulling him to you, urging him to soothe you, but Megatron has no intention of interfering. Enjoying watching the SIC struggling for words, wings flicking as he finally catches on that he’s screwed up. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say, tossing your hands up and striding away, though there’s nowhere you can really go trapped on the berth. Watches Soundwave drift after you, touching your arm and getting his hand slapped. And Starscream is glaring at him like this is all his fault.

• “Typically,” Megatron growls and you turn to glare at him, unsettled by his lazy smile. “Worlds our war spills onto don’t survive.” Breath catching, you wish he was mass displaced so you could slap him. Actually right now, you want to slap all three of them. There has to be a way to keep your idiots from razing your home to ash with their stupid war. They’re bigger and stronger than you, but they need you don’t they? You’d gotten the impression from Star that fully bonding takes ‘til death do us part to the most literal extent. Which means you’ve got leverage to get your way, even if it’s absolutely awful to even consider holding your life over their heads by threatening yourself just to try and get them to behave.. “Though, I might be convinced to spare this world. With the proper motivation.”

• And he can feel the shift in your emotions, the cold calculation. Doesn’t like it one bit, either. Scheming and manipulation isn’t your strength. Curling his arms around you and tugging you back into him when you try to shrug him off, Soundwave tries to pin down exactly what you’re thinking, but as always your mind is too chaotic for him. But he can’t help but be worried. He’d played kingmaker for Megatron, started playing the same game for you, positioning you so you’re safest, but if you’re also playing? It complicates things. Needs to fully bond you as soon as possible so he can better protect you, be able to get a better grasp on your thoughts. Except. There’s the problem of your lifespan. If it was only his life, he’d take it, claim you, but his cassettes need him. Depend on him. And so do you. For the first time he can remember, his path forward isn’t clear to him. What he wants and needs at odds with reason.

Previous

[illegiblewords]

Zodiark's Tempering

A lot of people have been confused about whether the Unsundered were tempered (they were) and how tempering works.

Long post under the cut.

First, I'm going to point at the exact line from Emet-Selch in Shadowbringers: "He tempered us. It was only natural. There is no resisting such power."

I believe this was said in one of the ocular cutscenes, but explicitly in no uncertain terms--the Convocation was tempered. This includes the Unsundered. The tempering was, in fact, so powerful, that even after having their souls cleansed in the Lifestream Convocation members still make 'the best servants' according to Emet-Selch.

Zodiark was not only the first primal, but a primal on a scale beyond fathoming. This was half a star's worth of souls, billions of people. I'd argue that we also see what this tempering looks like in practice with Emet-Selch at The Ladder scene in Kholusia, where he is genuinely moved and expresses admiration of both the Warrior of Light and the people of Kholusia coming together only to be railroaded back to 'but the world as it was was better'.

That was not a natural thought pattern. That was tempering. We see further evidence in how Emet-Selch tried repeatedly to live alongside The Sundered and had only the most negative qualities amplified--preventing him from ever finding peace. Hell, it shows in his argument that the qualities of a soul diminish with sundering too. For one, the default quality in a person isn't positive. He frames things in terms of other shards becoming proportionally less intelligent for example, or less kind--but arguably cruelty should have been diminished as well. The civilizations and inhabitants of other shards are also, notably, not at a huge personally/intellectually different framework compared to The Source--where souls are more dense and would (by Hades' argument) have been more advanced and capable.

What we actually know of unsundered versus souls mechanically is that they are more aetherically dense. Being more aetherically dense, it takes more dynamis to influence them. The ancients still feel absolutely and are vulnerable to Meteion, but the sundered are probably a bit more reactive on the whole. It might also be like an inertia situation where once an unsundered starts to feel something it tends to continue and build. That's speculation though.

Zodiark's tempering appears to be closer to magically enforced mental illness in the sense that it warps thought patterns, elevates some tendencies and minimizes/negates others, prevents certain ideas, twists perception, keeps some memories or experiences at the forefront while diminishing or losing others, etc. Psychological wounds that are useful to the mission are kept open artificially well past the point someone would have naturally started to scar over. There is a reason I've been arguing that it's closer to coercion and insanity plea in terms of diminished responsibility. The tempered aren't even able to accurately understand the situations they are in due to thought warping, and claims that their position is reasonable amounts to a completely psychotic person claiming not to be crazy. It's not as simple as mind control from an external source. It's that the person's own thoughts and tendencies are manipulated in unnatural ways to form a cage forcing them into compliance with the primal's mission.

I'd argue it's also very suspect that Elidibus, the lunar shades, and (IIRC) the despairing post-Terminus ancients Venat encountered all separately repeat the exact phrase wishing for 'a world free from sorrow'. Lahabrea explicitly referring to Zodiark as 'the master' at Praetorium strongly indicates tempering too.

A major source of confusion stems from the following scene:

Creation magics are complex and highly sensitive, requiring a tremendous amount of focus. A single moment of distraction can change the outcome of creation. Hades creating his phantom Amaurot having an idle thought 'Hythlodaeus would know the truth' is enough to make the shade of Hythlodaeus aware, even if it wasn't on purpose. Even if it was a split second.

Zodiark was a creation that involved not only the sacrifice of half a star (so likely billions of people)--it also involved the active participation and focus of those people in the summoning process. We know from the environmental storytelling and evidence at Akademia Anyder that I cited in other analysis that Lahabrea was the mind behind the Zodiark concept. We know that the scale of the creation was enormous to the point that it would not function without elevating one individual to steer it--the Heart. This being Elidibus. But the actual summoning was still extremely complex and on a vast scale involving multitudes of people at different skill levels. Hythlodaeus, while experienced as Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, has very limited abilities in creation himself due to aether deficiency. He still sacrificed himself as one of the participants in Zodiark's summoning ritual.

Faith was necessary to simplify the process across that many people of varying life experiences and skill levels. The Convocation would have been handling the more technical elements and forms the concept would take, and guess who was at the head of the Convocation's efforts?

Lahabrea. Who has recently failed to contain Archaeotania despite his people's every faith in him, who we know to be extremely traumatized and has every reason to be terrified not only of the situation but of not performing up to the expectations placed on him. For god's sake, one of the last things Athena said to him involved calling him disappointing after getting full access to his soul.

A single moment of Lahabrea being afraid and hoping everyone would be able to join together to save the star, to be on the same page, would be enough to cause tempering. He's not perfect, but he's been expected to be. He's expected to have perfect composure, impervious to normal human emotions. And of course emotions bled through at a time like that.

The same hope that others would join in to support the mission has bled into every subsequent primal summoning where tempering became a problem.

Venat's summoning technique is different from the summoning technique used by the Ascians. It's also different from the technique used by the Loporrits. Venat used standard creation magic without elevating faith as a tool. She had less people to worry about. The loporrits decided faith would be a useful tool for The Ragnarok insofar as the primals could help fuel its journey, but going off of pure faith rather than the hybrid of faith and strict procedure is dangerous. So they combined the two in a controlled environment knowing the risks.

What Livingway is saying is that using the hybrid technique that is being employed for the first time in that scene, a primal as powerful as Zodiark would cause a slight tug instead of the full force of tempering. Normally there isn't any sense of influence at all with that technique. Zodiark is on a scale and at such a monumental power level that even the safe method would try to influence its summoners along with any bystanders. Zodiark has the most powerful tempering of any primal that has ever existed.

I also want to take a moment to point at what primals are and how they work as distinct from standard creations.

When discussing creations, the shades at Hades' phantom Amaurot mention that souls are gifts from the star and cannot be artificially created. This is part of why Hermes claimed to be so distraught about the way concepts were being handled--there wasn't any accounting for dynamis as a factor.

Livingway mentions that Venat forbade loporrits from making anything possessed of a soul (impossible) or similar.

Here I'm going to point you back to the lecture from the ARR quest What Little Gods Are Made Of:

Primals, brought into being with faith rather than as pure technical concepts, have something like a soul. They are archetypes shared by the living and when they are slain, they aren't destroyed because archetypes can't be destroyed. They return to the aetherial sea, like souls, until they are called forth again. These archetypes reflect common human experiences and desires shared across many, many people. It makes sense that Zodiark would be built off of this premise in the first place as a way of creating common ground with that many participants.

It also makes some sense that something resembling a soul is advantageous, since logistically in FFXIV souls are sources of power in their own right. Thordan, Nidhogg, Shinryu, and The Alexandrians can attest to that.

I understand that there are people who prefer not to use tempering as a key factor in characterization of The Unsundered, and disregard tempering from their headcanons. Obviously this is allowed, but it's not canon. The game is explicit on this point and underlines it multiple times in multiple ways. Hades when told about what lies ahead is completely horrified and does not want to go down the path the Warrior describes--not just for his own sake but because he morally disagrees with it. His line about staying true to his principles at Ultima Thule is deliberately ambiguous--is he referring to pursuit of the Ardor? Trying to save his people? Trying to resist tempering as best he could despite being helpless against it? Giving the Warrior of Light an opportunity to mercy kill him? We don't know.

And regarding the memory of Lahabrea saying he can believe he would get lost trying to save his people to the point of becoming something horrific during Anabaseios... it's very, very important to remember that Lahabrea hates himself. Lahabrea just accepted for years that Erichthonios is better off with the idealized memory of his dead, abusive mother rather than the living father who rescued him. Lahabrea has been ready to commit pseudo-suicide throughout Pandaemonium. His entire Savage transformation design reflects that he thinks the only thing he's good for is being used for his DNA and serving to protect people as Lahabrea. He tries to shield his heart with his wings and the left arm representative of his personal self is long/at a distance, anemic, and basically non-functional due to too many joints. He doesn't want to exist as a person because he hates himself and he expects to be hurt.

And that's before everything to do with The Final Days.

Lahabrea is not a reliable narrator when it comes to questions about whether Lahabrea is a good person. He might be the least reliable source you could find. He is a guilt katamari who is ready to think the worst of himself given the slightest opportunity.

A huge part of what makes Zodiark's tempering interesting is that even if any of the Unsundered are freed, it's difficult to definitively answer the question of whether they might have made the same choices organically. Anything in their heads that might have given them tools to make another choice was taken away. And we know the sundered Convocation members were not tempered when they decided to join The Ardor as Ascians. Fandaniel was able to kill Zodiark because of this.

As it stands though, none of the Unsundered were free. They cannot be judged by the standards of people who are.

I hope this helps clear things up!

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to @winterswake for this phenomenal gifset ! )

3/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ.  A continuation. Sauron learns what it means to be human— and what it takes to be one. or: Sauron experiences the best & worst of mortality. pairing.  (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader , ( established in #SEAWARDSTOYOU ) w.count.  4k a/n.  Important tags in first chapter ! Warnings for implications to PTSD & slight horror , including Non-graphically implied Animal Death.

THE BARNACLES STARE.

They’re overgrown; marrow-white and clinging onto the cracks of the salt-licked rockface, breathing and blinking at him like the thousand, ever-watchful eyes of the Ainur. 

In his dreams, every single one turns to blazing stars that wink out in an instant as he passes them. The shadow of Morgoth is a powerful darkness: it can dim them into lightlessness and nothingness. He tells them he is neither Morgoth nor Melkor nor Sauron nor Mairon, that he is something new; something different— but they can’t hear him under the sheet of waves crashing like a tempest on the shores, pulling him down, down, down, and under.

(He drowns. Rarely does he choose to fight the currents.)

In other vivid dreams, the barnacles don’t listen. They don’t because they can’t listen; because they’re dead and lifeless and the colour of their shells look eerily vertebral and bone-faced. They’re skulls, he later realises. A thousand of them. Endless. Both young and old. Their missing teeth and gaping maws, frozen in terror, roll in masses that wash in from the bloody tides and take up the shore beneath his feet. They fracture and splinter and cry out in pain when he walks on where soft sands ought to be, begging for mercy with every black step he takes.

He wakes up restless. He wakes up mortified. 

A forest fire rips through Eldalondë.

It dies out as quick as it had come, however; by the grace of the Valar and their blessed storms! The Faithful cry.

“Blessed,” Galadriel hears Halbrand scoff underneath his breath. They’d both sailed down the river Nunduinë with the other locals to help with clearing out whatever the blaze had left in its wake, and the very air now is clogged with residual smoke and the stench of death. She doesn’t comment on his muttering. (He had yet to heal completely from the rope burns in his palms from when they’d been stranded at sea, after all.) 

“You think it’s a sign?” asks one of the arborists. 

A grave weight seemed to have sunken into Galadriel when the scent of the Mellyrn had greeted her, and she’d been brought to the heart of the massive grove, where she lay a hand on the now-sundered tree.

“These very trees were brought as seeds from Aman by the Eldar of Tol Erresëa. Elros Tar-Minyatur himself had hand in planting these.” She remembers Elrond, too, had come to sail and plant a tree of his own here. The forest had been so young then, in the early years of the Second Age. Now the woods seem unsettled— even the very winds that blow between its spaces.

“Not idly do the trees of Valinor burn,” she finally warns. “Even when ensnared by lightning.”

Halbrand had seen it from afar, coming downwind from the riverbank: the tree’s colossal trunk— thick as a Dwarven-hewn mountain pillar— torn in its center from the high canopies of branches, snaking all the way down to the spindly stretch of roots. The bolt of light had rent an ugly, gaping wound into its silver bole, hollowing out the wood and carving it out to look like a glaring crack into the Unseen World.

He can still see the gleam of red embers between the bark of the tunnelled tree.

He can still hear it crackling in its seams, even.

Or… no. That isn’t the fire— 

“Galadriel!”

Mallorn branches grow great and wide, so it takes out an entire stable when it crashes down. 

One of the horses get caught underneath. 

They cannot move the branch. (It wouldn’t do any good, even if they did.)

Abârzî, the sea-cadet weeps, stroking the mare before he went to braid the hairs of her tail and cut it off. He chants it like a prayer.

Abârzî. Abârzî. Abârzî.

(No one has the heart to finish the job.

Halbrand does not exactly offer— but they don’t stop him either when he begrudgingly enters the stables for them.)

“What was he saying?” Sauron asks, after, in some poorly attempt to clear his mind.

“Her name,” Galadriel translates, solemn. “Abâr holds several meanings. It stands for strength, might, endurance. ‘One of Valiance’, even. Perhaps: ‘Admirable one’—”

It’s the first time Mairon ever experiences throwing up.

Galadriel sits beside him, and doesn’t say a word more.

He’s glad. 

Or, maybe he isn’t.

He doesn’t understand what he feels these days.

The wine Sauron pours to the raven-haired elf in his dreams is thick.

Too thick to be wine— but just as deceptively sweet.

On other nights, he pours and it keeps going, and going, and going. It gushes down his palms and down the nameless peak he’s standing in, and cascades down the cliff- like a thundering waterfall— no, an open wound. Sometimes the elf pushes him forward from the back, and it stings like a stabbing betrayal. (Other times, Mairon simply chooses to fall.)

When he plummets, it’s into red seas. It feels like wading through molasses; exhausting a pain into his limbs more than the dull ache at his nape and the throb of his suffocating lungs. Then there’s the twinkle of starlight throwing him off every time he swims. He always mistakes them for the night sky, and he blindly reaches towards the surface— until they turn out to be the white-faces of barnacles instead, attached to the maws of a sea-wyrm deep in the ocean.

Tonight, however, he swims in the right direction. 

The raven-haired elf pulls him out with a trusting, helping hand wrapped in a gauntlet; and when Sauron breaches ashore, he’s not kneeling at his feet on sands or bones, but instead on the all-too familiar cracked, black stones of his old fortress up in the bleak frigidness of Forodwaith.

Mairon is garbed in soaking red robes.

This time, Adar coronates Sauron not with Morgoth’s crown, but with a rotting horse skull named Abârz—

“You have a strange shadow, ‘Maril,” Eärien tells you, not long after you’d come down to Nísimaldar to assist in the clean-up effort. “It’s shaped like… a funny-looking man who always seems to look as if he’s rolled around in the dirt for ten hours.”

You blink, puzzled, then turn to where she’s peering over your shoulder.

Halbrand’s eyes dart away just as you meet his gaze. 

“Friend,” you correct, levelling an unimpressed glare back at your table of teasing looks. “Halbrand is a friend.”

Isildur raises his brows once you begin gathering another fresh bowl of seafood. “Don’t forget the oysters. I hear they’re great for men’s libid—”

“Shut your mouth when you eat,” comes your sharp flick at his ear, going to leave as the rest of the cadets break into laughter. “Even Berek has better manners than you, airhead.”

Halbrand, shaded under a temporary forge set up by the treeline near the half-constructed stables, senses you long before he hears your voice. You’re appraising him again. He can feel it. It reminds him of the barnacles staring, and he has to actively remember not to be instinctively beset.

You’ve been kind, after all.

Frustratingly so. 

And Sauron, as uncertain as he has been of everything (and by everything, he means his entire simulacrum of an existence— or, reincarnation? Re-embodiment?) of late, is smart enough to know not to bite the hand that feeds him. You’d made it clear that night in the forge, after all, that you’re a friend. And if not that, then at the very least— an ally.

So it’s no surprise he sets the horseshoes he’s working on aside, and relents to your plate of food. It is a surprise, however, when a few minutes later you go:

“Thank you, by the way.”

He shuts your train of thought down before it can take off.

“Don’t start,” Sauron says, voice a low rasp. He knows where you’re going with this: You’ll thank Halbrand for going out of his way to help, for lending a hand with the rebuilding, for putting down a boy’s dying horse. He wants nothing to do with it. 

“Then I want to—”

“Don’t apologise either,” he interjects, failing to hold back the mild bite. (So much for biting the hand, huh?) 

Sauron had chosen, anyway, to take it upon himself to toil away in the forge, from sunrise to sundown; Dedicating himself to aiding the reconstruction by crafting everything from bridles, stirrups and bits, to metal brackets, hinges, and nails. He’d toiled because it focused him; because he’s utilitarian at heart and so despises uselessness; because it helps blur the waking haunts of horses and the seas under the hissing and clanging of working metal. 

(Besides, there’s plenty to improve in this part of the island, and Sauron is the type to not count flaws and cracks but to instead step up and fix them.)

So there’s no place for you to apologise. 

“You work quickly,” you redirect instead, avoiding the urge to bicker with him. “Some might say almost tirelessly. Seems you’re getting into our good graces, from what I hear.”

“Well, you ought to listen closer.” Local gossip is difficult to not earwig, especially if the topic is about a low-man from the South; even more so that they don’t expect said low-man to have a passable fluency in Adûnaic. 

You don’t bother to hide the amused look on your face. “Right. Well. They do say eavesdroppers never hear but ill of themselves. What have you gathered, jailbird?”

“That I would be their downfall,” he says, then after a mouthful, goes: “That I would squander their resources and drain their waters and steal their women,” which makes you laugh.

“Númenórean women are not so easily taken.”

He hums at that. “And are you?” 

“…Am I what?”

“Númenorean.”

You blink. Halbrand levels a gaze you suddenly can’t meet. It’s a game he plays, you guess right then, between the crawl of heat up your cheeks. Of sharpening ulterior meanings into both sides of his words like one would a sword’s edge. 

(“The low-man said that?” Isildur titters, much later. “What a smooth advance! I ought to give him a—”

“Beheading,” Eärien overrides, “You do know he also effectively implied your sister may be easy?”

Isildur cheers. “And he’s honest? Outstanding!”)

“I believe I am one, and that’s enough for me,” you lie. The thought has crossed your mind before— that you may very well be an orphan descendant of those who had sided with the Enemy, once upon a time. That it’s likely you’ll die long before your own foster family does. 

“And if you’re wrong?” asks Halbrand. He enjoys making you squirm. “Shall that be enough?”

“Then so be it,” you wrinkle your nose, displeased yet matter-of-fact. “It doesn’t matter what type of life we’ve been chanced to be given, jailbird, so long as we live it doing the right thing.”

Until it becomes part of your nature, Sauron abruptly remembers Diarmid; of his words; the necklace he’d cruelly taken from the old man that stormy night. The advice had been unwelcome then, and now it seems to haunt him still.

“Is that your heraldry?”

Halbrand loosens his grip. His hand has been flying to the pouch out of habit, lately. “No.” Then, after you scrutinise him, cocks his head and says, “Is it so hard to believe we might quite be the same— Lost and found at sea?”

“You have a past,” you point out, the same way Elendil had chivvied you then. (If you had noticed him blink away in a flinch, he’s grateful you don’t mention it.) “But no, not so hard to believe, considering that’s precisely how my father found you too. It’s just hard for me to believe someone would be so willing to sever ties with their history.”

“I found this on a dead man.”

“Then why keep it?”

“Thought it looked fancy,” he dodges.

“A pearl is fancy,” you reflect, unconsciously flexing your fingers. The ring he’d caught the first day you two met lustres now at certain angles of the setting sun, beyond the horses grazing lazily in half-barren pastures.

Your answer is hardly a surprise to him. A bereft orphan would likely covet something as insignificant as a worn-out emblem if it meant a potential link to their true heritage, no matter how thin or nonsensical. Yours just happens to be a pearl.

“Beauty is subjective, seabird,” he comments sagely, before letting curiosity get the better of him to ask, “Is that from the tidepool, too?”

No, you want to say. I like to think my mother gave it to me. “Yes. It was in my grasp when my father found me; so came my name.”

Halbrand finishes his bowl, and doesn’t say a word more.

You’re glad.

“You know, I meant to say earlier, before you interrupted me,” you begin out of the blue, voice possessing that Nienna-esque lilt that makes him unconsciously want to shrink into himself. “…You shouldn’t have had to be the one.” 

He follows your gaze to one of the Bay horses being herded away. Its body gleams; a vibrant, rich red-brown in the dusk that needles a strange grief into him. The colour reminds Mairon of his old form. 

“You’re right, I didn’t,” he agrees distastefully. Needless suffering also falls under the realm of uselessness, however. Perhaps, in a twisted, roundabout way, Sauron had chosen to put down Abârzî. “…But I’ve done far worse things.” 

You watch him tuck the necklace away beneath his collar, and he wonders, briefly, if you’d caught his shudder; his waver. 

“To survive,” you emphasise. Surely.

He laughs under his breath. It’s neither sad nor sordid, just empty. 

“Not all of it.”

Sauron opens his eyes to a crowned shadow and a blade.

Do not fear, it says. And when its hand had come away with a fistful of his long, braided hair, cut from his blazing red head— it repeats itself to him again, though this time in the commanding tongue of Black Speech.

Do not fret.

(He frets, and begs. He disobeys because he’s terrified— but it’s all happening under his skin. Black Speech cannot completely overpower the mind, you see, but it can command and seed an intent in it; a sliver of power over the flesh, if willed so. He can fret and beg all he likes; it will never translate to his body. 

Now he’s just a vessel, still as a Bay horse caught neath a great tree, watching and waiting; helpless and paralysed.)

He catches the glint of the dagger but he cannot scream.

Do not fret, Morgoth commands, in that divinely, beautiful way only a Valar can make all guttural words sound. Do not fret, Abârzî.

Mairon startles awake.

When the candlelight flickers with the moon, he mistakes them for blood on his hands and a stable floo—

“Y’alright, brother?” Someone claps him on the back.

It’s noon, now. It feels like he’s woken up for the third time today. 

The stables are coming up nicely (Quickly, because Halbrand works when everyone else is asleep). The clouds are thick, so the day isn’t beating down on the horses as they feed on bran and alfalfa, and there aren’t any damning signs of coming rain to hinder what little is left of the reconstruction today.

“Never better,” Halbrand says, after steadying his heavy breathing. The perfectly delivered lie is somehow miraculously seen through, however, and promptly called out, via: an insistent pint of ale into his calloused hands that’s supposedly the ‘cure to all ailments’. 

He learns the old drunkard’s name is Seamus.

He learns a bit of everything to nothing, really; until the sun had sunken too far beneath the canopies of the Mellyrn, and the dappled light faded into drifting spots, and all that was left of their drinks was a final sip. Sauron had found himself both inexplicably refreshed and exhausted between the overload that managed to distract him from the cavernous feeling in his chest.

“It’s a swallow bird. We sailors tattoo it as belief it’ll lead us back home when we get out at sea,” says the old man, between a tangent on island customs and traditions beyond the primly ‘Nobody kneels in Númenor’ ones. “Why? Lookin’ to get inked yourself?”

Halbrand blinks.

He had composed as Mairon among the other Ainur in the Timeless Halls for the Ainulindalë, once upon a time; and then served, much, much later, as Sauron alongside Morgoth in the Iron mountains of Thangorodrim. Neither exactly had been something anybody would call a home— One was simply a state of Being far beyond Eä, and the other had been both a fortress and a prison. 

“Don’t have a home to return to,” is all he decides.

It sounds a lot like a realisation.

“Aye, well…” The drunkard flails his hand to the chilly winds. “Swallows mate for life.”

Halbrand frowns in confusion. Seamus just laughs, mad.

He doesn’t understand what the crazy old shrimp had meant, until two days later (of which Sauron still had only understood half of what was told to him, if he’s being honest) when the stables had at last been completed and the locals put together a small feast for everyone who had come together to help.

Crab legs had been the catalyst, oddly enough. 

Or, rather, how you seemed to move amongst the people-who-may-not-be-your-people, and spoke to your family-who-isn’t-actually-your-family.

“Here,” you say, and idly lay skillfully de-shelled crab legs and a lobster tail on your bright-eyed sister’s plate. Then onto your even-more-bright-eyed brother’s plate, before doing the same to those within your reach at the table, including Halbrand— sitting adjacent and at a length, because nobody quite fancied sitting next to a brooding stranger.

“I can de-shell my crabs on my own,” he had wanted to huff, put out by the way he suddenly felt impeccably small by your limitless grace and social-butterfly-ness, but one of the cadets had beaten him to it.

Your answer is a smile that’d made Mairon think of Nienna again, followed by a winsome, “I know you can.”

He lingers on what you’d told him ere a week ago, at the forge when you’d come to him saying he looked most at home with a hammer and tongs in hand, and drafts in his head something he tells you much later, which is:

“You looked different around your not-people.”

You’re wrapped in a pelerine cloak that seems to do little with the cold Mallorn-fragrant winds, here at the Bay of Eldanna, where you’ve somehow convinced him to follow you down to at the crack of dawn. (It’s not like he could sleep through the night, anyway, now that the stables are complete and there’s nothing left to busy himself with for the time being.)

It’s early enough that the carpet of stars in the sky shines the rocky shoreline a blinding silver, and only the lantern-lit trawlers far out at sea are awake to fish for teeming shoals of shrimps in season beyond the reef. 

“My not-people?” you yawn, gathering up your cloak and shift dress to toe between the rocks. “Ah. I get it. Because I’m an outsider.”

He raises a tolerant eyebrow. “I’m the outsider, seabird.” To which you answer, breezily, as if it’s a simple equation: 

“Not to me. If it helps though, we can both be outsiders together.”

He barely has time to wrap his head around together when you begin skipping across the tidepools.

“I meant,” he trails after you, ungainly and tender-footed to the shallows compared to your well-versed steps. He had not been raised by the sea like you. “That you looked at home; with your people. And tha— Eärmaril, why did you bring me out here with a bucket?”

You peer at the crevices of the outcrops, turning over black slabs with a trained eye. “Have you ever had soft-shell crabs? They’re active around this time of night, so watch your step. If you’re not getting pinched by their claws, you’ll get stabbed by an urchin.”

“You loon!” he exclaims. “You brought me here for a hunting trip?”

“Hush, now! Or you’ll scare the fur seals further down the coast,” you hiss over your shoulder. “And no. I brought you here because I know you won’t be sleeping, anyway.”

The blatant accusation has him slipping from a jutting rock face.

You catch his hand to steady him.

(He’s warm. Some part of you wants to pull him close.)

“I overheard the farriers. They say the only reason the stables got put up that quickly is because you worked through the night.” You inform him as delicately as you can, because there’s a recognisable, vestigial haunt in his eyes you’ve seen in your father’s, under the shimmer of Eärendil’s starlight. “Is it nightmares, Halbrand?”

“See, Amm— Mother saved Isildur when he was a child.” Nobody in the family prefers to say drowned except your father, because the word is bitter to the taste. “I was there when it happened. Couldn’t sleep for weeks after. Do you dream of the waters too?”

The defensive frown he’d put up melts away, but you can see Halbrand steel himself, still, in order to answer.

“I dream of barnacles,” Sauron allows, brusque so as to cut the conversation short as he regains his footing.

You let go and narrow your eyes at him. 

After a long moment, you conclude, resolutely: “Valar, you’re a terrible liar, jailbird.”

And Mairon couldn’t help it— 

He laughed.

(It sends your heart stumbling.)

“Believe me when I say, seabird, that if I were to deceive you, you would never know.”

“…Right,” you scoff, quick to turn away to hide the budding smile on your face as you carve his laugh and awfully handsome grin into memory. “Now, come and be useful, will you? Before the tide runs in with daybreak.”

He can do that. He likes to be useful.

So he does.

Sauron, however, gathers alarmingly quickly that he’s as helpful as an infant grappling the ways of the water for the first time. Some distant part of him enjoys it, though— learning. It reminds him of his long gone time with Aulë.

Learning to follow your effortless sea-nymph dance across the jagged shallows, memorising how to identify which rocks to flip and the right ways to harvest mollusks or crabs without risking a fingertip, all while unconsciously committing to mind the shanties you hum under your breath.

You tell Halbrand stories and Mairon listens despite the general inanity of it; because he’s a quiet sort, and because he likes the diluting distraction of it all. 

Little things, like how your mother had bequeathed the craft of pottery to you, or that your father had preferred to teach you to fight instead of fish (“I can hardly imagine that,” Sauron muses, which earns him a sharp look and a: “Well, you don’t seem the imaginative type, anyway.”); that Eärien’s artistic strength is adapted from her uncanny skill of observation, and that Isildur is often wayward because he’s as free-spirited as the sun.

The conversation whiles and goes until the sky slowly pales awake, and the fur seals begin to bark and bay at the shorebirds and skimmers diving close to the rolling surfs. When the stretch of Eldanna’s shoreline finally raises, peaks and tidepools drowning back below the cresting of blue seas, the both of you make headway back inland.

“I was telling the truth,” he says, abruptly, which made you stop in your tracks at the beach. Your cloak is billowing from the salt gusts, edges sticking to the wet of your ankles.

“You don’t have to tell me,” comes your honest answer. 

But he wants to. It feels right to. Here Mairon stands bearing witness to the intimacies of your life, while he had nothing to offer you in return beneath the veneer of Halbrand. It’s only fair to do the same. An exchange, if you will. It’s all he’s ever known.

He sets the bucket of skittering crabs on to the wet sand, and dips his feet at the lap of the tide. “I dream of the Dark,” Sauron admits. “Of a light I cannot reach. The ocean is always red— red as my hands— and the rock-faces are always white and blinking.”

Barnacles. You understand now.

“When I wake up, I feel like I’m bracing for something, but I don’t know what,” he says, which he’s quick to realise had been an instinctive lie, and so he amends it with an explanation. “Like I’m charging headfirst into the abyss, and I’m bracing myself for the impact. For a fight or a— punishment.”

Halbrand kicks at a bubbling bump in the water and out pops a shell. (It’s a whelk. Lightning whelk, if Sauron is being precise. He’d listened to you listing the different kinds an hour ago.) 

“Anybody home?” you peer.

“Mh.” Sauron assents and tosses the hermit back to the waves.

He looks at where the open sky meets the sea, thinks of the knee-high swathes of sea oats growing at the coastlines of Valinor if he’d set sail Westwards from Eldanna and choose not to look back. He entertains idly on the idea of home for a beast such as himself— if it’s even possible to tame savagery into such domestications. 

Then he resists on asking you if there’s a difference between making a home and inventing one (those are questions for another sleepless night, he supposes), and instead glances down to where you’ve stepped into one of the remaining tidepools and back out.

A smooth pebble with a perfectly circular hole in its centre, still damp from its discovery, sits in your palm.

“What in Eru’s name is that?” he furrows, watching you wink at him through the gap.

“A hagstone,” you say, unoffended. “My other brother Anárion has one, though he prefers calling it an adder stone. Ammê told us they were naturally-occurring talismans. They ward off anything evil and protects its keeper. Catch.”

He does so with attractive ease.

(…You commit that to memory, too.)

“You don’t actually believe this little thing, do you, seabird?” he asks, tossing the piece up in his hands.

His snort makes you roll your eyes. “See! You are the unimaginative type. Halbrand, it’s the nature of a thing that matters, not its form.”

Right. He’d forgotten you are You; who built a home in the people; whose wound is your geography and history— or lack thereof— and who’s chosen to anchor to Númenor, because your foster family is where you found your true port of call. 

“You Númenóreans are an odd lot,” he settles candidly, and curls his fingers around the hagstone.

“Odd?”

“Superstitious,” he clarifies.

“I prefer traditional,” you volley.

“Try paranoid.”

Your warm laugh breaks with the surf of the shore, makes him tarry on the sight and sound of you.

“Red sky in the morning; sailor’s warning…”

“Red sky at night; sailor’s delight,” Halbrand recites Seamus, scoffing humorously. “I mean… Boarding a ship right foot first? Nailing a horseshoe under the mast, laying a silver coin for Uinen or tattooing swallows to lead the way home? And no whistling on board, lest it’ll challenge the winds; Or so Isildur claims of Manwë.”

“Ah, but don’t forget—”

“—Never rename a ship,” he says in unison.

Halbrand shakes his head, but the fond look on his face is undeniable as you break out into another merry smile. Your plan to chase away his night-terrors seem to have worked perfectly. If you’d thought him handsome before, then he looks utterly divine now. 

“Well, I suppose you’re right. There’s another one, though,” you hum, eyes fixated at the gulls taking wing to and fro their nests, the trawlers sailing home with their morning catch. “Never ever bring harm to a seabird.”

He cocks his head. “If I didn't know any better, seabird, I’d say you were making a threat.”

“And?” you smile. “Do you, jailbird?”

“Do I what?”

“Know better.”

Halbrand laughs again. A charming peal of a sound, canine-wide and punched out. It makes your heart sing— makes you wonder when was the last time he laughed this freely.

“You!” he exclaims once more, but there’s a thunderdrum in his ribs to reckon with all of a sudden, from the way the first break of light begins to dawn on your face and the charming, affectionate grin flowering across it, and so he couldn’t finish his insult after all.

You offer him wine in his dreams. 

Soot blackens your fingers as he takes it, but the stains don’t seem to bother you.

Weighty is a hagstone in his palm.

The sea is blue and quiet—

And barnacles are just barnacles, now.

Footnotes in AO3!

[techhiz]

Hi Tech!

May I request a fic of [TFP] Optimus Prime with a Cybertronian!Autobot![S/O] [Romantic] [Gender Neutral] who’s secretly conjunxed to him?

[Prompt]: Optimus and [S/O] are secretly conjunxed to each other for a LONG time (even before the war) and try not to let their personal relationship interfere with their works/missions. The others don’t know this information (except Ratchet knows their relationship because that’s what friends are for), until a certain hyperactive human (Miko) accidentally overheard [S/O] calling Optimus his secret nickname, “Oppy”. Then everyone is surprised by the sudden reveal.

I’m Swift, by the way. You probably seen me around here.

Secrets Beneath the Stars.

Optimus Prime was a bot of many titles—leader, warrior, protector—but the one he cherished most was known only to one other soul: conjunx.

You had been bonded with him long before the war had sundered Cybertron. Before he was Prime, before the weight of leadership bowed his shoulders, he had been Orion Pax, and you had loved him with the entirety of your spark. That love had endured through the ages, through countless battles and immeasurable loss, growing stronger with each trial you faced together.

The only other who knew of your bond was Ratchet. The cranky medic had discovered your secret early in the war when your injuries had exposed the shared spark signatures between you and Optimus. Ratchet’s loyalty ensured that your relationship remained hidden, a sanctuary amidst the chaos.

Now, millions of years later, on Earth, you and Optimus still guarded your relationship with care. Leadership demanded impartiality, and you both had agreed long ago to place the needs of the Autobots above your personal lives. That didn’t stop small, stolen moments from slipping through—a lingering glance during strategy meetings, a brief touch when no one was looking, or the occasional murmured “Oppy” when you were sure you were alone.

The day your secret unraveled began innocently enough.

Miko Nakadai had a penchant for mischief and finding herself in places she wasn’t supposed to be. This time, her curiosity led her into the quieter corridors of the base. She was on a quest for adventure, perhaps some secret Autobot tech she could show off to Raf and Jack later.

What she found instead was you, tucked away in a quiet corner of the base, speaking softly into your comm.

“Oppy,” you murmured, your voice carrying a warmth and affection that Miko had never heard before. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll handle it.”

Miko froze, her eyes wide. Oppy? Who was that? And why did it sound suspiciously like Optimus’s voice responding on the other end?

“I trust you,” came the familiar baritone voice, softer than she’d ever heard it. “But do be careful.”

Miko clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. This was huge.

The next morning, the base buzzed with activity as usual, but Miko couldn’t keep her discovery to herself.

“Hey, guys,” she said, sidling up to Jack and Raf. “Guess what I found out?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“[Y/N] called Optimus Oppy. Like, seriously. They were all... cozy or something.”

Raf blinked. “Wait, what? Are you saying [Y/N] and Optimus are... together?”

“I’m just saying what I heard,” Miko said, her grin mischievous. “And I definitely heard it.”

The humans’ whispers didn’t escape Ratchet’s notice. The medic narrowed his optics as he watched them exchange furtive glances. He knew the truth, of course, but he wasn’t about to let a group of meddling teenagers jeopardize it.

Unfortunately, the humans weren’t the only ones curious. Bulkhead, who’d overheard part of Miko’s recounting, couldn’t resist bringing it up to Arcee during a lull in patrol.

“Do you think it’s true?” Bulkhead asked. “About Optimus and [Y/N]?”

Arcee gave him a skeptical look. “What are you talking about?”

Bulkhead scratched the back of his helm. “Miko said she overheard [Y/N] call Optimus ‘Oppy.’ Sounds kinda... intimate, doesn’t it?”

Arcee frowned. “It’s probably nothing. Optimus wouldn’t let something like that distract him.”

“Still,” Bulkhead said, “it’s kinda hard not to wonder...”

By the time you returned to the base later that day, the atmosphere felt... different. You noticed the lingering stares, the half-whispered conversations that ceased when you entered the room.

“What’s going on?” you asked Ratchet, who was busily working at his console.

The medic gave an exaggerated sigh. “Your little nickname slip didn’t go unnoticed.”

Your optics widened. “You mean...?”

“Miko,” Ratchet said, his tone exasperated. “That human has an uncanny knack for stumbling into things she shouldn’t.”

Before you could respond, Optimus entered the room, his commanding presence immediately silencing the chatter. He gave you a brief, reassuring glance before addressing the team.

“We have an incoming Decepticon signal,” he said. “Prepare for deployment.”

The mission went smoothly, but the air of tension followed you back to the base. As the Autobots regrouped, Miko couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer.

“Okay, seriously,” she blurted, “are you two, like, a thing?”

Everyone froze.

“Miko!” Jack hissed.

“What? I’m just asking!”

Optimus’s optics flickered briefly to you before he spoke. “Miko, such inquiries are inappropriate.”

“But she called you ‘Oppy’!” Miko protested.

Bulkhead’s optics widened. “Wait, that’s true?”

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices, everyone talking over each other in surprise and disbelief.

“Silence.” Optimus’s voice cut through the chaos, and the room fell quiet.

He looked at you, his optics softening. You nodded, giving him silent permission.

“It is true,” Optimus said, his tone calm but resolute. “We have been bonded as conjunxes for many millennia. However, we chose to keep our relationship private to ensure that our duties to the Autobots remained our primary focus.”

The room was silent for a moment before Ratchet snorted. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long for you lot to figure it out.”

The initial shock soon gave way to acceptance, though not without a fair share of teasing.

“I can’t believe you kept this from us!” Bulkhead said, grinning. “I mean, ‘Oppy’? Really?”

Arcee smirked. “I guess even Optimus has a soft side.”

Optimus took the jabs in stride, his composure unwavering. You, on the other hand, found yourself blushing under the team’s playful scrutiny.

“I think it’s sweet,” Raf said, smiling.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, it makes sense. You guys do balance each other out.”

Even Miko, who had started the whole thing, seemed pleased. “Okay, I admit it. You guys are kinda cute together.”

Later that night, as the base quieted down, you found yourself alone with Optimus.

“Well,” you said, leaning against him, “I suppose the secret’s out now.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chassis. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

You smiled, resting your hand over his. “I’m just glad they took it well.”

“As am I,” he said, his optics glowing warmly. “Though I must admit, I had grown rather fond of our secrecy. It made our moments together feel... special.”

You tilted your helm up to look at him, your optics meeting his. “Every moment with you is special, Oppy.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “And every moment with you strengthens my resolve to protect what we hold dear.”

In the quiet of the night, beneath the soft hum of the base’s lights, you allowed yourself to savor the moment—no longer a secret, but still deeply, profoundly yours.

[tritoch]

one thing i like to do when i'm feeling too unbothered and chill and normal is read venat discourse on twitter. makes me insane every single time it comes up. "she placed herself as a god above the ancients and judged that they had no right to live" "she was taking the only path available to her to stop meteion and defeat the final days because it needed to be a race that could handle dynamis" wrong wrong wrong! learn to read!

venat was stopping a planned mass sacrifice of non-ancient life by the only means available to her. that is the primary motivation for the sundering. shadowbringers says this to you, very very clearly. hythlodaeus in "a greater purpose," 5.0 (this is when you're chilling at the DMV together):

The Convocation of Fourteen─well, it was Thirteen at the time─endeavored to create a will for our star. They would repair the fundamental laws of order and halt the spread of destruction. But creation on such a scale required an immense source of power... Of those of us who still lived, nearly half offered up their lives in the name of salvation. And from their sacrifice, Zodiark was born. Just as we had hoped, He reached forth and halted the march of oblivion. ...Yet oh how the star had suffered. So many species lost. The land was blighted, the waters poisoned, and even the wind had ceased to blow. Once more did our people give of themselves to Zodiark. Another half of our race sacrificed to cleanse the world; to ensure that trees and grasses and myriad tiny lives would sprout and grow and flourish. The cycle of life had begun anew, and we reconsidered the means by which we might protect it. The Convocation decided thus: we would nurture our world until it was bursting with vitality. Then, when the time was right, we would offer some portion of its living energy to Zodiark... In return, He would restore to us those brethren whose souls had fed His strength, and together we would resume our role as stewards. There were, however, those who disagreed with this plan. They argued that enough had been sacrificed to Zodiark─that this new world should belong to the lives newly born. These dissidents surrendered their life energies in the creation of Hydaelyn, an incarnation of their opposing belief. And for the first time in history, our people stood divided... Know you, then, how this conflict ended?

Hythlodaeus is very clear: Following the first 50% sacrifice to Zodiark, the land was dying and there had been a mass die-off. A second 50% sacrifice (so 25% of the pre-Zodiark Ancient population) resolved that, cleansing the world and restoring nature and non-Ancient life. Afterwards, the Convocation planned a third sacrifice: they would "nurture [the] world until it was bursting with vitality," the "trees and grasses and myriad tiny lives" he describes earlier, and then sacrifice some considerable amount of that life to restore the Ancients comprising Zodiark.

People pretend that there's a lot more ambiguity on this point than there is, but it's quite clear that when he says "myriad tiny lives," he is saying something that encompasses the modern peoples of Eorzea or their very near ancestors (it's only been about 12,000 years since the Sundering. For comparison early modern humans emerged about 300,000 years ago, and there's no suggestion I'm aware of that evolution even exists on Etheirys anyhow). There's a couple very strong pieces of evidence for this:

First, anything that exists on multiple shards must have existed pre-Sundering, since there's close to no multidimensional travel (barring Ascians and the Exarch). Thus, all the player races, which we know exist on each shard so far, as well as, say, the Amalj'aa, the Kobolds, the Sahagin, and the Qiqirn, all must have existed before the Sundering since we also see them on the First.

Second, the phrasing of "trees and grasses and myriad tiny lives" positions "lives" as a category that encompasses everything that isn't trees and grasses. We can surmise that when he describes the Hydaelyn faction standing for "lives newly born" he's again describing basically everything that isn't plants. this again includes the spoken races of the current game or their ancestors; they are a clear part of what was at stake in the sacrifice.

Third, if that doesn't persuade you that Hythlodaeus is talking about lives like yours, consider that you've just spent the last few quests exploring the city full of giant ancient magic people going "wow! you're so small and childlike! what a miniscule living being you are!" When Hythlodaeus gives this speech about "myriad tiny lives," he is a literal enormous giant sitting next to you, a very tiny living being from his perspective.

This sacrifice, which Hythlodaeus explains to you in the DMV, is the crux of the matter and the root of Venat's choice. The time loop, her knowledge of Meteion, the debate over the right solution to the final days—all of that is secondary. She explicitly is unsure up until you meet her in the Aitiascope whether the time loop is stable and real and applies to you.

The essential issue is the fact that the Ancients are supposed to be stewards of the star, and now they are going to engage in mass sacrifice of lives that Venat knows are people like her and her peers (mostly this is thanks to being a humanist who believes in the sanctity and dignity of life but she also has the confirmation of your post-sundering, totally humanlike existence). Just a quarter of the Ancients' original number remain, their society is in tatters, and what's left is in the process of actively betraying every ideal they ever claimed to hold by slaughtering the life they allegedly guide and care for (which they know to be ensouled!) to undo the great and noble sacrifice of their loved ones.

but venat's faction is weak. it's her and like 13 sorta-important people she knows plus maybe some unnamed others. they lack the numbers or the raw ability to make something that can defeat zodiark, and will need instead to lean on venat's abilities.

her morals do not allow her to stand by as the convocation plans a mass sacrifice of "lesser" life. her circumstances do not give her the time or ability to win them over through rhetoric or decisively defeat them with force. nor can she actually destroy zodiark, because then the final days would simply resume. nor, I assume, is she interested in straight up slaughtering what remains of the ancients until the convocation's plan becomes impractical, assuming she is even strong enough to do so with just the twelve and the watcher's ancient selves for backup. there is no longer an option on the table which does not involve great pain. left to choose between unacceptable options, she chooses the one route which seems able to protect the vitality of the world and uphold the ancients' mission of shepherding all life upon the star towards flourishing: the sundering.

[tahri-nhupuju]

It's interesting to me that despite being the only unsundered that doesn't appear, Pandaemonium actually does show us a bit about how uniquely nasty Emet-Selch is as a person.

Like, he has his whole spiel about how the sundered are not even human to him, and how all the unsundered would agree with him if they saw us.

But then a rejoined-with-Hephaistos, from-right-before-the-summinging-of-Zodiark Lahabrea sees the unsundered and goes "Oh, there are people here! Surely this means my plan succeeded and we saved the star!" Like he not only doesn't have any issues with the sundered, he just immediately accepts that they're people.

Likewise Elidibus and Erichtonios also don't seem to have any issues whatsoever accepting the sundered as people, but Lahabrea is the one who talks about/interacts with them the most.

When he finds out what he ends up doing to the sundered as an Ascian, he immediately accepts it, and describes what he does as monstrous, and pushes the point that it was the right thing to do to oppose and kill him.

And yes, sure, they all get tempered and go mad in various ways, but Emet-Selch is constantly shown as the most complete, the one who is the most like his old self. And while the Amaurotines are shown to have a fucked up relationship to non-human life, Emet-Selch is really the only one of the Unsundered shown to view the sundered as Not Human.