#Or mentions of long ago calamities

[yandere-wishes]

He's Just Ken

Summary: You're just Barbie, perfect on the outside, dead on the inside. He's just Ken, neither perfect on the outside nor on the inside. 

Author's note: I condone neither patriarchy nor matriarchy. But I do love exploring different forms of mental exhaustion and extreme emotional dependency.

Warnings: Mental abuse, dark mental headspace, mentions of suicide and self-harm (only if you read between the lines), yandere behavior, yandere Ken, 

Not every Barbie has a Ken. Not one for herself anyway. Every Barbie knows a Ken, but that Ken most likely belongs to her friend, or her neighbor, or one of the other Barbies. Not every Barbie has a Ken, but every Barbie knows a Ken. You know one too, one with sandy hair and ocean eyes. And a look that longs for something more. You know a Ken who keeps his heart from breaking by crossing his fingers and praying to the Malibu sun. You know a Ken who's only happy if a certain Barbie looks his way. Or rather you knew. This was before the world fell apart. This was before he destroyed it. 

Ken returned without Barbie and the universe began to crack. It's fine you thought. It's fine you hoped. Ken -That Ken, the one who waited on the beach for hours on end until his Barbie walked by- returned from the real world preaching sermons on how the Kens were better, superior, the rightful rulers of Barbieland. How they didn't need the Barbies, how they no longer needed to settle for being treated as anything less than perfect. How they needn't be number two any longer. Ken returned without Barbie and the universe wept. 

You've always known the real world was a messed up place. It had become evident when the thoughts started to creep in. That was years ago-albeit you'll admit you have no idea if Barbie years and human years aligned- years since you started to feel like a constant failure. Years since that harrowing voice began screeching endless dreadful thoughts into your cranium. Notions that festered your mind and heart, tiny maggots that chewed away at your soul. There was always something wrong and it was somehow always your fault. Then came the pain. Horizontal pangs that shot across your arm. Always in the same spot, always in a cluster of three. Barbies don't feel pain as intensely as humans, at least they're not supposed to. 

 You worried for your human back then. You truly did. But you were always too scared to leave Barbieland. Never brave enough to go find her. She's fine you hope...you doubt it though. 

You also refused to go see Weird Barbie. Too scared of being labeled as anything less than perfect. So long as these thoughts merely remained inside you and no outward defects began to show, you would be fine. You could just pretend like everything was as perfect as it always had been. 

Ken came back from the real world unscratched. Yet his words hit a chord within every other Ken. They began to take over. The Barbies were reduced to accessories. Pretty little things that clung to their lovers. Dressed in short skirts and maid outfits. Turned into what they weren't. 

Ken destroyed what once was perfect. Yet all you could think as you watch the pillars of your homeland cripple and your friends descend into madness. Was how utterly beautiful he was.

The world turned upside down. 

Barbieland fell.

Kendome rose. 

And yet as everything the Barbies had worked all so hard to build came crumbling down. As your friends and neighbors began to lose themselves and submit to a tyrannical patriarchy. You found yourself utterly unaltered. Your world had been destroyed long ago. This was just another calamity that you would fake your way through. It would be easy, a lifetime of practice finally paying off. Stay quiet, stay in the shadows, no one would notice.

No one was supposed to notice...

Ken found you on the beach one night. A day or two after the hostile Ken takeover. He walked up behind you out of breath as if he'd been running. 

The bonfire crackles, a warning, and a love song. Until now you'd only ever existed in his sideview. An afterthought as he impaled his heart and called it love. You had burned yourself in his rays and called it love. You're convinced neither of you knows what love truly is. The moon's rays dance as you two sit side by side. In the distance, you see Blue Mermaid Barbie and Mermaid Ken share a tender kiss. An unparalleled sight. 

Ken sits next to you. Eyes following your every move. Scanning every dip and curve of your plastic corpse. He's just Ken you remind yourself with an uneasy breath. He's just Ken, nothing to fear. Although you're not entirely sure if those old ideologies shine through. He's Ken but somehow he's become unstable at worst, flammable at best. Something radioactive ticks inside of him waiting to detonate. Waiting to make the world feel a trace of his pain. 

Ken's fingers intertwine with yours as waves of helplessness crash across your body. You were created to be ethereal yet all you see is perfection molded in the shape of Ken's face. He leans in, carelessly placing his chin in the subspace of your neck as he whispers. "I see the way you look at me" his warm breath tickles the shell of your ear. You flinch, in time with the breaking of the waves. "I know you want me" Reality blurs when Ken touches you. He pulls you between his legs as his lips kiss the back of your neck. His fingers run up and down your arm as if he's trying to memorize your shape, your soul, you. It's romantic you think but all you feel is puka shell shards stabbing your flesh. You know he's dreamed of this intimacy with the other Barbie. 

you wonder if in his eyes you are merely a ghost. One he resurrected with desperate love and a broken heart. You wonder if he sees her, feels her, wants her. Yet he'll settle for you. The next best thing. The other stereotypical Barbie. Somewhere along the line, your own voice sounds, foreign to you. He's talking, his voice is smooth like silk. Fragile like window glass after a bombing. He asks you something, something you've dreamed of for all so long. He asks you to be his bride wife. You agree despite how degrading it sounds. 

What once was a pink haven of fun and joy has now been turned into a mess of horses and black sunglasses. Barbie's dreamhouse is now Ken's Mojo Dojo Casa House. You feel like an intruder, like a traitor. You feel loved, wanted, needed. Someone once told you that truths can co-exist. It's all you can think to save yourself from going mad. 

There's an unspoken easiness that comes with being with Ken. The way he's always around. His hands never leave you, tracing stars on your arms, running through your hair. He wants his presence to be felt. 

"I like this" you confess one night as you rest your head on his arm. "I've always felt...less than perfect. Like I couldn't be good at anything like the other Barbies." Ken laughs and it feels like the stars have cladded you in their warmth. He pinches your nose with a soft smile. "I know the feeling," he mutters and you feel your heart crack. "But you don't have to worry about that. I'm here and so long as you're with me. We're both going to be perfect." You snuggle into his chest as you close your eyes. "Ken and Barbie" you sing, a mantra, a prayer. One for a better future. One for a happy life. 

You have a dream house. Had one at least. You sometimes wonder which Ken lives there now. You wonder if his Barbie feels your presence radiating off the walls and the floor and the heart-shaped night lamp you once treasured. You certainly feel Stereotypical Barbie's presence echoing from every corner. You see her ghost whenever Ken pulls you onto his lap to watch a horse flick. Infuriated and distressed. You wonder if she's angry because you didn't join the rebellion. You wonder if she's angry because she thinks you took Ken away. You see her ghost again, feel her between the pause of two breaths. She glitches and fades as you hide your face in Ken's mink coat. 

"I don't like being apart from you" Ken claims as he lays your body on top of his. One hand dangling off the couch the other curling your loose locks. To Ken a touch away feels like being galaxies apart. You kiss his chin and his cheek and his nose and finally his lips. It feels like a dream. One you refuse to wake up from. 

Ken is gold.

Unmetable and solid.A kaleidoscope of hope

He has so much potential rotting inside of him.

Ken is gold.

Beautiful and everlasting.

His value lies in how pretty he is. How good of an accessory he's willing to be. 

You wonder if he's sick of being gold. 

You felt Barbie's ghost again today. This time looming and aggravated. She wants her presence acknowledged. She has something she needs to say. Ken was out, one of the rare times you two spend apart. Something about a beach off and rock paper scissors. 

You wonder if a ghost haunting is their way of showing love. 

You wonder if the Kens starting a rebellion is their way of showing love. 

Barbie talks for ten minutes straight. You cling to every word, you forgot how much you missed the Other Barbie's voice. It's in the final beat of her sentence that you notice she's not a ghost. Not this time. This is Barbie, the girl who had been your friend since the day you left your box. "Help me" she pleads as she grabs your shoulders. "We need to fix this", you turn your head and smile a broken smile. "I can't" you confess. 

It's easy to undo brainwashing. Even easier to reinstate it. What Stereotypical Barbie and her friends can undo. You can simply redo. Even Barbies prefer ease, a few simple half-truths sung into the right ear at the right time. And the once normalized Barbies are running back to their Kens. You turn, in the rays of the golden sun, you see Barbie. Her eyes hold glimmers of unshed tears. She wears her betrayal on her pink sleeve. "Why" she whispers as her fingers reach out to hover over your heart before she retracts them. You think you may have burned her. You think she's afraid of being plagued by your depravity.

You feel like a traitor, like a monster. A creature made of pink lipgloss and shattered vows. should Kendom fall, you know your delicate dream life will fall with it. You stare into her eyes. And the words that leave your mouth feel so rehearsed, yet you swear it's the first time you've uttered them. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you both when you went through hell. I'm sorry I wasn't there when the world collapsed and you ran from the debris. I'm sorry I can't help you pick up the pieces and rebuild what once was yours.., ours. I'm sorry I'm so selfish". 

Immortal hearts are cursed with the loneliest beats. Maybe that's why the other Barbies never bothered to ponder their endless existence. Maybe that's why the Kens always clung to false promises of love. Maybe saying I love you is the same as saying I'm letting you go. Stereotypical Barbie has already reached this conclusion, you know this. For a fraction of a juncture, she looks into your eyes. Trying to reason and plea and hope all in the same breath. When you say nothing more her eyes shine with grief as she turns on her heels and runs for the hilled house. You reach out to her, yet only grasp the warm Malibu breeze. 

What do you call a person such as yourself? 

Coward...

That sounds about right. 

Ken kisses your neck, and it feels like lava sprinkling along your skin. You feel like a defeated soldier drowning in a sea of guilt. Survivor's guilt a voice echo inside your head familiar yet all so distant. A ghost from a past life or a current one unseeable to you. "I have it too" the voice replies. You wonder if it's the voice of an angel or a mortal girl. You don't tell him about the Barbie resistance or how easily they can reverse the brainwashing. You work best alone anyway. 

You hear the word death replay in the background as Ken bites a sensitive spot. A faint noise, a haunting whisper. You hear the word death and it sounds more familiar than the name Barbie that has rolled off your tongue every day since birth. 

Ken harbors you inside the once was dreamhouse like a forbidden secret. Sometimes the skirts feel too short. Sometimes the world feels too heavy. You always feel the eyes of the other Kens on you. You think Ken planned it that way to show the Ken world who you belong to. Just last week he took you to the beach. Both of you wearing matching pastel blues and silver earrings. Other Ken was there also adorned in pastel blue and silver earrings. You see the twitch in your Ken's jaw, the icy glare when Other Ken waves to you. "Let's go," he says, commandes really. He throws you over his shoulder and you're heading back the way you came. "I really wanted to see Mermaid Barbie..." You pout. "No no, you wanted to see a movie remember?" Ken corrects you, to be honest, he does that often. You're starting to doubt you even know your own wants anymore. 

Today Ken has you dressed in a pink and white dress. You remember Setrotypical Barbie use to love this dress. You run around the kitchen cooking a pretend dinner. You really want to go shipping, to pick out something you'd like. A rose pink Lolita skirt and a matching button-up. You really want to die. Although that's normal you always want to go shopping. You always want to die. You wonder if Ken will ever let you pick out your own dresses. You leave his plate in front of him as you loop your arms around his neck. You rest your chin on his head as he pulls you closer. Not picking your own clothes is a small price to pay for the intimacy you've craved for far too long. 

"Never has there ever been a girl as pretty" Ken whispers as he relishes in your presence. 

"Do you have any idea what you are?" He rasps, his lips hovering over yours. You're both sitting on the bed, watching the sun die for the day. 

Ken is a monster. At least that's what you're supposed to think. You have something in your mind something that squirmes around in what can only be described as reason. To call it wits and a conscious would be an overstatement. Lucide is a better word. Weak and brittle yet somehow still standing. Deep inside, your heart refuses to call Ken anything other than hero, savior, salvation. 

"I'm yours" it's the first truth that's left your mouth in a long long time. You cup his cheeks and kiss him with all the doom and gratitude that lies within you. And Wow Ken tastes like mint ice cream and shooting stars. Like dead dreams that lay on the tip of your tongue. He's the beach at night and the evermore gardens during the day. He's everything good and confusing and painful and sweet. Ken nibbles your ear, playfully, and coos sweet words into your soul. Spinning tales of how you'll be together forever. You soak in his presence, rolling his name around in your head. You keep your head filled with him before your own thoughts give you a heart attack. 

You're Barbie but now you are so much more than that. You're his Barbie. Ken's Barbie. Damaged yet simultaneously perfect. And he's perfect too, mesmerizing when the sun's rouge rays kiss his pretty face, bathing him in golden ichor.

You wonder if perfection and imperfection have always been in love. 

 Sometimes in the dead of night, you think of the little girl playing with you. Albit she isn't a little girl anymore, is she? Kids grow up. clawing and biting through the painful transformation. Sometimes it leaves their minds fragmented. Sometimes it leaves them less than whole. 

Judging by how long it's been, your little girl is grown up by now. You close your eyes and give Ken a final kiss before sleep overtakes you. You hope she's okay, even though you know that can never be true. Being "okay" doesn't seem to be a real thing in this universe. 

Because girls are broken and the universe knows this 

Because boys are broken and the universe knows this 

Because the universe does nothing. Just sits there and watches as life bends and breaks itself over and over again

Barbieland is broken too, imperfect and destroyed.

And so are the two of you. 

Yet in the end, it doesn't matter. 

For as broken as the world is the most important of things has been resolved. 

Ken has his Barbie.

And Barbie has her Ken. 

[crazylittlejester]

Do you have any angsty/general hcs of Wild?

yesssss yes i do >:) i actually have a lot of thoughts about Wild (sorry for taking so long to answer this im real behind on asks)

- Fluent in a TON of languages, which he only discovered when he actually went to the other regions of Hyrule and got a few memories back. If you asked him to think about it he wouldn’t be able to, but plop him down and have him have a conversation with someone from a different region in his Hyrule and the memory of the language will come back and he can understand and speak with them

- His poor body is so used to getting thrown around that he rarely if EVER experiences motion sickness (never let him challenge you to see who can roll down a hill faster. it will be him because he will make it to the bottom and you will have to stop because you got nauseous.)

- There’s something INCREDIBLY odd about him that is both extremely uncanny and alluring at the same time, and its not because he’s covered in scars. Like people will look at him as he passes by and they can’t STOP looking at him for some unknown reason and they get a full body chill when they do. It took the chain a very very long time to stop feeling like that near him because they just had to adjust to him (it’s not caused by anything Wild does, he’s not in control of it, it’s just that he has the aura of an ancient dead being and it’s so fucking strong that those who are more attuned to magic can like. literally feel him.)

- His eyes used to be a very dark, stormy blue. In a way, they still are, but they seem unnaturally bright and almost turquoise, but if you actually got up in his face you can see the stormy blue beneath it, it just looks very oddly dead

- He’s hard of hearing, and it’s harder to hear from the ear on the same side as his scars which he why he really liked learning the chain knowns sign because he CAN read lips fairly well but sometimes it’s just hard and annoying to have to do when people are talking quietly. He can hear like, a slightly louder than normal talking volume if the person he’s chatting with isn’t too far from him, but anything softer than that becomes very hard for him to make out

- He has no memory of his mother, and the guilt eats him alive. She died so long ago there’s no one alive who remembers her still, not even the few older people who’ve survived the calamity and stuck around for a hundred years, and he feels bad that he has a few faint memories of his dad and sister but not her

- He’s a bit scared of Warriors at first because he looks at him and wonders if that might have been what his life would’ve looked like had he not failed, but once he spends more time with him and realizes that Wars is just a person, and a person who lives under so much stress and regret at that, he realizes he has a lot in common with him and they connect really well

- He. LOVES. to. talk. Whether he’s using sign or running his mouth he LOVES to talk, and he has so much to talk ABOUT. He has so many pictures and he’s seen SO many things and now he has friends to share that with who also love to learn???? This is so good for him. However he will stop talking the second he gets overwhelmed or overstimulated, and sometimes it takes him a day or two to start talking again

- He documents everything with his slate to show Zelda when he gets home because even though she’s free now, he feels bad that he gets to see a side of the world she never will so he takes pictures of it so she can experience things through HIS memories in a way to pay her back for letting him re-experience life through hers

- He sometimes has trouble feeling like he’s actually IN his body and it scares him. He mentioned it to Wars at one point (because Wars has moments where he doesn’t seem all too there) but neither of them can figure out if he’s dissociating because of trauma or if his soul is literally just loosely tied to his body because he died and he ACTUALLY starts to drift out of it. It scares him that Wars doesn’t have an actual answer for him, and no one else seems to know either

- He gets overwhelmed at times, especially when people hover over him because he simply isn’t used to it, but if he gets hurt he will let Twilight hover all he wants because the alternative is Twi working himself up and driving everyone else insane and Wild knows that Twi just needs to feel useful and taking care of people helps him keep himself calm. So Wild puts up with it

- Will spontaneously try new food dishes or just combine ingredients he was curious about and feed it to the chain without telling them he’s testing out a brand new recipe so they aren’t unconsciously biased when he asks them how it is (obviously he avoids allergens, diet restrictions, or foods that will just make them uncomfortable because he’s not an asshole, he just doesn’t tell them its something he’s never made before)

- On a similar note one of the first things he did when the chain started getting comfortable with eat other was take them all one by one and have them cook with him a dish they liked from home so he could learn the recipes and they could all share their cultures and food with each other

- It’s not that he DOESNT take care of his hair, he just also barrels down hills, crashes through bushes, and falls in mud puddles so by the end of the day he’s a hot mess. He takes very good care of his hair, and he WILL NOT go to bed without combing it out and braiding it to keep it from tangling, no matter how fucking tired he is (or Twi or Wars will end up doing it for him)

- TERRIFYINGLY intelligent and a brilliant strategist. He’s the only one who’s ever outsmarted Wars in a game of chess, and no one in the chain has gotten over it. Sometime’s Wild’s head is really foggy and it’s hard for him to think but on days of clarity he’s wicked smart and he thinks FAST

- It’s very hard for him to sleep sometimes because of his century long nap. Sometimes he’ll be up for multiple days in a row and then crash for 15 hours

- It is not necessarily that he’s reckless, more so that he had to relearn what it is like to be killable. His recklessness is accidental. He woke up, grabbed a stick, and just fucking WENT, and when he got mipha’s grace he was invincible for a bit. Obviously he knew death was a thing but until he recovered the memory of himself dying, it was almost like he didn’t think it could happen to him. Because of this, sometimes he just jumps at things before he remembers “hey, you can die doing this- maybe do not”

[silentprincessofhyrule]

i always found it weird how so many npcs in totk don’t remember link.

yeah i know i’m not the first person who’s made a rant about this before, but this just really annoys me.

like, what do you mean you don’t remember link, the guy who sealed the calamity? the guy who sealed the 4 divine beasts threatening to destroy your home town?

link, the guy who went all across hyrule helping citizens, the guy who also built terry town? it just makes no sense that some npcs just refer to him as zelda’s knight and don’t know his name, or some just forgot him!!

also, consider this: if everyone remembers zelda, (who hasn’t been exploring hyrule as long as link ever since 100 years ago) then why don’t they remember link? i’m assuming link stayed by zelda’s side as zelda’s chosen protector during post botw to totk. it just dosent make sense.

and don’t get me started on how totk dosent even acknowledge that botw existed. yeah there is some little easter eggs/mini references to botw (like the divine beast helmets) but you know what imo is one of the biggest ‘fraud’ things of all?

how do people not remember the divine beats or sheikah tech at ALL????

this is something that really makes me confused. how in the hyrule does nobody remember those 4 big animal looking robots trying to destroy your land? how does nobody remember the scary creepy guardians scattered all across hyrule? oh, and what about the shrines and those humongous towers all across the land? absolutely nobody acknowledges these things!!

the champions!! practically everybody in botw remember urbosa, mipha, daruk, and revali. however in totk… it seems like they’re forgotten. mipha is out of the question though because she got an entire court built in her memory in totk, but that’s it. during my playthrough of totk, they DID make some references to the champions but it was small. really small. daruk was referenced in the yunobo quest, and his statue in the mountains is still there. urbosa got a mini mention in rijus diary, but that’s it. and now there’s revali. i don’t know if revali was mentioned at all…

in the end, totk itself is a really good game. personally, i don’t really like how the story was handled, this is just 1 aspect i didn’t like.

[librarygarten]

BotW Link x Lynel Hunter! Reader

I think we as a community are sleeping on the fact that BotW is a post-apocalypse. The settlements are few and far-between, most NPCs we meet on the road are being attacked by monsters, and more than one quest is a villager asking for help because they can’t deal with Calamity Ganon’s forces. So, what if Reader had to grow up in that world? How would they deal with the horrors? TW: mentions of death and disease, canon-typical violence

The world was broken. It had been broken long before you had been born. The dark clouds hanging over Hyrule Castle, the wandering machines, the monsters– all merely symptoms of the sickness plaguing the land. The elderly would occasionally tell you of a time before. When there was a princess and a knight. Champions to watch over the people.

Whoever they were, they had failed.

Growing up, your little town was relatively safe. Monsters didn’t venture too close, but they were always too close for comfort. The forest just below your village was home to more than a few Bokoblins and Moblins, not to mention the giant structure some other monsters had cobbled together just over the horizon. It was almost comical, how much their little fort looked like a tree house. But they were not to be trifled with.

Then the clouds over the castle got darker… and the monsters more numerous. Your quaint little village became less and less safe. Traveling to the next village over, which used to be relatively safe, if a bit stressful, was practically a suicide mission now. It would have been okay, you think, if nothing else had happened.

But then people got sick.

Really sick.

Maybe it was another curse of the land. Maybe it was punishment from the goddesses. Whatever the case, people were dying. You were lucky; you were still young when you got sick. A few weeks of shivering, coughing, sweating, and crying later, and you had the strength to get out of bed. Your parents weren’t as lucky. You took care of them as best as you could, but you could still hardly reach the stove to boil water for dinner.

You still aren’t sure which was worse: burying them that spring, or waiting all winter for the ground to thaw.

The rest of the adults fared about as well. Eventually, the sickness burned itself out. Nobody left to infect. Over the course of a year, you had become a village of orphans. The children who survived were weak, but did their best to put the pieces back together. But it quickly became apparent you didn’t have enough supplies. The gardens had been planted too late. The monsters were getting closer.

With no other options, you hugged your friends goodbye and set out on the road, praying to the merciless goddess that you would make it to the next village. That was years ago.

You snapped out of your own thoughts, focusing instead on the task at hand: the hulking beast that had been threatening the local Zora. The damned thing had electric arrows. It was almost like the beast had been perfectly selected to threaten the city below.

No time to think about what kind of divine wrath had placed it here. It swung its sword, and you jumped out of the way just in time. It swung again and you flipped over the blade. The monster roared, its mouth beginning to glow with flame.

Perfect.

You quickly take out your bow, firing an arrow directly at the thing’s face. It slumped forward, temporarily stunned. You ran forward, plunging your blade into its head. The creature let out a horrible death cry before collapsing into a pile of black goop and purple smoke.

“Stay dead, you stupid Lynel.” You kick the last of the black sludge, scattering it in the grass. You know it’s unlikely. It’s only a matter of time before another Blood Moon brings it back. But for now, the Zora should be safe.

You start walking back down the mountain, pulling your hood closer to shield from the pouring rain, but it’s no use. Vah Ruta’s rain was inescapable. You watch your footing as you walk, the muddy ground slippery beneath your feet. Perhaps it would be best to stay the night at the inn in Zora’s domain.

Glancing up, you’re surprised to see another Hylian. His armor makes him look like a Zora. He seems equally surprised to see you. You suppose you are covered in Lynel guts. You give him a polite wave, making a mental note to bathe before checking into the inn. He gives a hesitant wave back. You turn, continuing your path down the mountain.

At the inn, you hear the Zoras excitedly gossiping. Apparently, the centuries-dead princess’ lover had returned. Thinking nothing of it, you pay for a bed and set out at first light. Curiously, there was no rain that day.

The next time you see him is a few weeks later. You had been tracking a Lynel, this time near the base of Mount Lanayru. It manages to get a few good hits on you before you take it down. As you patch yourself up, making sure to stay out of sight of the Lizalfos in the area, you feel the ground beneath you shake. Looking at the mountain, darkness seems to erupt from it, spewing down the sides and straight towards your location. As it nears, you realize it’s not darkness– it’s a dragon, flying down the mountain at breakneck speeds. It’s covered in slime and eyeballs. You watch as the young man, around your age, dives off a nearby cliff and takes aim, hitting the goop. The dragon flies back up the mountain, and he lands near where you sit. Well, land is a strong word. He folds up his paraglider and just kind of.. faceplants into the dirt.

He looks at you. He looks at the Lynel bits still covering the ground. He looks back at you. You raise an eyebrow at him. Looking at him now, you can see his face and arms are covered in scars. Well, maybe scars wasn’t the right word. It looked like half his body had been burnt by a guardian laser and healed. His clothes were absolutely filthy, to say nothing of the smell.

He looks like he’s about to say something, but the dragon roars, snapping his attention back to it. He sprints after the beast, trying to hit the goop with an arrow once again. You decide to leave the dragon to the professional(?) and begin the long hike to the nearest village. If you hurry, you might make it before dark.

Hateno was surprisingly nice. The dye shop guy was… a bit strange. And apparently there was a mad scientist living up the hill. But other than that, it was nice. It almost made you wish you could stay. But you had things to do.

“Two arrow bundles, please.” You tell the shopkeeper. As you pack them in your bag, you hear the door behind you open. The shopkeeper greets the new customer. You look up. It’s the crazy guy that fought the dragon. He was sporting multiple new bruises and cuts across his face and arms. Before you can think, you blurt out “Dude, what happened to you?”

“Uhhh, sledding accident?” The blond scratches the back of his head nervously.

“Oh, that’s our Link!” The shopkeeper laughs, bundling up the newcomer's purchase and handing it to the boy. “He goes away for weeks at a time and comes back with the craziest stories. Did you know he’s gone to Hyrule Field?”

“Isn’t that place a death trap? There’s guardians everywhere.” You look at this ‘Link’ guy. He looks like he weighs four pounds soaking wet with shoes on. Definitely not someone you would imagine taking on a guardian. Then again, he apparently survived his encounter with the dragon on Lanayru.

“I mean, it was a bit tricky. But once you have the right equipment, it’s pretty easy to reflect the lasers back at them.” He smiles awkwardly under your gaze.

“Reflect the lasers back at them?” You cross your arms, unconvinced. “They break most shields in one hit. Two if you’re lucky. What kind of equipment could you possibly have to deal with them?”

“Just my shield.” Link looks puzzled. “I got it from inside the castle. Maybe it’s made better than the shields you’ve been using?”

“I’m sorry you went INSIDE the castle?” You scoff. “Nobody goes in there and makes it out. Hardly anyone even makes it to the gate.”

“Well, I did.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You roll your eyes. This guy sure was full of it. Sure, he had shot a dragon. But there was no way he had been inside the castle. The darkness inside. The monsters roaming everywhere. It was simply impossible.

“Fine.” Link suddenly grabs your arm, clearly annoyed. You don’t even have time to react as he pulls a device from his hip and hits the surface. You see a light surround you and suddenly you’re standing on a circular platform. There’s some sort of structure behind you. But that’s not what has your attention. The field in front of you, dotted with small patches of trees…

“What the HECK?” You exclaim, twisting out of his grip. “How are we at Hyrule Field? It’s days away from Hateno!”

“Magic?” He shrugs, and you can feel your blood pressure rising. “Anyway, wait here. I can take you back after I show you.” He takes off sprinting into the field.

“What the– ARE YOU INSANE!?” You yell, but he’s long gone. You watch where he disappeared for a few moments. Did he just leave you here? Okay, surely there wouldn’t be too many guardians between here and the road. There were enough trees you could hide behind, if need be. Just as you’re about to walk away, you see Link sprint out of the tree line.

With a guardian hot on his tail.

He waves excitedly at you as the machine powers up its laser. Welp, that settles it. This guy is clinically insane. Carrying his corpse back to Hateno would be impractical, but the village would surely appreciate some memento. Maybe after the guardian leaves you can take his sword? Or that tablet he had at his hip? You watch as the guardian fires at him. He holds up his shield… and the laser bounces off, hitting the ground a few feet away from you. The guardian fires again, and this time Link swings out his arm as the laser connects with the shield. The robot explodes.

“See!” Link runs over to you, ignoring the pile of guardian pieces. “Believe me now?”

Your jaw is still on the floor. Snapping your mouth closed, it takes a moment for you to process what you just saw. He killed a guardian. He killed a GUARDIAN. Which means he wasn’t lying about going inside the castle.

“You’re insane.” You laugh, finally able to speak. “How are you not dead, yet?”

“What can I say? I’m simply that good.” He puffs his chest out, clearly proud at proving his abilities to you.

“I saw you faceplant while fighting that dragon.” You giggle as his shoulders droop.

“Right. You saw that.” Blush creeps up his cheeks, dusting them a very cute shade of pink. Suddenly, he gets a confused look on his face. “Wait. What were you doing there?”

“There’s a Lynel that lives near the base of the mountain.” You shrug, as if that’s an explanation. Link waits for you to say more, but you don’t. Instead, you start walking southwest. You’ve got a vague idea of where you are, and you have a job to do.

“W-wait!” He yelps. When you don’t stop walking he falls in step beside you. “I can take you back to Hateno. You don’t have to walk.”

“Nah.” You wave your hand. “I’ve actually got stuff to do in the area. You saved me some travel time with your… whatever that was.”

“Like what?” He tilts his head, curious.

“Like that.” You stop walking. In front of you is a bridge, and beyond that, a giant colosseum. The walls are half-collapsed, and a black goopy substance clings to parts of the exterior.

“You’re not going in there, are you?” He looks worried.

“Of course I am.” You drop your bag, knowing it would slow you down too much.

“Umm, I would advise against that? There’s a bunch of monsters inside, and I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself, but it’s just that-” You ignore him and walk into the arena. The Lynel notices you almost immediately and brings its weapon down on the ground, sending a shockwave out in all directions. You backflip out of its range just in time, knocking an arrow as you do so. Before you land, you fire, hitting the beast directly in the face. It roars and rushes towards you, but you step out of the way just in time. You can feel yourself falling into the familiar patterns. Dodge. Strike. Parry.

The beast falls without much fanfare. It simply dissolves into darkness, like all the others do. You turn to collect your bag, and see Link, his mouth hanging open like a fish.

“You can close your mouth, pretty boy.” You chuckle as he snaps his jaw shut. “Why do you look so surprised? You killed a guardian not even ten minutes ago.”

“That was awesome.” He has stars in his eyes. You walk down the road and he follows behind you. “How did you learn to do that?”

“I’ve been doing it for years. Just trial and error. And a lot of healing potions.”

“Years?” He seems surprised. “You can’t be much older than me.”

“What is this? An interrogation?” You roll your eyes.

“Sorry. It’s just–” he pauses, and you can see the blush creep back up his cheeks. “I’ve hardly seen anyone on the roads. And when they do travel, half the time I have to save them from Bokoblins. And you handled that Lynel like it was nothing.”

“Yeah, most people don’t travel, genius.” You wave your hand dismissively. “Too many monsters nowadays. Have you been living under a rock or something?”

“Uhh, not necessarily.” He looks confused. “Maybe? Technically?”

“Do you really not know?” You look him over. He seems well-traveled, if a bit dirty.

“Know what?”

“Dude, where have you been in the past couple of years?” You turn around, pointing towards the castle as you walk backwards. “Couple years ago, the clouds around the castle started growing. The elders all told us it was a bad omen. Course, nobody paid attention until the monsters started multiplying. The towns got less safe. And Blood Moons started happening.”

“Oh. It hasn’t always been like this?”

“Nah. When I was a kid traveling between towns was relatively safe.” You turn back around and look towards the setting sun. Crap. You hadn’t realized how late it was getting. You weren’t going to make it to the stable in time.

“So the monsters are getting stronger?” Link glances back at the castle. There’s something in his gaze you can’t quite decipher.

“Yeah. And bolder. Used to be they wouldn’t get too close to settlements. Now they’ll set up camp within sight of village gates.” You shrug.

“Then why were you going after Lynels? They don’t go near towns. I’ve only ever seen them in the wild.” 

“Those places weren’t always in the middle of nowhere. Lynels are super territorial. If their numbers aren’t controlled, they’ll fight over territory and drive each other closer to villages.” You veer off the path, deciding this patch of trees would be good enough to rest by. The skeletons that rose from the ground were too much of a hassle to deal with. And you were tired.

“Why did you start hunting monsters, though?” He follows you into the small forest.

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Sorry.”

“My turn.” You sit cross legged on the ground, leaning your head against your arm. “How come you didn’t know the monsters were getting worse? You from overseas or something?”

“No. I’m from Hyrule.” He puts up his hands defensively. “I’ve just been in a coma for… a while.”

“Coma? Dang.” You pull some food out of your bag and offer some to him. He takes it. “Well, I’m not sure how things were before you went under, but now we have a little something called personal hygiene. You should try it out sometime.”

You laugh and he looks down at his clothes, as if only now realizing how filthy they are. He raises his arm and sniffs.

“I don’t smell that bad, do I?” he asks.

“Like an Octorok ate you and spit you out.”

“Aw, man.” His shoulders slump, and you have to suppress a giggle.

“Don’t worry, man. It’s nothing some soap and water can’t fix.” You smirk and take a bite of your food. It’s not the greatest, but it’s one of the few foods that travel well.

“I guess. I’ve been so busy I guess I hadn’t noticed.” He grimaces and takes a bite of his own portion. His frown deepens, but if he has an issue with your food he doesn’t say anything.

“Busy with what?” You ask. “Fighting dragons?”

“I was freeing that dragon, thank you very much.”

“Freeing it from what? This life?”

“No!” Link crosses his arms. “I was shooting Ganon’s Malice off it. Now it’s free and can fly around, just like Dinarri and Farosh!”

“Ganon? Don’t tell me you believe those fairy tales.” You snicker. He doesn’t seem to find it funny.

“Fairy tales?” He looks offended. “Calamity Ganon is in the castle right now! Zelda’s been sealing him for the last century!”

“Sure. And Santa comes down your chimney each year.” You scoff.

“How can you not believe me? There are still people alive who remember the calamity!” He’s yelling now. He sure did take it personally.

“Those are just stories grandparents tell kids to get them to behave.” You make your hands into claws, as if telling a spooky story. “You know, ‘Ooh you better eat your vegetables or else Ganon will get you!’”

“What about the champions? Don’t tell me you think they’re fake, too!”

“Of course they existed. I’ve been around Zora’s domain. I know their princess died in Vah Ruta or whatever.” You shrug. “The royal family lost control of their robots and tons of people died. The champions failed to protect their people and perished like almost everyone else. But that’s history.”

“DON’T TALK ABOUT THEM LIKE THAT!” Link slams his hands down and lean towards you threateningly. You lean away, shocked by his outburst. His expression softens as he backs away. His next words are whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “They were heroes. They gave their lives to stop Calamity Ganon. We never could have predicted he would take control of the divine beasts and guardians.” He pushes the bangs out of his face, ruffling his hair in the process.

“I’m sorry ‘we’???” You’re not sure what he’s on about.

Link doesn’t look at you. His bangs fall back in his face, covering his eyes. Without meeting your gaze, he unsheathes his sword.

“Is that–?” You don’t finish your question. The sword has a faint glow, but you can also feel the pure power radiating off of it. There’s only one sword that could be. But that was just a story. A myth that came about after the world fell apart 100 years ago. Surely, this was a trick. Or a strange coincidence?

No. Don’t be foolish. The proof was right in front of you.

Link swings the sword around, putting it back in its sheath. He stands up without another word.

“Hey-!” You jump up. He starts walking away, back to the road, and you need to jog to catch up to him. “Wait up! You can’t just drop that info and leave!”

“I’ve got stuff to do.” He says coldly.

“Yeah, no shit!” You can’t believe it. This was the hero everyone said had failed 100 years ago? Where had he been all this time? Why wasn’t he vanquishing evil or whatever? “If you’re the hero, castle’s in the other direction, my guy! Rescue the princess or whatever and the monster problems we’ve been dealing with will clear up.”

“It’s not that simple.” His hands ball into fists.

“Uhh, pretty sure that blade’s supposed to defeat Calamity Ganon. Go in. Slice his face. Problem solved.”

“I can’t do that yet.” He groans.

“Why not? You’ve got the sword. I saw you fight a dragon and a guardian.” You motion towards the place he had fought the guardian. It’s out of sight now, a few hills between you and the fallen machine, but your point still stands.

“I died! Okay?” Link points to the great plateau. Its cliffs cast a dark shadow in the moonlight. “I spent a century in the Shrine of Resurrection recovering from my last fight against Calamity Ganon. I still haven’t recovered all of my missing memories from before! Without the Divine Beasts, there’s no way I’m winning.”

“Is that what you were doing at Zora’s domain the first time I saw you?” You gasp. “You’re the reason Vah Ruta stopped spouting water everywhere!”

“Yes? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have two more Divine Beasts to free.” He walks faster down the road, trying to put distance between you two. You match his pace.

“You’ll be going after Vah Naboris, right? The Gerudo Desert is this way.” He doesn’t respond. You keep talking. “I don’t usually go into the desert, but some of the Gerudo keep me updated on the Lynels living in the mountains over there. Vah Naboris has been kicking up a sandstorm. With lightning. The only way to get close to it would be to use the Gerudo chief’s lightning-proof hat.”

“Great. I’ll do that.”

“You’ll be turned away at the gate. Gerudo only let women in their city.” You smile smugly. “Let me help.”

“What? Why would I want your help?” Link side-eyes you. “You called my friends and me failures.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” You wince. “But what you’re doing is going to save Hyrule. No more Blood Moons. No more monster attacks. Let me help.”

He’s silent for a long time. You continue walking with him. Then, he smiles. He’s not quite sure why, but you remind him of someone.

“Goddesses, you’re stubborn. Fine.”

[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 31: The Flower In The North

Content warning: Sukuna POV, blood, mentions of wounds, mentions of mass death, cannibalism.

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

The Arrival - Jan J. Močnik Sanctified - Nine Inch Nails

* * * * *

Chapter 30 | Chapter 32

* * * * *

Seven years ago…

The sky warns of a coming calamity, staining the northern horizon red.

A fire scorches the land, rolling over thatched roofs, devouring trees, destroying homes, swallowing lives. It moves like a living thing, yet the ground it leaves behind is dead. Bodies lie together in mounds, scattered like refuse, littering the soil, choking the grass in every direction.

Some manage to drag themselves free from the burning wreckage and crawl. But they struggle, mouth agape and wailing in agony, their charred skin peels away from the bone like melting tallow.

From his seat, crossed-legged on a cool patch of green, the King of Curses watches. He watches them struggle. He watches while he eats. And as he eats, he waits.

It has only taken him hours, leading into the summer night, to lay waste to three villages in succession. Soon, this nameless village in the north will be nothing. Soon, it will vanish, and he will destroy one final place before returning south, his retribution complete.

Clutching at the mutilated corpse of a woman with his lower hands, Sukuna lifts the meat and rips off a chunk of fat. He’s been gorging all day, yet hunger still leaves him empty. Dissatisfied by the lack of resistance and bored with the idea that this would all end here today.

He tears off another bite.

Blood crawls its way down his chin, and the maw on his stomach opens, the tongue rolling out to catch any stray pieces of stringy flesh and bits that don’t make it down his throat.

Bite and swallow.

Swallow and wait.

On and on and on.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

The desperate slap of tiny feet against the ground catches his ears. He pauses, fingers flexing around the soft mound of the body’s torso. His apathetic upper eyes remain fixed ahead, but he dips his chin, angling his lower pair toward the noise disrupting his meal.

Two children rush out from the cloud of smoke, coughing, and hand in hand, they skid to a halt under his scarlet gaze. Their soot-streaked faces glisten, tracks of tears falling from their wide eyes round like moons. Behind them, the fire roars, casting shadows that stretch unnaturally long, as if they belong to adults instead. Trembling and alone, they freeze, hoping to slip past the monster unnoticed.

The King of Curses only stares, chews, and then swallows. One child sniffles, then blinks, shuffling on burned feet. The sting of smoke pulls more tears to their eyes while the other openly weeps, tugging urgently at their companion’s hand.

Tch. Pathetic.

Sukuna doesn’t move. He simply eats and watches, blood bubbling up from his mouth and dripping down to the grass.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he mutters, his words lost, muffled by the stomach lining lodged between his teeth. “Leave.”

The children don’t wait; they take it as a sign to flee and bolt, their footsteps retreating into the collective dim. Sukuna doesn’t spare them another glance but listens to the frantic murmur of their escape, the sniffling and sobbing.

“Noisy fucking brats,” he huffs, their cries fading into the distance. 

Children were always obnoxiously loud in his presence, always crying and trembling and screaming like little pests buzzing at his ears. Their inquisitive stares and nascent ideas about his “ugly mask” and extra limbs irritate him like an itch.

Canines tearing into another bit of flesh, he watches the massive fire rage before him, painting his skin in colours of a sunset—fiery reds, molten oranges, and streaks of gold dancing across the night.

He keeps eating.

Eating, chewing, swallowing, watching, waiting.

Seconds stretch into minutes, then minutes into an hour.

The blaze grows, the masses of bodies blacken, and soon, they foul the air into a thick putrid stench.

Impatience settles over him. This was taking too long. A fire of this scale, the magnitude of slaughter impressive enough that it should have dragged a vulture from its nest.  

Still, he’s forced to wait. But when the moon squats high, and half the woman’s body in his grasp has been consumed, Sukuna pauses. His bare chest and sirwal soaked in gore.  

The scream of a horse fractures the night. He lifts his head, ears tracking the sound.  

Then comes another shrill whine.  

And another.  

And another.

And another.

These are uneasy shrieks, cutting through from beyond the treeline to his right. There lies the untouched forest, free from his carnage, its shadows providing the perfect cover for cowards.  

His smile twists into something ugly.  

The snake, Kasai Takuma, has finally arrived, and his reputation precedes him. Sukuna knows he’s there, with his other clansmen, refusing to come close, choosing only to observe from a distance.  

They’ve likely never laid eyes on anything like him before. Few ever had. And when they do, it’s always the same.

Disgust. Disgust at the impurity of his body. Revulsion at his abnormalities. An ill omen to be titled and cursed. A language of violence—one he knows very well.

Rolling the torso off his lap, Sukuna stands, sliding a hand through his hair before he stretches, his neck cracking. All four of his eyes turn skyward to the inky black curve of the world, tinged bright where it dips toward the earth.

He inhales a breath.

If Kasai is here, then his estate is unguarded, which means his family—his wife and two daughters are alone. Perfect. Let a hand reach out in the dark and strip this man of everything, beginning with the woman carrying his next heir.

His feet are already moving.

Using the play of shadow and smoke for cover, Sukuna picks his way unnoticed through the mess at his feet. He slips away to where his mount waits, tethered in silence and from there, he rides off.

* * * * *

The clop of hooves on mossy ground is a dull beat that accompanies him as he guides his horse through the forest north toward the compound, taking only the backroads. Gaining information on the snake had been fairly easy, especially given how guarded Takuma has been about certain aspects of his life. Still, knowing a man capable of inhibiting another’s body with a simple switch of his brain has proven useful. Though, Sukuna doesn’t doubt he’ll owe a debt one day.

After some time, he reigns in his mount to a stop. If he plans to descend upon the estate, he prefers to keep the animal at a distance, away from the chaos to come.

Dismounting, he tethers it to a low-hanging branch of a tree, giving it a pat before turning away. Ahead, through the brush, a river glimmers silver and winding through the verdant dim. Sirwal already ruined, Sukuna walks toward it and pushes in. Bare feet sinking into the soft silt of the riverbed, he exhales, savouring the coolness lapping at his legs.

Nature has always fascinated him. Years without a home taught him to depend on its offerings. Plants, animals, and flowers. They all possess a dual power—they can provide aid and comfort or bring suffering and death, their beauty often concealing their danger.

Stepping in deeper, the water sloshes lazily around his ankles before rising to submerge his calves. He glances down, watching the ripples spread outward, tiny waves shining with the refracted light of stars and the pustular moon peeking through the lush canopy above.

Among the reflections, his four eyes glow like coals shoved into a pit and left to burn. He blinks down at his distorted visage, then crouches, the movement pulling the scent of fire and blood from the fabric of his garment.

Cupping his upper hands into the glassy surface, he lets the cool liquid tickle his skin before lifting them. He takes a sip, washing away the traces of iron still clinging to his tongue. Swallowing, he dips his head for a second taste, his forehead brushing against the cup formed by his fingers.

A prickle spreads across his skin. He pauses, feeling it again, stronger this time.

His lower eyes slip downward, tracing the sudden goosebumps rising unnaturally along his forearms and creeping higher.

Odd.

Dropping the water, he runs a fingertip over the raised flesh. It’s not the chill of the river causing it.

It’s something else.

There’s a change in the air—a faint hum, a low buzz, a pressure steadily building, trembling, climbing higher and higher, eating away at him like a disintegration as though something bottled up is about to shatter into a thousand tiny, little pieces.

It commands his attention.

All of it.

Rare.

The goosebumps begin to crawl higher and faster, spreading up his arms, across his chest, down his back, and along his spine. A sensation like warm fingers gliding across skin. There’s only surprise when, for a heartbeat, all four of his eyes roll back. 

He clenches his jaw.

His focus sharpens.

The sensation intensifies.

It builds.

And builds.

And builds.

And—  

CRACK! 

The world vibrates with such a force it momentarily disrupts every thought inside his head.

The King of Curses quickly rises from the water, river droplets splattering off him, smacking loudly onto the surface. He tips his head. A bit of concentration, and there—a sense of direction. The source.  

In an instant, he moves. Fast.  

Feet punching into the undergrowth, he goes, almost entirely forgetting after all these years what he’s truly here for. But whatever the hell is causing this, he wants to indulge in it. He wants to crush it into the ground, to consume it entirely, watch it burn as bright as it possibly can, and then see it snuff out. 

Further and further, he moves north, trees rushing past, rocks, and brush, everything a blur. Following the energy’s pattern is simple enough. Whoever it is has no control over it. It's leaking off in irritating waves, pulling, subsiding, and then crashing down against him again and again.  

When it leads him to what appears to be the limestone barrier marking the edge of a compound, he slows. It’s gaudy enough, matching the description he was given as Kasai. But Kenjaku revealed nothing about a sorcerer being present.

Slipping into the shelter of a grove cut from dense foliage, Sukuna moves closer to the back of the estate, but his brow furrows. The source of the energy is barreling straight toward him. A falling star on a collision course.

His pulse begins to thrum in rhythm with it, the pressure nudging him forward, urging him. He only takes one more step before a girl, barefoot and covered in blood, crashes through the yews, forcing him to pull back into the bramble and mask himself.

A distant, urgent voice follows after her, another coming, another’s energy. Not one but two sorcerers.

Dipping into the shadows, Sukuna stays close to the trunks until he reaches a break and sinks low into the undergrowth, crouching on his haunches.

At last, he sees them. 

The bloodied one sobs uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking, while the other leans close, murmuring softly and running her hands through her hair. As he studies their features, the similarities become clear—their hair, the sound of their voices, the shared mannerisms.

Siblings.

Sisters.

Daughters.

Kasai’s daughters.

Tilting his head, he smirks. Fate, in all its befitting glory, can be such a cruel bitch.

Keeping his gaze on the sobbing one—which he considers the pathetic of the two, he watches as she suddenly pulls away from the other’s embrace. 

A few more soft words are spoken before there’s a swell in energy. The comforting one cups the other’s face, her thumbs tracing across her cheeks gently.

“No more tears, sister,” she soothes. 

Instantly, the pitiful one’s sobs come to an abrupt halt.

Interesting.

A single touch, a few words, and the other bends completely to her will. Such a subtle, devious skill and quite the weapon for a woman finding her footing in this world.

The sound of horses and men approaching in the distance calls their attention. Sukuna inclines his head. It appears he will have more than a family to slaughter now. He might as well take the entire clan down tonight.

Between the two girls, a few more words are exchanged, and there’s another throb of energy.

It’s clear that the comforting one knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s had months—years—of practice. Enough to perfect her methods because whatever she’s done, she’s left traces of herself all over her sister. Residuals of her will, twisting and breaking the girl’s mind, moulding her into an obedient, dutiful mutt. Something small. Something smothered.

A sibling’s love.

How traitorous a thing.

Red eyes piercing into the dark, the King of Curses watches the persuasive one retract her fingers and slip away, retreating back inside the barrier. She leaves behind the other—this crying, broken creature before him. And slowly, she begins to unravel further, descending into a pit of delirium.

“I killed her… I killed her…”

From where she stands below the moonlit trees, the first muttered confession spills out.

Disgust crawls across his face as he watches.

But then, it gets worse.

Her movements become erratic, her pacing uneven, hair falling over her features and hiding the tears he knows are there. Gaze tracking her, he follows the curve of her feet pressing into the grass, counting each time she turns.

One.

Turn. Pace. Turn again.

Two.

“I killed her…”

Turn. Pace. Turn again.

Three.

“I killed her…”

Madness licks at her heels.

So what if she had killed someone? Looking at her now, she seems incapable of such an act unless she’d been forced to. And that’s what he can sense all over her. She’s been manipulated—a girl who might have sought affection but was left with only a hollow imitation of it.

“I killed her… I killed her…”

He clicks his tongue, irritation rising as she becomes mindless.

This? This was what had drawn him here? A sick, rabid animal that should be put out of its fucking misery.

Turn. Pace.

All that untapped power trapped inside such a wretched, fragile girl, so easily controlled despite it.

Turn again.

She is undeserving. Untalented. Worthless.

Turn.

Sukuna stands.

Pace.

He takes a step.

Crack!

The branch at his foot splits the quiet like snapping bones.

She freezes.

And for half a heartbeat, so does he.

It falls silent.

Eventually, she turns, lifting her gaze to meet him directly. And finally, he sees you—your mouth, your eyes, your face. 

Everything.

Pulling free from the shadows, he steps into the grove’s clearing. Heel to toe, his feet whisper over the cool grass as he closes the distance, steady, unhurried, his four eyes never leaving your countenance.

At this moment, there are three things Ryomen Sukuna knows with absolute certainty.

First, you aren’t running. Whatever compulsion your sister has eating away at you, it keeps you rooted in place. Lucky for him. Second, even now, drenched in tears, gore, and blood, you are, against all reason… lovely. Third, a terrible chasm has just opened inside him, and it can only be filled by one thing.

“Fuga.”

Like a hearth breathing to life, heat bursts and takes shape within his palms, coalescing into a blaze that he twists and sharpens. His upper arm flexes, shoulder rolling back as he drags it tight into an arrow. His stance is solid, his grip firm, his aim locked on you.

There is no sympathy. Not for your father. Not for your sister. Not for your mother.

Especially not for you.

The arrow is drawn back further, his hand brushing the underside of his jaw, all four eyes fixed on his target.

A single breath in.

A single breath out.

Release.

And yet, a thread claws at the edges of his mind, snagging, pulling, refusing to be ignored.

He cannot release it.

The very idea sickens him, and his mouth pulls back into a sneer, his shoulders bunching as his muscles coil and strain.

He draws back again, further with more force so that the fire trembles, embers snapping and scattering like shards of glass.

Draw. Aim. Exhale.

Release.

But he hesitates.

This should be simple.

So why does his hand falter?

You’re the daughter of a man who has taken from him. A bastard who reshaped his world before he even entered it. Now, that same kindness will be returned.

He draws back again. Further. Further.

Through the sweltering blaze, your wide eyes meet his, their shining surface reflecting the glow of the flames.

Red, red, red.

He huffs.

Lowering his arms, the fire dies at his sides, leaving the air charged with lingering heat. His mouth twists into a faint pout, frustration of a different kind winding its way through his body.

“Perhaps taking its head is the answer,” he grumbles before walking towards you.

Muscles straining, he moves closer until he’s in arms reach, scarlet gaze mapping every part of you. Your robe is soaked in blood, clinging to your frame, spattered with viscera. Whatever you’ve done, it was messy.

Badum, badum, badum.

The pulse at your neck jumps, the only sign you’re growing nervous. Otherwise, you’re still—frozen in place, barely daring to breathe.

When he reaches you, he crosses his upper arms over his chest, tilting his head. Compared to him, you’re a mere wisp of a thing, this frail creature standing before him.

Slowly, Sukuna falls to his haunches, his knees spreading to cage you between them. His lower arms rest on his thighs while the upper pair remain crossed, looming above.

“So pathetically… small,” he murmurs while looking into your eyes, which are wide and unfocused in the murk. Perhaps a side effect of what your sister has done.

Cocking his head, he reaches out with his lower left hand, pinching your jaw and lifting your face for a better look.

“But look at these glittering eyes of yours,” he coos, mockingly. “So much emotion trapped behind them.”

His thumb brushes along your chin, skirting upward, avoiding the path of your tears. The touch is absurdly light—absurd because gentleness is foreign to him.

He has never touched anyone like this before.

You should be dead by now. Dead because that was the promise he made to himself long ago.

All of the Kasai family. Gone.

Wet lashes falling downward, Sukuna notices your eyes dropping to your hemline. Following your attention, he sees the bloody feet of yours. Where his feet are placed on either side, he can swallow you whole.

“Little indeed,” he smirks, brushing a streak of gore from the sleeves of your yukata before licking the blood from his fingertips. “Looks like your hands took the life of another, haven’t they?”

The truth is obvious from the deranged mutterings he heard earlier. I killed her… I killed her.

There’s a nod, the movement of your head stunted and small.

“Who?” he asks, voice silk-wrapped, as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, curving a finger down the cartilage.

To his surprise, you shiver and relax slightly, though your eyes still blink dumbly, and you shift on your feet as if eager to run, but he knows you can’t.

“Mother.” It’s only an utterance, and he barely catches it, sounding more like a plea than anything else.

Looming in the distance, the noises of the returning horses and men swell, making you spin your head in that direction.

A decision needs to be made. Now.

Sukuna’s gaze lifts. All he can hear is your racing heart, screaming to hide. His eyes dance back to you before nudging your attention on him again.

“What has she done to you, hm?” he mumbles, swiping his thumb along your temple. He watches your eyes grow heavy, comforted once more by such a small, insignificant touch.

Strange.

Someone with this much power is not meant to cower or be afraid.

You should be like him.

You could be like him.

If given a chance—but here, you never will.

A flower unable to flourish will wither and die, and he wonders what you might become if allowed to bloom. Not smothered. Not kept small. Somewhere else, perhaps. Elsewhere in time.

“Flower of the north…” he muses, rising slowly to tower over you. “So easy to crush, and yet so beautiful.”

With footsteps approaching, he knows the other daughter is coming. Her power saturates the air in thick waves. Fingers, he does not want touching him.

Peering down, he takes one last look at you before stepping away, leaving you behind.

For now.

But his plans have reshaped, folding into something new. In time—years, perhaps—he’ll find you again. And when he does, he’ll ensure that this decision to let you live will be worth far more than it is now.

* * * * *

Present…

“Why were you there that night?”

The wood of the verandah creaks beneath Sukuna’s weight as he steps outside. A cooler breeze has replaced the warmth from earlier in the day, its force rattling through the trees surrounding the shrine, lifting the edges of his sirwal and hair.

Ignoring your question, he continues walking, descending the steps into his private garden. Dry, brittle grass crackles at the soles of his feet. 

“Answer me!”

Your voice hits his back again, louder this time, not tampered down by the wind. Not tampered down by anything anymore.

“Sukuna!”

His name. Not my Lord.

He stops walking.

He always did like the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. There’s always a hesitation to it, as if you’re unsure how to wield it. And when you do, it always comes paired with an emotion—pleasure, submission, anger. Like now. 

It’s refreshing, really, to have all the pretenses stripped away. With niceties gone, everything laid bare, he can see what you truly are.

Finally.

He turns.

In the doorway to his chambers, you still look so small compared to him, just as you did the first time you met. But now, the pale fabric of your yukata, swallowed by the dim and streaked red where he cut you, gives you a fierceness you didn’t possess then. And in that, he has given you a gift you aren’t even aware of. He tore you from your family, and look at you now—sneaking into his chambers in the dead of night, seeking his ruin. Once, you were nothing. Now you’re finally coming into your own. 

“To kill the Kasai lineage so I could taste your father's suffering,” he states calmly. “That meant ending you, your sister, your mother, and the unborn maggot growing inside her.”  

There’s a pause.

A gust of wind hurls itself between the two of you. 

“Why?”  

Your voice is quiet, trembling at the edges, but his gaze slides from your lips to your eyes, catching the moment the last traces of affection for him empty and die. 

Good.

They were only a useless collection of emotions anyway.  

Your hate and violence—that’s what he wants. And now, he’ll have them tenfold. Unlike before, when you buried them under restraint. There were always flashes of fury, but nothing like what he’ll see now. You’ll leave this world not sobbing, not pleading, but fighting. And he’ll be the one to give you that ending.

“Because your father deserved to have his life stripped away,” he replies coolly, crossing his upper arms over his chest. “He was a sickness that killed the land and left others to rot in lives they did not choose.”

“So all of this…” You step onto the verandah, your hands curling into fists, your left tightening around the tantō you retrieved from the floor. “...this union…”

He watches you take a breath, then blink as confusion and desperation start to ease into anger.

“What the hell do you want from all of this!?”

“You!” Sukuna snarls loudly. 

Your mouth curls into a nasty smile before inclining your chin.

“Me?” you grind out.

“You. You were the one thing keeping me from taking everything apart that night,” he growls, striding toward the steps where you stay rooted at the top of them. “Not because I couldn’t kill you, but because I wanted to. I wanted to rip you apart, scatter the pieces, and let the earth swallow you whole. But I couldn’t. Something in you clawed at me, wrapped itself around my lungs, and squeezed. And don’t misunderstand,” he spits, eyeing you up and down. “It’s not affection. There’s a power in you begging to be unearthed. A fire smothered by hands that keep you small, blind to anything beyond the obedient bitch you’ve always been."

He knows you won’t believe him if he tells you about your sister. Force-feeding you the truth never works. But your reaction to Yuna’s name always amuses him. The first time he mentioned her, your energy flared—briefly, beautifully—before you fled instead of fought. That was when he chose a different tactic: to learn you, find your weaknesses, exploit them.

“You’ll show me that tonight.” He gestures to the space between you two before he turns and saunters into the garden. “I’ll be the one to drag it out of you.”

Laughter hits his back, and he turns to see your head tipped back, howling like a damn animal as you slowly make your way down the steps.

“All I got from that nonsense,” you say, pausing to catch your breath and stifle your laughter, “is that you’re fucking insane!”

“Am I?” he snaps, anger flaring in his eyes. “Look at yourself! Seven years ago, two months even, you were nothing. Weak. Small. But now, standing in my chambers, staring me down, demanding answers. You’ve grown. I took you because I wanted to see what you could become, away from that wretched family of yours.”

But the truth, still buried deep where he can’t fully face it, is that he’s been drowning in you for months, maybe years. And it’s been far too long.

He knows too much now. 

He knows all the little things you like. How you light up when he stares at you just a moment too long, when others might feel discomfort, but you’ve grown to revel in it. How you study him, your eyes tracing his form when you think he isn’t looking. How badly you want to touch the right side of his face, your gaze always drifting there, trying to decide what it is. He knows how much you crave his touch. He knows how nervous you’ve become around him, your hands fidgeting as if to distract yourself from desires you refuse to admit.

A distraction.

That was it.

You are a distraction.

Ending your life will finally bring air back into his lungs. Because he’s been submerged in you for far too long, tangled in your human emotions—emotions he should have left alone.

Once you’re gone—after all, it was you who took both your parents—perhaps he’ll finally hunt down Yuna. Then again, he wouldn’t be surprised if that serpent slithers her way here once she hears of what happens tonight. Because he knows what she’s been up to—carving her own path, gathering alliances, likely manipulating her way into the three major clans and climbing even higher.

Eventually, she’ll come for him. They all will.

And once again, you are the distraction he doesn’t need or want when that happens.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of your footsteps pulls his thoughts back. Padding softly down the stairs, then muffled by the grass, they carry you closer until you come to stand before him. 

Sukuna’s top lip curls back, and he steps forward, closing the space between you in a single stride. Toe to toe, his upper arm rises, fingers trailing to the wound along your jaw. Not wanting his opponent to bleed out too soon, he presses two fingers against it.

Four eyes crashing into yours, he slowly swipes along the wound, feeling you tense under his touch and the sting of his healing.

“As I said,” he whispers, his hand falling to his side, flexing once at the lingering sensation. “You die here tonight.”

He crosses the garden, putting distance between you before turning back, anticipation threading through his body.

“Either you let the vow kill you for refusing, or you show me, just once, what you can do. Besides, you should be honoured by this privilege.”

You say nothing, and he waits, staring at you. Staring at the tantō he’d given you, gripped so tightly in your hand that your knuckles have turned—

He squints.

From knuckles to fingertips, a web of vein-like discolouration climbs up your hands. A sign your energy is spilling out in erratic bursts, and you don’t even understand how to control it.

He chuckles.

What would happen if he let you touch him with those fingers of yours?

Heartbeat pounding in his teeth, Sukuna feels his blood sliding through his veins, thick, like molten iron.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

“Well?” he croons, flaring his eyes and rolling his neck casually. “Let's get this over with. I’m eager to see you drip red for me again.”

Gaze leaping to your face, he watches for any sign of anger dancing across your eyes. There’s still so much of it buried there, aching to be unleashed.

He can help with that, using the intimacy he’s pried from you as a weapon. Like a flower—beautiful on the surface, until the petals are stripped away, leaving nothing but the bare stem.

“What was it,” he asks, his voice almost tender, “that made you start to lose your heart to me?”

A muscle feathers along the curve of your jaw, lashes flickering for a second. He can tell you don’t particularly like this question, and it makes his grin widen.

“Was it when I protected you? Took that polearm into my body?" He tilts his head to the side. "Or was it something else? Something much more intimate?”

The question lingers in the air.

The moon spills over you like milk, brightening the shadows in your pretty eyes as they lock with his. Slowly, you lift your chin.

Defiance suits you.

“No,” you say, simply, widening your stance.

His grin sharpens. He’ll drag your anger out one way or another. But he’ll enjoy playing with you first.

A sudden gust of wind tosses your hair wildly across your face, momentarily obscuring the creeping darkness in your features. But he catches it—a subtle twitch at the corners of your mouth, pulling at the bow of your lips, the one he’s always found himself watching.

A smile.

Interesting.

You are such a fascinating thing when faced with your own death.

His teeth flash viciously in response, his four eyes devouring you.

You.

His flower.

His possession.

His property.

His wife.

His to kill.

His.

Always.

Mine.

His upper right arm swings up aggressively, but before he can react further, you turn abruptly. Yukata snapping in the breeze, you give him your back, take a step, and then—

You’re gone.

Running.

His brow crashes down, eyes narrowing to angry red slits as your figure bursts through the wilting foliage, racing toward the forest.

That fucking forest.

He tosses back his head and laughs, the sound manic and crazed.

Are you really going to make him chase you?

How nostalgic—one last tumble through those woods.

“Keep running!”

You foolish girl. Idiot girl.

“Stupid girl!” he snarls through his teeth, taking a step forward. His energy uncoils in a violent wave, vibrating and reaching for yours, which he can feel fraying and unravelling in panic.

He grins as adrenaline pours through him, his strides lengthening as he follows. You disappear past the lumbering treeline, falling into the dark maw of the night, but your residuals alight the ground like a map.

You always were easy for him to find.

Always.

And as the King of Curses slips soundlessly into the forest, he knows this time will be different. When he stands before you again, in this final confrontation, there will be no hesitation. Unlike all those years ago, when he held back, this time he will burn you, slice you, consume you.

He will steal the very last breath from your lungs.

* * * * *

🔗 Chapter 32

[mayapapaya33]

I'm rewatching Exu: Calamity and I think they made a mistake with the name. The real title should be Exu: Actually, Vasselheim has good reasons for how it operates, even if they're dicks about it sometimes. Maybe it was too long, so they went with the snappier CALAMITY! Instead lol.

The end of the Calamity was only 840 something years ago. With Elves and dragons running around, some of them are definitely old enough where, if they didn't live during the Age of Arcanum themselves, their parents or grandparents would have and they would have been told a thousand stories of the fuck heads in flying cities who destroyed the world and were super annoying and dangerous long before they did that. Many more would be born during the latter part of the Calamity or raised by people who survived the Calamity who passes on those stories. Depending on the race we are talking anywhere from direct witnesses (Like the Bright Queen and Ludinus) to like 2-5 generations removed. Even humans with our short lifespans, it's really not THAT long, especially if you've got a bunch of old ass elves around teaching history class from a first person pov for like 500 years lol.

Intellectually people know that Critical Role, the world of Exandria is a post apocalypse story. Exandria is a scarred landscape that is just beginning to bounce back from the brink. But because it is recovering, it's easy to forget sometimes that it IS POST APOCALYPTIC. So people looking at Vasselheim in the modern day are like, 'bro, you really need to chill, everything's fine.' And Vasselheim is like... 'Chill? I do not understand the meaning of this word. And everything is fine... for now. We will be a bastion of civilization when the end times come once more. Fare thee well traveler.'

Then everyone rolls their eyes and moves on with their day. But if you really think about Vasselheim's isolationism and strength and distain for arcane magic in historical context, you can't really blame them. Are they over the top about their dislike of arcane magic? Sure. Is it quite possibly the most understandable over reaction in the history of over reactions? Also yes! They haven't made it illegal, they are just going to keep an eye on you, so you don't pull a Vespin Chloras and doom the planet to another few centuries of choked skies and sundered landscapes, that's all. Vespin was IN Vasselheim! Of COURSE they have strong feelings about it. The (Almost) End of the World began in Vasselheim due to arcane magic. If they had been stricter, maybe it wouldn't have happened at all!

And it really does paint their actions in Campaign 1 in a different light as well. Their isolationism can come across as shortsighted and selfish, until you view it from their point of view. Which is that they are constantly under threat, they know for a fact that Asmodeus wants their city destroyed, they are a bastion for the Prime Deities in a world filled with many heathens (lol that's where the dickishness comes in) and the Betrayer Gods would take any sign of weakness in their defenses and attack with glee. Hearing it in C1 it sounds like an excuse not to help against the Chroma Conclave, but it is literally just the truth from what I can tell. In BOTH Calamity and Downfall they have mentioned destroying Vasselheim being on the Betrayer God's to do list lol. If I was on a Betrayer God's to do list specifically, by name, I too would be somewhat paranoid and would not really want to disarm any portion of the city to go do something else. No matter how important the something else might be.

Vasselheim was basically like; Look, I'm very sorry to hear about your Dragon problem, that sucks, truly, but if we go out all willy nilly and leave this city undefended, it'll be fucked when we get back. When you have a real plan, come back and get us and we'll join you for the big fight. Until then, it's up to you, here you can have Kima as well, she's been desperate to get out of here anyway, and here's some supplies. We have larger concerns than one continent being attacked by four ancient Dragons. We are the seed bank for civilization for when shit inevitably hits the fan. We are the doomsday bunker for the Apocalypse, four Ancient Dragons are terrible, but they are not the Apocalypse. And they are right. Looking at it all in context, The Chroma Conclave are small potatoes. Horrific, monstrous, life destroying, but compared to the threat Vasselheim is preparing for, nothing.

They are the doomsday preppers of Exandria, except the threat is real and they are only letting their collective trauma and ptsd inform their decisions a little bit. They are actually fairly rational all things considered. This city withstood the entire Calamity. The stewards of the city must feel an enormous weight and responsibility to keep it safe going into the future. Imagine the pressure. Are you going to be the one to fuck it all up, after thousands of years? Sounds like a nightmare to me. The level of devotion and conviction required to keep something like that going is incredible.

[kradogsrats]

Aaravos, Leola, and the Entire History of Human Magic: Revisited

So I last dumped on this topic right after s5 released, and came up with a rough series of conclusions that were largely correct, as far as interpreting what information we had been given so far. Now that s6 has dumped some new delicious and crunchy twists into the mix, let's take another look.

The Unicorn's Gift

Going into s6, we had 2.5 accounts of the gifting of primal magic to humans: the Book One: Moon novelization, Tales of Xadia, and Ripples. In Book One: Moon, and Tales of Xadia, we learn that humans received primal magic from the/a most selfless and compassionate unicorn(s), against the advice of the elves.

Unicorns were always the most selfless of the Xadian beings. There came a time when, filled with pity, they desperately wanted to help the struggling humans. After all, it was not the humans' choice to have been born without magic. But the First Elves were wary. They warned the unicorns that kindness was not always returned with kindness; it would be a mistake to trust the species. After all, if humans were supposed to use magic, they would have been born with it.

— Book One: Moon

One heart took pity on the plight of humanity. A unicorn, unique among her own rare kind, saw the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit where others saw weakness and beastly ignorance. Her name was Leola. While elves warned that if humans were meant to wield magic they would have been born with it, she gifted the wisest humans with secrets: the language of the dragons and the runes that shaped spells.

— Tales of Xadia

What's interesting is how inaccurate both of these stories have turned out to be. We also don't even actually know whose stories these are. By the time of the series events, it's no longer even remembered that humans had primal magic, aside from primal stones. It's a truth forgotten on the human side, and either similarly forgotten or deliberately suppressed in Xadia. Despite the brightest, most constant star in the sky still retaining the name "Leola's Last Wish," neither Callum nor Rayla know who Leola was.

Ripples obliquely acknowledges the vagueness and changing nature of these stories, opening with:

Like all the oldest tales, time has bent its shape and blurred its color. It is a fable whispered on some tongues and shouted on others. While one may say it ends with a sunrise, another will insist it ends at nightfall.

— Ripples

So rather than directly telling the story of humanity's acquisition of primal magic, Ripples deals with the aftermath. We learn that humanity had been, implicitly or explicitly, forbidden primal magic, and in the wake of them receiving it, a star fell.

It happened long ago, when humans had only just learned to hold fire in their hands without burning. They nurtured their precious primal flames secretly—in the dark of night, beneath shadows and shrouds—as cultivating its glow drew the eyes and ire of monsters. Eventually, for the audacity of their fire, they were hunted, and—though they looked to the stars for salvation—the stars, too, looked down upon them with disdain. Humanity had been given something it was never meant to have. And so there came a calamity.

— Ripples

The story told in Ripples turns out to be the most accurate, based on what we have learned from s6. Humans acquired primal magic, and a star was cast from the sky. (A tiny star, if you want extra emotions.) It makes no mention of how humans learned primal magic, only that they did, and—unlike the other stories, where the elves caution against giving magic to humans but take no other action—the are hunted by monsters for it.

Elarion, fading bloom, afraid to wilt and dim and die, she searched the dark for but a spark and caught the dragons’ hungry eye.

— Midnight Star

Hmmmm.

The Order of the Stars

One of the main things, possibly the main thing, we learned from s6 is that we were given a glimpse of the stars as the god-like authorities that have been hinted at in a lot of Aaravos-related side content. It's not a good look. (It never was.)

It tells us succinctly why primal magic was forbidden to humans: in the timeless gaze of the stars, humans acquiring magic dooms the universe.

(Of course, it is the attempt at averting prophesied doom that actually brings it to pass, but that's just standard stuff. For all their omniscience, the stars apparently still lack genre-awareness.)

This "cosmic order" is likely what the stars have built that Aaravos seeks to destroy:

I hope the stars were watching. I hope they saw it: the moment their perfect reflections turned warped and ruined, churned to chaos by the touch of a single human hand.

— Ripples

And when everything they have built lies shattered, I will savor their fall from the sky.

— Patience

Snitches Get Stitches, Even Dragons

The other major curve ball s6 has thrown into the story as we understood it is the involvement of the archdragons, Sol Regem in particular. According to Aaravos, the testimony of a young Sol Regem is the only evidence against Leola.

At the time, Aaravos seems to take this at face value, and argues that anything Leola may have done was out of love for humans and the world, not defiance of the cosmic order. Maybe this is because Sol Regem/Anak Arao is an archdragon of the Sun, the primal source known for the light of truth.

I, however, have to wonder if he was lying. Taking a look at Ripples, again:

It happened long ago, when humans had only just learned to hold fire in their hands without burning. They nurtured their precious primal flames secretly—in the dark of night, beneath shadows and shrouds—as cultivating its glow drew the eyes and ire of monsters. Eventually, for the audacity of their fire, they were hunted, and—though they looked to the stars for salvation—the stars, too, looked down upon them with disdain.

— Ripples

Apparently, the first primal source humans accessed was the Sun. It could just be that Anak Arao was a rules-obsessed hall monitor and... but what if it wasn't Leola who gave humans that secret? We don't even see Leola doing any magic of the kind she's credited with giving humans—no runes, no spells of any specific primal. If someone did teach humans the runes and Draconic words for primal magic, it seems unlikely to have been her.

But as heir to some kind of position of authority, could it have been partially Anak Arao's responsibility to keep his primal source out of human hands? Was it maybe stolen out from under his nose, and he sought to shift the punishment away from himself? (And boy, would it sure be a real uno-reverse to have this story loop all the way back around to a literal theft of fire for humanity.) Or could it have been lost/given to humans by someone he wanted to protect from the same cosmic justice?

Hmmmm.

There have been hints about a larger human/dragon conflict in the past, most notably the Midnight Star poem. In a hiatus-era interview, Aaron Ehasz describes an early version of the setting as being essentially humans/unicorns vs. dragons/elves. The low-key emphasis on humans and dragons in opposition that we get from some of these materials is a) interestingly not mentioned in either of the "unicorns gave primal magic to humans" stories, and b) not actually what we see as the primary conflict in the setting, outside of Sol Regem's personal grudge.

It gets especially weird because, like... there's no reason to think all the other archdragons we're aware of (except Zym) weren't there, too. Sol Regem is cast as a bit older, but not "of an entirely different generation from the other archdragons"-older. So like, you'd think Zubeia would remember, at minimum, that primal magic was forbidden to humans by the cosmic order. Maybe, given the implied departure/loss of interest by the stars, no one cares anymore? Maybe dark magic was considered a much more serious issue, as far as perversions of the natural order are concerned. Or I guess it's possible that there was some special relationship between the stars and the line of the archdragon Sun King, and the other archdragons weren't privy to the machinations going on in the heavens.

Basically, there's been a big new mystery introduced as to the geopolitics of Xadia and the heavens in the distant past, in addition to Aaravos's personal relationships with all the archdragons.

Book and Key

So overall, I don't actually know what to make of this:

But I have a couple wild theories to put forth.

First of all, Aaravos has been referred to as "archmage of all six primal sources," and this is reflected in the pre-s6 promo art series featuring the book and key.

But, interestingly, we also see in s6 that in order to truly commune with the heavens, the Celestial elves have to remove themselves from the influence of the other primal sources, specifically the Sun and Moon.

So, as powerful as they are, I think maybe Startouch elves don't have automatic access to the other primal sources. Maybe not even the magic of the Star primal, as it exists harnessed by rune spells. The book is probably how Aaravos himself built connections to primal magic while in Xadia.

(This would mean that the reason it was at all believable for Leola to give the secrets of primal magic to humans is because Aaravos was exploring those secrets—something it could be that the stars resented?)

Anyway this could also connect up with any number of wild theories about the nature of primal magic or primal elves, though we see a Moonshadow elf among Leola's friends so it seems primal elves are already present at this point. Being me, if Aaravos and Leola's home was actually in what is now Duren, I at least personally want to believe that he was seeding the frontier with magic.

Anyway, as always: some answers, and even more questions. Catch y'all later when the post-release interviews and Q&As inevitably make everything even weirder.

[edelgarfield]

god damn it all this Aeor and Calamity lore has me liking Ludinus a lot more than I ever wanted to. I find him so fascinating and compelling as a villain, in the way that he reflects a lot of my favorite characters' flaws particularly from CR2, but CR3 in Bell's Hells at times self-defeating pursuit of power in order to win.

I'm thinking abt a couple quotes from Essek, bc he & Ludinus obviously have so much in common. By Essek's own admission, it was his inability to trust people that made his pursuit of knowledge at the cost of others so appealing, that made him lose sight of the hurt he was causing

In particular the second quote: feeling personally responsible for doing something because of your inability to trust anyone else. I think that encompasses Ludinus's ideology & motivation so well.

The idea of longevity/immortality being a barrier to intimacy is something that gets talked about with respect to elves a lot, and I think Ludinus encompasses that to its logical extreme. Ludinus is one of the last survivors who actually lived on Exandria during the Calamity. Most elves actually fucked off to the Feywild and didn't return until long after the fighting was over. Given Ludinus was a child when Aeor fell, I would assume that means his parents chose to stay on Exandria & he was born afterwards. (Which if that's the case, adds another layer to his resistance against the gods bc he was doomed to live through the war on the surface of Exandria bc of a choice his parents made before he was born.)

All the elves born at the tail end of the Calamity are dead by now, Ludinus lived at least 160ish years of it, and most of the elves born around that time would have been in the Feywild and wouldn't have the experience of seeing what happened to the world. Everyone else who survived the Calamity would have died hundreds of years ago, not to mention that only a third of the population even survived it in the first place. The thing that's saved the PCs (& Essek) time and time again is their bonds with others, having other people to support them & remind them that all the power in the world means nothing if you lose yourself in its pursuit, that there are good things in this world worth living for.

Anyone that might have had the chance to sway Ludinus from his path is long dead, either from the Calamity or old age. Liliana seems to be the only person he feels close to, but they're both bonded through their shared cause. Even other elves, the people with the longest memories, don't understand what living through the Calamity was like. They weren't there.

I know it was mostly a joke when Laudna suggested Ludinus go to therapy, but at the same time where would he go? One of the things that helps PTSD is a sense of community, feeling like there are other people who share your experience, but there isn't anyone that shares Ludinus's experience (Not to mention anything resembling a therapist on Exandria would most likely draw power from a deity, which Ludinus is understandably opposed to).

That sense of isolation is something that comes up again & again among CR PCs. CR2 is the most obvious, but it's something plenty of the CR3 characters have been through as well. Ludinus would have been alone in his trauma for hundreds of years. That's completely incomprehensible to us. He would have watched the world move on and forget something that's so deeply affected him. Any attempt to confide in someone about his anger & pain would often be met with "this is punishment for our hubris" "the gods love us" "don't question their will." The very, very few allies he had would die out over the years until one day he's the last and he would be the last for centuries more. I feel like that sense of isolation, feeling removed from the world, bottling up centuries' worth of emotion would make anyone numb. he withdraws further and further into himself bc he doesn't belong. he works for centuries at removing the gods, becoming more and more desperate as he grows older, without anyone else to provide perspective as his plans grow more and more ruthless. (i also have a theory that this loneliness is part of what makes him sympathetic to predathos but that's a separate post)

Given his age & being the last survivor of the Calamity, I think it's nearly impossible for him to connect with other people. The only thing that gives him any sense of connection or community is his crusade against the gods; he only feels connected to others through their shared pain & anger, which never allow him to move past it. He can't trust anyone bc no one else understands what the gods are capable of like he does, nobody else understands what's at stake. He's the only person remaining who does, which means he's the only one who can do what he believes needs to be done.

There's a sense of duty. He needs to eliminate the gods because he doesn't trust the future inhabitants of Exandria to be able to protect their world. He owes it to all those who've been trampled on by the gods to do what they no longer can. I think he genuinely cares about mortals & he wants to defend them from a threat that he believes only he can see, but I think he cares far more about the thousands of dead he carries on his back than anyone alive. He can't simply live a happy life bc everything that once made his life worth living is gone. He can't let go of that pain & anger and move forward. His trauma is what gives him purpose and meaning; healing from it would be a betrayal to all the people that have suffered beneath the gods.

I don't think he's wrong about the gods, but I think he's seeking freedom from the gods' control, not realizing that he's letting himself be controlled by the dead. I think it's been a very long time since he spared a thought towards actually living. Bell's Hells keeps accusing him of wanting to take the place of the gods, or wanting to be seen as a messiah, but I truly don't think that's it. I don't think he cares about what comes after, if he's even thought about it at all. I don't even think he wants to be a martyr. His goal has never been for him to live in a free world, it's to ensure that there will be a world after he's gone, forever. he thinks if he dies without securing that future, he'll have failed Exandria & all the souls that have ever lived on it.

He's been completely ruthless in his pursuit of power because to him, he is fighting for Exandria's survival. That's exactly the trap BH has fallen into in the past, pursuing power even when it hurts themselves & their friends, losing sight of the actual people they claim to be protecting. Ludinus surrounds himself with terrible people; Otohan and Trent to name two, bc he wants the power they hold without getting his hands dirty himself. but in doing so he immediately removes any possibility of emotional intimacy. the people he works with don't trust him & he doesn't trust them. the one exception is Liliana & unfortunately I think she just met him far too late.

so much of CR is about the importance of feeling connected to other people, how those connections remind us of what's truly important, and keep us grounded, how when we begin to lose sight of ourselves, it's those we're close to that remind us. I think of Caleb & Essek, they both had goals they wanted to pursue, but in finding a place to belong realized those goals wouldn't actually make them happy. Ludinus doesn't want to be happy, he wants to have a purpose, and I know I'm a bleeding heart, but I think there is something incredibly tragic in someone who can't even imagine what it would be like to live a happy life.

I think of Fjord & Percy & Imogen & Laudna & Dorian, people who nearly lost themselves in pursuit of power, but chose to turn away because living for their friends was more important that dying for the world. Ludinus is the pendulum swinging in the other direction. It's incredibly tragic bc imo his intentions are genuinely good; he's arrogant and selfish and ruthless but i think he truly does want to protect Exandria.

I think there was a point in the past where someone could have reached him & he could have chosen a different path. i don't even think he would have necessarily had to give up his goal of removing the gods. if he had other people working alongside him instead of under him, who knows what he could've come up with? if he had people to pass the torch onto once he was gone, maybe he would feel like there was time to come up with a solution besides Predathos.

But he doesn't and he can't trust anyone bc no one else believes in his cause as fervently as he does. he can't trust anyone else to make the sacrifices he's willing to make so he never tries. He denies himself the aid & perspective & closeness that comes with trusting someone and becomes further and further entrenched in his mission to remove the gods at any cost. He's the only one alive left to remember the trauma of the Calamity: he has to carry all of it because no one else can.

[daeyumi]

hcs for Link, GO!

cw: mention of possible self harm; mention of injury

spoilers for totk events & end of totk

okay so i’ll be doing these for botw/totk link since he’s the link i feel the most familiar with

also i’m sorry that this list ended up like 8 miles long lol & believe me i had to restrain myself a lot

- transmasc (he/him or he/they)

- aroace

- sleeps on his back

- NOT a morning person. he likes his sleep & has trouble waking up sometimes (so many ppl seem to hc him as an early riser but i just. don’t see it lol. i think he’s the kind of person who woke up from that 100 year nap asking for 5 more minutes)

- /can/ talk, chooses not to. when he speaks his voice always has that quiet scratchy quality to it like he hasn’t used it in a while

- likes having his hair brushed

- his hair is full of leaves & at least 4 different sticks at any given time

- loves puns. the stupider the better

- likes dressing pretty. he doesn’t get the chance to do it often & most of his clothes are caked in blood & sweat so it feels good to look nice occasionally

- #1 questionable food enjoyer

- big gremlin energy

- naturally warm hands

- probably has a sweet tooth

- a bit of a hoarder. a habit he picked up from being alone in the wild for so long

- favorite fruit- apples

- probably musically inclined & would be good at playing an instrument

- loves animals (also great with animals)

- really spontaneous & gets distracted easily

- his arm doesn’t magically grow back post-totk. after the end of the events of totk, he is missing his right arm up to the bicep & has heavy scarring around his right shoulder, basically the same area where the zonai tattoos were when he had rauru’s arm

- heavily scarred in general. this one is basically canon, but i figured i’d include it since link’s character model doesn’t have any visible scars (even tho robbie in botw mentions needing to see link’s scars as proof that it’s really him. give link visible scars nintendo u cowards)

- self conscious about his scars, especially the ones from pre-calamity era that he can’t remember how he got them. they’re a constant reminder of the missing part of his life

- (totk) extremely uncomfortable with having rauru’s arm attached to his body. he hates that it is not his own and it feels alien and strange to him even tho it still operates as if it’s a part of his own body. borderline wants to self harm bc he does not want “his” arm that does not belong to him- hates the sight of it but has to deal with it because of its usefulness to him

- doesn’t do well in social interactions that involve more than 1 other person. /maybe/ 3-4 if he knows them Really Well

- extremely uncomfortable with being known as the hero of hyrule actually

- moderate to severe insomnia. he’s been through a lot & has a ton of nightmares as a result

- definitely has some degree of ptsd

- feels extremely guilty about all the ppl he can’t remember from 100 years ago— he regrets their deaths, but more so than missing the people themselves, he feels guilty that he can’t even remember them to mourn them properly. complicated emotions surrounding this, he doesn’t like to talk about it.

[unapprovedtrash]

Wild Tears of The Kingdom theory but it’s been floating around in my head all day.

This is long and probably all over the place but please bare with me.

So I’m sure by now most of you have already seen the official artwork for Ganondorf and noticed that he had one of the tear shaped Gems on his forehead.

Except this one is red, you might even say it looks corrupted.

But we’ll get back to that, because I wanna talk about the hero on the tapestry in botw for a hot second.

So I know we’ve all already talked about how the hero in the tapestry isn’t Link, doesn’t even look remotely like Link, with the red hair and beard, but you know who does have red hair and a beard, oh yeah, Ganondorf.

Also, in the opening of the tapestry he isn’t called “The Hero” which is what we always call Link, he’s called “a warrior wielding the soul of a hero”

So here’s where it gets crazy, well, crazier. What if for some reason Link wasn’t around for Calamity Ganon 10,000 years ago and Hylia, (or I guess it would technically be Fi?) was forced to chose someone else to battle The Calamity. A strong warrior, like someone from the Gerudo, like maybe….Ganondorf? And perhaps the “soul of a hero” refers to the master sword.

So let’s say I’m right and Ganondorf somehow ended up being the hero from 10,000 years ago, then what happened, why does he want to destroy us now?

Well, here’s where we pick up where I left off on the tear gem because I have a second theory inside of this one. Maybe, because he wasn’t the true hero, because he wasn’t LINK, he somehow got corrupted by malace during the battle, and they ended up having to seal him away somewhere deep underground. And the reason he’s so angry now isn’t just because of his malace corrupted soul, but because they betrayed him, they forced this role upon him, this destiny he never asked for and then when he needed help instead of trying to save him they locked him away, abandoned him after everything he had sacrificed for them.

I saw a post on tumble where someone mentioned they wanted to be able to save Ganondorf, which got me wondering if we can purify his little gem thing, but yeah that’s pretty much it.

Also, in not related to this theory, but I noticed the Zelda on the tapestry seems to have a dark skin tone, which makes me wonder if this is the Zelda from 10,000 years ago.

[ganondoodle]

i might have already talked about this but i honestly cant remember if i did or if its one of my totk thoughts that keep haunting me in my head (and god knows how id find it on tumblr)

.. did they ever say how long link was gone for? like at the start? bc to me it feels like it must have been months or something given how some things are .. although others are the opposite

like the spypost alone is so weird to me, its a goddamn stupid place to put it, a SPYpost should either be concealed or in a hard to reach place with good look of the environment around it- which it doesnt have at all (despite higher up hills being right around the corner ...), who would put a spy post directly on flat ground at the castle doors?? (AND in a place where i think would have been the ONLY good place to put nothing there/dont change it- or have it bee a secret entrance into the castle you can find on your own .. if the castle was actually like a dungeon and inaccessible for the most time ...) makes even less sense if it was built before link disappeared bc wh- .. whats its purpose anyway? the calamity is gone and instead of rebuilding castle town or soemthing nearby you put the words least sensical spypost right at the front of the castle thats a dead dirty lump of rock (yes i know zelda mentions soemthing of the miasma being active or whatever but that changes nothing abotu how little sense thing darn thing makes to me .. ) (i will stand by my idea of rebuilding the ranch ruins into a little hub and tavern instead, a spypost can be a smaller thing higher up but that as a little new town and maybe with my personal little wish of having all your horses run around a ranch, of course its got little defense, this is a ranch and the calamity was gone and its not that close to the castle, its also rather in the middle of the map and a bigger wider area would be hard to miss, plus its using an old neat reference and making something meaningful out of it, soemthing this game is allergic to im- *breathes in* fine.)

death mountain, i assumed at least, cooled down with the cataclysm (.. way too serious sounding for .. largely just some pebbles falling from the sky) and it seems like theres alot of stuff built on there and even grass growing and everything, like its been that way for a long time, yunobo being dumbified by brainwash mask and the things he does also dont feel like they happen in a day or two

the other regions on the other hand ... ignoring how mcuh of a non issue the rito problem is (the oooooh blizzard doesnt even stop them from flying ..... its not freezing them either bc none of them wear any more clothes and just do business as usual .. but then food is supposed to be a problem? .... you .. you can fly ..... ... why wasnt the boss then a monster that eats everything of the region or soemthing ... a big ol worm razing entire forest, or .. you know, make the blizzard an actual problem, winds so strong you cant fly, temperature so low you freeze immediately without special armor), are just .. dealing with it themselves? and dont seem to even seek out the help of anyone else? like it literally just happend?

but then theres entire sonau research teams and people studying it but .. all the shit started to appear with the cataclysm ... so???? though zelda at the start talks about it like its been a well known every day life fact that the acnient stupid furry first king of gods holy lands was called rauru and he was a sonau (WHICH NO ONE KNEW ANYTHIGN ABOUT THE LITERAL ONYL THING KNOWN WAS THE ARMOR SET IN BOTW THAT ALSO DOESNT MATCH ANYTHING AT ALL TOTK SONAU) and his fridge wife was sonia like its just written in every history book and still somehow accurate (might i remind you its been MORE than TEN THOUSAND YEARS sicne then and nothign was known of them in botw) while no one remembers link from a 100 years ago, nor from 6 years ago, but then remembered the champions for the 100 year botw gap and then promptly forgot about them in totk (it really feels like that) BUT THEN you got kids in school that dont fking believe the calamity happend (which was defeated just like 6 years before that)

then again .... theres not a single soul on the sky islands, despite there, NOW more than ever, multiple ways to get up there, are you telling me everyones obsessed with the stupid sonau shit and then no one even tries to go up there??? arguing that it wasnt accessible until noodle zelda broke through the clouds at the end of the tutorial doesnt work bc those ruins already fell down, people must have known and no one even tried?? also they can go up there after it go opened up?? plus clearly the ruins were able to fall through also ... what even determines whether an island falls down or not? why do some fall when tHe dEmON kInG wakes up? you see it with those green sonau magic stuff but like .... who ... did that, both rauru and mineru were dead when zelda noodlefied herself and there everything was STILL on the ground? the only magical thing the constructs do is use fuse sometimes i dont think they can lift up all that shit .. clearly is wasnt rauru either bc he acts surprised about it being up here, but why does it falter when big il ganon man wakes up? mineru after the weird static non battle with ganondorf wasnt doing so hot and we have no idea how much time passed between that and the moment she goes into the purah pad (i could be annoying about that as well) either

in taburasa (tarrey town) they do all that shit with the sonau stuff, implying theres enough time that passed to make people tinker with it too so ?(though i still hate that bc its so .. shouldnt you of all people be scared of more techy bs materializing when the whole calamity is like back almost exactly like it was before? not even suspicious? no? you dont even know how it works yet everyone trying to work with it like there isnt anythign better to do??)

like with everything in this game it keeps contradicting itself, the inconsistency makes me want to rip my hair out anytime i try to make sense of it

[potteresque-ire]

Happy Halloween! 👻 (Happy Birthday, Wei Wuxian!)

For this spooky evening, I'd like to present this spooky song named 《辜》 (Guilt, pronounced gu), one of the theme songs from Season 2 of 天官賜福 TGCF's audio drama. (Lyrics and some thoughts under the cut!)

Below is my attempt to translate the beautifully written (and eerie) lyrics, although I can't say I'm satisfied with my efforts this time. It bears strong roots in the Taoist (religious) tradition, which I'm not part of. The very last paragraph (the one that mentions a pardon) is from a prayer known as 往生咒 (The Rebirth Mantra; Buddhists have their own version), which believers chant to help lost spirits find their way to the next life. Hence, the change in tone. I hope though, that as music is universal, that even with the language barrier this song can successfully spook some of you. Oh, by the way, the vocal in the middle of the song (starting 2:27) is from an opera style known as 華陰老腔 (pronounced Huayin Laoquiang), which has been designated as an Intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO, and the performer 張喜民 Zhang Ximin is the heir of the style (kudos to the production team of the audio drama for inviting him!). Even though the origin of the style is far from where I've grown up, the lines from that paragraph: 善有善報，惡有惡報 不是不報，時辰未到 Good is retributed by good. Evil is retributed by evil. It’s not a lack of retribution. It’s the time of retribution has not yet come. is something I can recite, in my own dialect (Cantonese), since I was little. The way this song conveys this well-known message ~ one that I admit I don't / can't always believe in ~ is very powerful to me. It's one of the reasons why I've repeatedly spooked myself with this song this month! (And so, I'm also using this post to send a message to Voldie: yes, I remember what you did 43 years ago on this night. The time of retribution would come for you.) (No, I haven't forgotten my "birth fandom" (Harry Potter), which I do plan to revisit one day. 😊) Anyway, onto the lyrics!

《辜》 (Guilt) [0:14] 幽幽夜沉沉 語悄悄 The night is dark and heavy, its words quiet. 聽 何人行踽踽 登初宵 Listen ~ Who’s walking in solitude, ascending upon this evening? 遊魂野客喧囂 高門重府燭搖 Boisterous are the wandering souls, the unbridled guests. Flickering are the candles in the mansions, the palaces. 問旦福夕禍 世間知多少 Asking about the ever-changing fortunes and calamities, how much and how little this world knows about them.

[0:43] 忽而風起 似誰笑 良辰吉時到 The wind suddenly rises, as if someone laughs. The propitious hour has come. 幾家烹調歡宴 肉骨餵邪妖 不足飽 Some homes have cooked a feast, meat and bones to feed the wicked but can’t satiate. 他神色木然 既悲又喜 耳畔道 Wooden is his expression, both sad and happy, and by each ear, he utters words. 回頭 卻是惡言生寒 入髓竅 But when heads turn, the evil in the words grows into a chill and burrows into the marrow.

[1:34] 迷迷霧漫漫 哭渺渺 The mist dazes and lingers, its tears vague.  提 昏燈過長街 天不曉 Uplift ~ dim lanterns crossing the long streets, the sky that fails to dawn. 花腔滾板未消 惡鬼怨倀又告 Dissipating still are the coloraturas and percussions. Accusing once more are the wicked ghosts, resentful, 問天公愚聵 善惡何以報 Asking the gods, stupid and deaf, the retributions for the good and the evil. 

[2:00] 社鼓陣陣 金鐃厲 良辰吉時到 The temple drums beat. The golden cymbals clang. The propitious hour has come. 造化如命數 歡恨誰藉著 不相饒 Life’s blessings are like the accounts of destiny, transactions of joys and hatred are not forgiven. 他神色木然 似悟非悟 舉斧刀 Wooden is his expression, both knowing and ignorant, and his hatchet rises. 回頭 卻是青衣扶搖 登仙道 But when heads turn, rising is the commoner’s attire, ascending to the enlightened path.

[2:27 Vocal] 休將奸狡昧神祗，禍福如同逐影隨 Don’t use guile to deceive the gods, calamity and fortune follow like shadows. 善有善報，惡有惡報 Good is retributed by good. Evil is retributed by evil. 不是不報，時辰未到 It’s not a lack of retribution. It’s the time of retribution has not yet come.

[2:52 Chant] 斷足折顱 摧魄裂魂 Feet broken, skull snapped, Spirit broken, soul cracked, 手起刀落 血飛肉滾 Hands lifted, knives dropped, Blood spilled, flesh rolled, 剜心剔骨 解我悲忿 Heart hollowed, bones carved All to solve my sorrows and fury. 易除厄罰 難償苦恨 Easy it is to root out adversaries. Hard it is to compensate the bitter loathing. 斷足折顱 摧魄裂魂 Feet broken, skull snapped, Spirit broken, soul cracked, 有命還命 以待三更 A life for a life, to wait for midnight 諸罪來受戮 見鬼神 When crimes come for a slaughter, to greet their demons and gods.

[3:23 From 往生咒 The Rebirth Mantra] 有頭者超，無頭者升 鬼魅一切，四生沾恩 太上敕令，超汝孤魂 脫離苦海，轉世往生 Those who’ve kept their heads, transcend. Those who haven't, rise. All apparitions are marked with the blessings from life, The pardon from The Supreme transcends your wandering souls. To leave this bitter sea, to reincarnate and reborn.

[amtskind]

franz kafka and the nameless cat

a long time ago i stumbled upon this 12-year old blog-entry, which tells the story about kafka's mouse-plague and his encounter with a cat. so i decided to translate it into english and added the original german letters mentioned after the cut:

As Franz Kafka himself confessed in a letter to Felix Weltsch on November 15, 1917, he had "always secretly hated cats". However, when he stayed with his sister for a vacation in the Bohemian village of Zürau in September of that year, he was so plagued by mice in his room that he felt compelled to take the house cat into his room, which actually gave him peace and quiet. Although he couldn't stand it when the cat jumped on his lap while he was writing, he had to admit in a letter to Max Brod that it was "an extremely good, childlike animal". The cat, whose name he doesn't mention, was not house-trained at first. Kafka described in detail the calamity that developed for him as a result:

"So how does the cat do it? It chooses a place that is dark, for example, which proves its attachment to me. Seen from the human side, this place happens to be the inside of my slipper."

Kafka consoled himself with the following insight:

"Cats drive away mice by their mere presence, perhaps even by their mere filth, which is why they are not to be entirely despised."

Kafka slowly got used to the cat, he even "carried it home every evening across the Ringplatz 'warm in his arms'". At the beginning of December, he proudly and happily reported to his friend Max Brod on the results of his educational efforts in terms of hygiene:

"It's wonderful when you've come to an agreement with an animal. Like a well-behaved child, it goes to the box in the evening after it has had its milk, climbs in, humps itself because the box is too small, and does what it has to do."

And he wrote to another friend that he had "declaimed your poem to my little sleeping cat". So Kafka, who hated cats, had slowly become accustomed to them and had probably grown fond of them by the time he left Zürau in the spring of 1918. Perhaps Kafka had this nameless cat in mind when he wrote his only literary text about a cat two years later: "A Little Fable":

"Alas", said the mouse, "the whole world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I am running into." "You only need to change your direction," said the cat, and ate it up.

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 8!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

can i offer anyone... almost 8k words of exposition and plot dump? hmmm? no? well, what if it comes with ghost resting his head in soap's lap? huh? what then?

fair warning: ghost has a bad time again

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

...

The soldiers would often mention how they withstood the general’s abuse because they knew that they could trust him. That he was one of, if not the greatest war hero to ever grace the kingdom. Well known for being honorable and doing everything to protect his men. 

There was no honor to be found in surprising an enemy encampment at the dead of night. Very few were armed, most were likely still asleep as they lost the fight for their lives. But the general was good, successful, victorious. So his men charged in without a doubt. Laughed at the ease with which the enemy was felled. 

By the time reinforcements arrived, there was nothing left to save. They tried to avenge their fallen comrades, but instead joined them in the afterlife. To say they retreated was far too dignified for the fear and desperation with which they ran. Some of the oh-so-honorable general’s soldiers even laid chase, shooting arrows into their backs as they fled. 

The encampment was empty. Smoke billowed into the sky, tainting the white clouds. The ground was scattered with puddles — both blood and water alike. 

Ghost sat in the ruins and watched as the tents burned. 

After the slaughter, the allied dead were carted away to be given a proper burial. The rest were abandoned. Blue tunics stained red and fragments of shields covered in blood littered the ground.

Winter had long ago sunk her claws deep into the land and the bodies would most likely freeze before they could decay. Stuck in the inevitable snow, they would only be allowed to rejoin the earth in months when Spring’s thaw would free them, all based on the color of their uniforms. 

For now, scavenger birds picked at their corpses, enjoying the free feast. 

There was a haunting type of silence that could only be found in the wake of a massacre; An echo of death that seemed to scar the earth. Regardless of who or what was left alive, there was nothing living to be found. Shadows of ravens took away the dead, piece by piece. Whispers from the fates were carried by the wind, lies of justice and retribution pushing around dead leaves and tattered scraps of fabric.

Displeased with the lack of calamity, his mind filled the void, reminding him of the clanging metal, pained screams, and unheard pleas for mercy. A macabre orchestra singing a sweet lullaby, begging him to lay down his weapons and freeze along with the dead.

He felt the warmth of his arrival before the god spoke.

“I think you should deflect.”

Ghost didn’t jump this time, by now used to the god’s tendencies. He didn’t look away from the smoldering ash that had once been a medical tent. 

He tried to say something, but it didn’t work. There was a vast disconnect between his brain and the rest of his body. It was like he was trapped in sleep paralysis — his mind running rampant but his muscles unable to follow. 

He watched a corvid begin picking through the intestines of a soldier who still had his eyes open, watching the clouds pass overhead. 

“This doesn’t have to happen again if you leave.”

“Do you think I stay by choice?”

“Yes.”

Ghost didn’t have the strength for anger. He dropped to his knees like he was honoring the people whose blood still coated his blades. 

“It must be easy, then, to be a god, if you truly believe it to be that simple.”

“I did not come back from the brink of death just to become a patron of this violence again.”

Soap’s voice held a level of fury he had never heard from the god before. Boots walked in front of his vision.

Before him stood Soap, the God of Death. For the first time since they met, he looked the part. He stood as he had been described, tall, blue eyes, and the clean, unwrinkled clothes of a man rich enough to have Ghost’s lip curling in disgust. 

“You came back,” Ghost muttered with poison on his tongue, “Because I gave you an offering.”

Soap matched his tone, “And I accepted because you gave me hope.”

They both had rage sparkling at the tips of their fingers but the tragedy around them weighed far too heavy for something so grand. Soap kneeled, not low enough to be at eye level with the way Ghost hunched in on himself, but no longer leering over him.

Hope.

Ghost only scoffed half-heartedly in response. He hadn’t felt so tired since he had an arrow embedded in his chest.

Soap’s voice was kinder, but not softer. “I am not the god of war—”

Ghost interrupted him, “So you want me to continue fighting a war to prove it?”

“I want you to end it,” Soap corrected in a low tone, emphasis placed on every word.

He almost laughed. “A war that’s been ongoing for almost twenty years — You want me to stop it by just—?”

Soap returned his rudeness by interrupting him, “I want for this bloodshed to cease. Immediately. If that means your general dies, it will not be a great upset.”

“He is not my general,” Ghost growled out through gritted teeth.

The god sneered, “No, you just kill whoever he tells you to without question.”

“I owe him my life,” Ghost spat, feeling phantom chains on his wrists; a weight that had rested on him so heavily for so long he often forgot they were gone.

“Did you owe him their lives too?”

Ghost said nothing in response, just watched the embers slowly die and the flies begin to gather. The silence lingered.

Soap sighed and dropped his head, looking off to the side. It seemed he was taking some time to compose himself but Ghost couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scavenger birds. 

Would the people who had been turned into their dinner be glad that their body was not going to waste? Or would they be angry that they were not allowed to rest even in death? 

A pessimistic part of Ghost tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter, that the dead do not have feelings. Ghost thinks that he’d be happy to be able to keep providing, to let the birds eat his flesh and the earth prosper off his bones.

There were hands reaching towards him. He couldn’t bring himself to flinch away.

“Ghost.” Soap sounded almost like he was pleading. “Please look at me.”

His hands cupped Ghost’s face. Ghost followed absently. His eyes were no longer focused on anything but he could still only see sleeping faces.

It never got easier. 

Whoever suggested as much had never felt the way blood dries on your hands. The way it got tacky, sticking your weapon to your palm even as you tried to drop it. The way it stained your nails and lingered for days. The way it never seemed to wash off. The way it haunted you. The way it got under your skin and festered.

“I cannot watch this happen again.” Soap’s thumbs rubbed just under his eyes like he was wiping away non-existent tears. 

Was he crying? 

Soap squeezed his fingers where they rested in his hair, drawing him back. “Please do not make me watch this again. Not when you can change it.”

“How?”

There was too much scathing disbelief in his voice for it to be an honest question. 

“Do not let them win.”

Ghost waited for more, but that was it. That was all he had to offer. How does he stop them from winning? Simple. Do not let them win. He wanted to scoff at the answer but he didn’t have the air in his lungs.

Just five words but he heard everything Soap was too reluctant to say with them. It was more of a non-answer than anything else because Soap didn’t have an answer; he didn’t know how. He said so himself, he was the god of death, not war.

If Ghost did this, it would be either under his own plan or none at all. 

Why was he considering it?

He couldn’t. For all his faults, the general had pulled him out of the ash and gave him food when he should have been left to starve. When the gods ignored his pleas, it was a mortal man who answered and offered him a home.

And now it was a god telling him to betray his liberator. 

Was it all for nothing?

One of the tents collapsed in on itself, crackling as it lost the struggle with the flames. Ghost leaned into the god’s hands and closed his eyes. He could still see their faces.

…

A new day was just beginning to break over the horizon, pale light spilling over the military camp. Dew had frozen to the grass and a chill clung to the air even as the sun shooed it away, foretelling the upcoming snowfall.

The sentinels wouldn't be switching for another hour, the soldiers stationed at the lookouts shuffling in place to keep themselves awake and alert. The lookout fire was warm and sang a siren song for them to curl up and fall asleep but they stayed firm in their position. They watched for threats even as they fantasized of the shift change that would let them sleep the day away.

Soon, the camp's cook would be fumbling over the fire with cold fingers as he began to prepare breakfast for numerous hungry soldiers. Until then, they were still huddled on their cots, happily asleep with their warm blankets.

The general lied in his bed, sleeping soundly, warm. Their plans had been finalized the night prior, having spent hours perfecting them. Before long, they would be marching on, taking the enemy by surprise and pushing them back; The war was nearing an end and in due time they would be at the enemy’s front gate. 

But, for now, they rest. They were warm and safe. 

All except for one. 

Ghost was sitting up on his cot and had been for the entire night. He would like to say he had spent all of those hours coming to a decision, but he already knew his answer. No, he had spent all of those hours alone in his tent staring at the grass beneath his feet, only partially aware of the chill numbing his fingers, trying to come to terms with his sudden and drastic change in fate.

He spent all of his life knowing he was never destined for more. He would die as he lived and leave no impression on the world save for the fear that permeated people’s hearts at knowing that something like him could exist. And yet…

Hope. That’s what he spent all of those hours doing. Hoping. 

Hoping that maybe he could be something other than man’s monster. Hoping that he could watch the sunrise without the weight of blood staining his hands. Hoping that maybe he could have that happy ending he always heard his mother talk about.

That stupid little idea of a farmhouse in the middle of fields and fields of flowers, or a cottage tucked away in an expansive forest full of animals to make for kind neighbors. When he was younger, it made for a dinner table hypothetical to distract from how little food was on their plates. When he grew older he saw it for what it was: An unobtainable fantasy to make going to work the next day feel less like a death sentence.

But now it was so, so close that he didn’t know what to do. Not the house away from everyone that could bother him, but a happy ending. It was right there and it collapsed his entire worldview.

For so long he didn’t care about death or the afterlife because there was no hell that could be worse than what he was living. But now, he had the chance to be happy. For the first time since he was a kid he had something to lose. And by the gods, did it terrify him.

The sun rose higher; He would need to leave soon. His hands were shaking. 

He already had a copy of the plans, he just needed to get them to the opposing army. Ghost had snuck a peak at them as they were being finalized, memorized them, and wrote them down in the margins of that book he got during his second encounter with the god. He had justified it to himself by lying that copying them down did not mean he had to deflect.

Deflect.

Ghost heard the cook strike his flint and steel to start the fire, it echoed through him and got louder with each reverberation.

Gods, he was actually doing it, wasn’t he?

The general had saved his life and in return he was not just going to betray him, Ghost was going to make him watch his troops fall before he stabbed him in the back. As nasty as he could be, he cared for his men. Being forced to watch them die was perhaps the cruelest fate Ghost could inflict.

Please do not make me watch this again.

What was his story? Where does he claim he was going? Was there anything he could say that wouldn’t arouse suspicion? There was no reason for the general to think Ghost was betraying him.

Ghost is… Ghost is just going hunting again. 

Yes, that’s it. 

A simple hunting trip and nothing more. That’s why he’s leaving on horseback, so he can transport whatever bounty he collects. It’s why he’s carrying such a heavy bag with him, he’d need camping supplies and a book to keep him company. It’s why he’s leaving for several days, hunting can take patience.

He stood mechanically and walked out of his tent. 

The general was chatting with the cook. He was probably waiting for his cup of coffee. He didn’t know that one of his best was actively turning traitor.

Ghost approached. He did not feel anxiety eating him alive, no, that had happened hours ago when he had condemned everyone around him. Now he stood hollow, his chest empty, ribs encasing nothing, his heartbeat echoing in an empty cavern.

“I would like to go hunting,” Ghost announced, interrupting the two’s conversation. The cook was confused and the general angry before they saw who it was interrupting them, the former gaining a look of understanding and the latter looked…

Ghost didn’t know what the general was thinking when he saw him. He looked almost… excited. It had Ghost’s already clenched teeth grinding themselves into dust.

“Hunting?” the general asked.

“Yes sir,” Ghost affirmed, praying to gods he did not know, pleading for everything to be okay.

The general hummed, thinking about something. He nodded, “Be back within three days. We leave in four.”

The general grabbed the cup of coffee offered to him by the cook and walked back to his tent.

What the fuck?

No, really, what the fuck? No questions of where or what he was hunting, no arguments, no complaints, no denials… 

Why? Ghost would rather have been interrogated and questioned on every specific detail the general could think of to dispute. Why did he agree?

Was it a trap? 

He’d asked that same question the last time he approved of a hunting trip but found his fears unjustified. The general did not like him and trusted him even less, there was no reason for him to grant Ghost this kindness.

Did he know? 

There was no way he could. The only evidence that there was something afoot were the scribblings in a book shoved into the bottom of his pack — hell, even then they were written on the inner margins some seventy pages in. Besides his one conversation with the god of death, in which he didn’t even fully commit to deflecting, that one book stored at the bottom of his bag hidden beneath his cot was the only way the general could know.

So why, why, why did he agree?

“Breakfast will be served in half an hour, unless you plan on helping, get lost.”

Ghost drew out of his panicked mind and stared at the cook, slowly processing the sentence. And creeped him out in doing so if his sudden lack of assertiveness and refusal to look at Ghost was any proof.

He turned back to his tent, feeling like an imposter in his own skin, and prepared for his trip.

…

It had just reached high noon and a soldier was riding through rolling plains of dead grass.

The wind had gone from whispers to howls. Winter’s mongrels bit at any inch of exposed skin. His steed speeding through the lands only worsened the sting as he struggled to keep his head up and eyes open. Still, he did not tell her to slow. There was no time for delay.

Truthfully, Ghost did not know where he was going. The plans mentioned assaulting a fortress resting at the foothills of a mountain, one that was old and had stood the test of time; One that could end a war if it changed hands. 

The plans did not, however, include a list of directions for how to get there. The only thing he knew for certain was that he needed to head north, but beyond that was a mystery.

Initially, he’d gone back to the ruined encampment with the intention of searching what little survived the fires for a map or something of the like. He spent several minutes staring at corpses that had frozen solid in the night and likely would have spent longer if not for Taxes refusing to stay there.

When he was pulled away from the grim sight, he found his plan to have been useless. There was only ash in the main encampment and the reinforcements had come from a smaller camp up the way and closer to the road, likely a failed lookout, one which did not have a map either.

He could trace the events of the fight from the remains of the camp. 

The fire had burned out on its own. Stools were knocked over and arrows were snapped on the ground as if they had spilled from a quiver and been stepped on. Blankets had been tossed aside with a quickness, weapons taken but scabbards forgotten.

They had been preparing a meal, probably resting and chatting when they heard the screams of their comrades and cheers of their enemies and raced to help, only to then too become victims of a rich man’s war.

He tried following the trail of those who fled but it only led to him finding more corpses, some who died as they ran and others who either bled out or froze in the night.

He changed plans quickly after that.

Ghost figured he would find something eventually if he just kept moving. He was distinctly aware of the fact that the fleeing soldiers probably had a similar ideology when they succumbed to their wounds and the harsh elements.

After a few miles his plans changed again to finding somewhere to safely spend the night. He could see his breath puffing out even through his mask when it was noon; If what should be the warmest time of day had him shivering, he had no chance of making it through whatever the night held.

When he set out in his panicked state, the only thing he could think about was getting out of camp as fast as he could and in turn finding the fortress just as fast. To set out with more or less no plan was a stupid move, but for all his panicked overthinking, he apparently forgot to think about how he would trade over the information without dying of hypothermia.

He had made good progress but he needed to find a roof to lay under — and fast. Once the sun began to fall it wouldn’t be long before it was pitch black with the hounds of hell masticating a chill into his bones.

…

Ghost had no idea why he deviated off the road he had been following, he just knew that he found himself on a trail with an old cabin sitting at the end of it. It may have been divine intervention or it may have been his subconscious stepping in when the forefront of his mind was stuck in turmoil, either way he didn’t bother questioning it.

Based on the state of the cabin and its furnishings, it was likely a summer home owned by someone, perhaps a hunter, who was thankfully not present and based on the dust, hadn’t been for a while. Whether it was abandoned or not  didn’t matter; It was currently vacant and had a fireplace which were the only two things he could bring himself to care about.

Ghost had a distinctly out-of-place feeling as he stood in the middle of a cabin meant for warm summer nights while his breath visibly puffed out and snow piled outside. 

Maybe he was just disconnecting from his body again.

Now that he thought about it, he’s not sure he’d felt connected to his body throughout the whole day.

He wanted to shake the feeling away, but he did not have the agency over his muscles to do so. He was only able to collect firewood by absent muscle memory; He could do nothing but hope that whatever part of him still worked would be enough to keep him alive.

All he knew was that he had been looking for somewhere to spend the night, found a cabin, and was staring at a fire in a fireplace shortly thereafter. 

He knew he was missing something as he somewhat came back to himself, energy shooting through him as he realized he couldn’t recall what he’d done with Taxes after dismounting. Suddenly terrified that he’d left her on her own, he burst out the door and looked around quickly, searching for tracks and…

She was stabled. 

There was a tiny, two-stall stable next to the cabin. She had been de-tacked, brushed, and fed. He approached her and slowly reached out to touch her muzzle, the normally irritable horse accepting the slow touches like she knew something was wrong.

He stayed there for a while, making sure that she was alright and then waiting longer to see if it was an illusion that was going to wither away with his grip on reality.

It didn’t. 

He returned to the cabin.

He sat against the wall near the fireplace with his legs splayed out like he’d collapsed and stared at his hands, focusing on how they burned from the change in temperature. He still had blood under his nails.

The calluses that had developed over years and years of wielding various weapons were still very visible in the dim light. Some were lighter, some were darker; they sat at the base of his fingers, a few trailing up higher.

He remembered when he had been younger and stupider, he thought he was being tough by continuing to train even as his hands grew sore and blistered. He remembered the panic he had felt when he realized that the next day he would not be given a break.

Only barely winning against his opponent, he stood shaking, hunched over and leaning on his sword, the tip of it buried into the sandy ground, completely relying on it to stay standing. He heaved for air; His lungs were still fighting even as the battle was over.

Blood stained the guard and ran down the blade, dripped down his fingers and fell to the ground. It didn’t splatter, it stayed in neat little drops as it mixed with the sand. His arm hanged limply, thousands of needles prickling his hand like it was going numb even though he could still feel the pain.

He was exhausted to the point of twitching, the world pulling apart at the seams. He could only feel his heartbeat reverberating through his skull. His chest rested against the pommel, the intricate design coming to a point that tried to stab through to his heart. 

The sores on his hand had opened very quickly after the fight started. Everytime he lifted his sword, the pain spiked to such an intense degree that he’d fumbled his weapon several times, once almost dropping it on himself. He wanted to cry. Wasn’t his brain supposed to shut off his pain response when it was life or death?

It hurt so bad he’d started to pray that his foe would kill him just so this torture would have been done with. But his pride got in the way of his dreams of dying; He couldn’t bring himself to hand victory to his opponent. He refused to give up even as he wished nothing more than for the enemy to strike him down.

He couldn’t let go of his sword. He tried loosening his grip, he wanted to drop it and never look at a blade ever again, but it stuck to his hands. The opened blisters had dried and scabbed over against the leather wrap of the handle. 

He didn’t what would hurt more: To rip all of that away and drop his weapon or to keep pressing against them as he held onto the sword for balance. He tightened his grip.

He couldn’t see or hear. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears and there was red-stained sandy ground beneath him but he couldn’t see or hear. He could, but he couldn’t. 

He wondered if this was what it felt like to pass out.

Hands, different ones, not his own. They grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him but his mind was already gone. The scabs ripped and reopened. They were not healed by the next fight.

His hands were bloodied.

When Soap appeared, he had the decency to do so quietly, looking regretful for the situation he had put Ghost in. It was an accusatory way to phrase it, but still held some truth.

“Ghost, I—”

“Please.” 

Ghost shook his head, not knowing what he was pleading for. The real world was too much and he shut his eyes tight. He was not equipped for whatever conversation Soap wanted or needed. 

With one word, Soap apparently heard enough. 

Ghost heard him stand, walk towards him, and stop. When he worked up the courage to open his eyes, he saw the god of death before him, holding out his arms. Ghost waited but Soap remained. 

Deciding to be brave, Ghost placed his hands in Soap’s. The god gave a small, reassuring smile; He tugged Ghost’s arms lightly twice, warning him of the upcoming movement before fully pulling him up to standing. 

Ghost had only a moment to wobble and distantly worry about falling before Soap pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. Despite being shorter, he still managed to engulf Ghost in his grasp, holding him like he was blocking away the rest of the world.

Ghost had to squeeze his eyes tighter but soon reciprocated. Whereas Soap wrapped his arms tightly around him, Ghost could barely cling onto Soap’s shirt. He had no idea how long they stayed like that; Even time itself seemed to still to allow them a small reprieve.

He knew that Soap began humming a quiet tune at one point or another; Ghost did not just hear the soft melody wander into the dark cabin, but felt it reverberate from Soap’s chest as well with how close they were pressed.

When Ghost found it within himself to lift his head, Soap offered him that same reassuring smile once more. His tune petered out as he guided Ghost towards the dusty bed. His mind was elsewhere but he knew deep down he could follow Soap.  

And perhaps out of everything that had happened, that was the part that frightened him the most. The fact that he trusted Soap. Ghost was… vulnerable. Ghost was vulnerable and he trusted Soap to take care of him. 

Soap only stepped away for a moment to shake off and resituate the dirty bedding before sitting down and motioning for Ghost to join him; He had Ghost lie down with his head resting on Soap’s leg. 

Ghost did so very slowly, his back protesting at every movement. He perhaps should have been embarrassed over the strained grunts he let out but he didn’t care. He was more concerned with reminding himself that it was not supposed to hurt to relax.

It took him a good long while to be able to breathe again after fully lying on his side with his ear against the other’s thigh, his lungs suddenly burdened with the brunt of his anxiety. 

Soap draped a few blankets overtop of him; Ghost wasn’t sure where they came from, but they smelled nice. It made part of him shrivel at how incapable he was at taking care of himself, but the comforting weight they offered was a welcome juxtaposition over his rampaging mind attempting to crush him. 

He was sure that when he could think beyond reminding his heart to beat and his lungs to take in air, he’d be grateful that Soap didn’t make him lie on top of the moth-eaten top blanket or the grimy pillow. In the moment however, he appreciated the easier contact that kept him tethered without anything more overwhelming. 

Ghost pulled the blanket up close, practically hiding under it like there were monsters under the bed. He could feel his heart preparing to fight for his life but he closed his eyes and tried to breathe. They were staccato inhales, shaky and short, but he was breathing.

Would he return to camp? After everything, after the information had been handed off, would he go back to his tent, help them pack up like he hadn’t betrayed them?

Should he run? Just pray that everything works out and try to find some land far, far away where they would mistake Ghost for one of them? As something that deserved respect and kindness? As someone who didn’t have enough blood on their hands to start or end a war?

He’s only ever been a weapon for other people to use to kill anyone they felt like. Why now was he so caught up on killing people? 

They were not good people — Ghost knew his sense of honor was twisted but he would never attack the back of a fleeing man for being on the other side of a war. They killed innocent people who surrendered the same way they did an active threat.

Were Ghost’s actions any different? Had he not done the same?

Soap brought his hand to gently card through Ghost’s short hair.

Ghost would have been dead if not for the general. Yes, he hated him, but that didn’t change that he saved Ghost when he should have been left to die.

Soap saved your life too.

And he knows that. He knows every counter argument that could be thrown out at it, he’s had the same debate with himself for years. But shouting into the sky about the cruelty of fate did not clear his warring mind.

Ghost opened his mouth to try to speak but the words didn’t form, his throat closed up and his lungs refused to provide the air. It was only after undoing all of his work to keep himself breathing that he was able to choke anything out. 

“I’m scared.”

He could barely admit it as if he weren’t holding the blanket he was hiding under in a white knuckle grip. He didn’t feel any lighter with the admission off of his consciousness.

Soap remained silent. 

Ghost was suddenly very unsure if he’d spoken at all. Or maybe he had. Maybe Soap was doing him a favor by pretending not to have heard it, acting like Ghost hadn’t just embarrassed himself. Or…

“Me too.”

Perhaps it should have made him more nervous to hear a divine being admit to such a thing, but he wasn’t after thoughtless false promises. He couldn’t stand being trapped in his mind as he was, not knowing if he had completely lost it. He didn’t want denials or lies that everything would be okay, he just needed…

He didn’t know what he needed.

It’s okay to seek solace.

Ghost closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to exile all of his stress as he exhaled. It didn’t work, but he felt better which was all he could hope for.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t know which one of them said it or if it even existed outside of his decaying mind, or perhaps it was that old friend’s voice that had been haunting him. Regardless, the world resting upon his shoulders felt a little lighter as he fell asleep.

…

When he woke, he had a pounding headache that left his eyes feeling dry and grainy even though he just opened them. Winter’s pale blue light was poking in through the half-boarded windows of the cabin; the dust particles floating through the air looked like snowflakes that had fallen under the roof. 

Soap was still there, not having moved through the night and still acting as his pillow. His hands were still gently running through his hair as well, the motion almost making him fall back asleep. 

The fire roared on the other side of the cabin and he was covered in blankets, yet he shivered. He dreaded to think how much snow was sure to be on the ground outside. 

Ghost sat up but did so grumpily, his mood worsening when one of the several blankets fell and left him just that much more exposed to the cold.

“Good morning.” 

The fondness was clear in Soap’s tone. He grumbled back with a glare, unable to think about anything other than how much he wished he was still asleep, and held onto the blankets as he shuffled to the fireplace. 

His annoyance at being awake was soothed by the warmth it provided and again he was tempted to fall back asleep. Ghost didn’t remember the specifics of the night prior and he would like to keep it that way. If he didn’t acknowledge it, then there was nothing to be embarrassed by.

Ghost was vaguely aware of a corrupted feeling flowing through his veins; He furrowed his brow, trying to pinpoint what it was. 

He felt like he had crossed a malevolent god who placed a curse on him, a curse that made him feel dizzy even as he sat still on the ground and his fingers feel detached as he stared at them. The world around him seemed to move in slow motion, like he was stuck in molasses.

Soap walked over while rooting through his bag. 

“You need something to eat, you didn’t eat at all yesterday.”

Ah, he was hungry. That explained it. At least that was an evil that was easy to defeat. He accepted whatever food Soap handed him and ate slowly, taking immense effort to chew every bite.

He still didn’t feel hungry, if anything he felt the opposite, but he did feel a little better once he was finished, even if it took him almost an hour. (It was not because Soap’s smile seemed to brighten every time he took a bite.)

Ghost was slowly coming back to himself but wanted to check on Taxes before he did anything else. When she saw him she whinnied and shook her head; she was just as happy to see him as she was ready for him to pet her. 

He obliged, stepping into her stall and looked for where he set her gear as he scratched and petted to her heart’s content. (And was thoroughly reprimanded when he got distracted and stopped; She whinnied loudly, somehow always right in his ear, if his hand stilled for even a moment.)

To his past-self’s credit, he got most things in the right spot, only a few baffling misplacements. Taxes was outraged when he fully stepped away, but calmed down when he gave her breakfast. 

He was shaking out her blanket when Soap exited the cabin with his bag looking much fuller than it had the day prior. Several blankets stuck out the top, too full to close. 

Ghost shook his head, not wanting to think about whatever the god of death had filched from a stranger’s cabin. Soap stayed outside the stall, passing his bag over silently and watching him as he prepared to head out again. 

As he expected, the bag was much heavier than it had been when he left. Looking at how much was in it, he had an errant thought about Soap not seeming like the thieving type and a realization crashed over him. Perhaps there was a reason why the god of death was able to lead him to this particular and particularly vacant cabin.

He suddenly decided not to dwell on why Soap led him there.

Taxes was still eating so he took some time to himself, pulling everything out of the bag and organizing it, both to take inventory and to make everything fit. 

He didn’t know where he was relative to the shitty map he had, but based on the temperature difference, he probably made enough progress yesterday to reach the fort before nightfall. He would have to wait until he was on the road to find landmarks that he could use to orient himself and plot a proper course. 

After some deliberation, he took the book and put it in an inner pocket of his cloak; he didn’t want to risk anything happening to it in his bag. He spent some time shuffling all of the items, finding an odd amount of comfort in the control he had from simply organizing his own bag. 

He felt a smidge of happiness when he got all of it to fit in a way that still allowed the bag to close, an impressive feat considering just how much shit Soap grabbed. A smidge of happiness that weakened when he realized that he couldn’t stall any longer and would have to set out again.

…

He would never admit to anyone, not even himself, how relieved he was when Soap got on behind him and wrapped his arms around him. It was a mirror of a position they had found themselves in before, but this time it felt different. It no longer felt like Soap was worried about falling or trying to warm him but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was. 

It’s called a hug.

He rolled his eyes at the little lying voice and was glad Soap couldn’t see his annoyance at the nuisance that decided to chime in again. Because he was wrong. It wasn’t a hug. Soap, the god of death, was not fucking “hugging” him.

(His cheeks burned at the thought but he did not pull away from the touch.)

Soap wouldn’t be able to stay for long. Ghost had of course noticed the pattern in his visits; They were always fairly short and rarely lasted more than a few hours. And while his memories of the day prior were shot to shit, he knew the god must have pushed well beyond his limits.

The realization that he forgot to give Soap an offering made him want to hang his head in defeat. It was the only way he had to thank Soap for all that he’d done or to provide compensation but he was too absorbed in himself to even give the god a flower.

He had never felt like he owed anyone an explanation for why he was the way that he was, but… Soap owed him nothing and gave him everything. The least Ghost could do was give an excuse a reason for… just… everything.

Ghost took a long time to focus on his breathing, in and out, refusing to repeat yesterday.

“I used to be a fighter in the arena.”

Such few words yet he felt like he just gave an entire speech. It was a pitiful excuse for the amount of blood on his hands. He was too lost in his head to see if Soap reacted.

It wasn’t a well kept secret, but the legends surrounding his nickname had grown murky over the years; He didn’t know if people had truly connected the dots between the famous deadly gladiator and infamous deadly soldier under the same name.

“We needed money, seemed like an okay decision at the time.” 

He suddenly felt like he had to defend his younger self’s actions, as stupid as they were. 

“I knew it could and would probably kill me, but it — dying in battle, it sounded more appealing than starving.”

This is unnecessary. Stop trying to make him feel bad for you.

He continued. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes at the memory. 

“My mother begged me not to, but it was the only work available and I couldn’t sit back and watch. So I signed a contract.”

Once he started talking he couldn’t stop himself. Years and years of bottling everything up was finally spilling over and Soap wasn’t the one who needed to hear it, wasn’t the one who deserved to have all of his grief dropped on, yet he didn’t shut up.

If he wanted you to stop, he’d have said something.

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, at first. There weren’t many fights and they paid well, most of them weren’t to the death or anything like that. I… couldn’t really leave the arena, but it got money to my family so I didn’t care.” 

Ghost paused, reminiscing on when things were easier. Soap rubbed his thumb in small semi circles on his arm. Ghost tried to focus on the touch. 

“A sponsor didn’t like that I beat his favorite fighter and lost him some money. So he—” 

Ghost’s voice cut itself off. He forced himself past the emotional mess his brain was becoming, or tried to. 

“He had someone— I didn’t— No one—”

Gods, fucking pull yourself together.

He almost choked on the lump in his throat that he had tried to ignore and coughed.

Just breathe.

“He got caught and they decided death by gladiatorial combat was appropriate. It didn’t make me feel any better; It didn’t bring them back. I signed another contract. I—”

Soap doesn’t want or need to hear this. Shut. Up. 

He lost track of where he was or whatever other woes he wanted to force Soap to listen to. He hadn’t explained anything. So many words used and yet nothing of value said. There was no amount of rambling that could make it come across as a sound decision — that could make him look like anything other than a deranged monster in denial.

“The general saw me fight one day. Gave me a better offer.”

You aren’t forcing Soap to do anything. You think he’s kind? Then he’s happy to listen.

“It… wasn’t much different. But the bars were gone. The shackles too. I got to watch the sunset for the first time in years.” 

He was having a rather difficult time trying to talk in between arguments with himself. 

Soap pulled that same magic trick he had that night of the bar fight and inexplicably managed to hold him closer, somehow squeezing without feeling constrictive. He felt stupid for how much comfort he found in it.

And what have you done to deserve the kindness he gives you? Have you even thanked him?

Ghost shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, I—” 

His voice broke, saving him from sounding like even more of a fool.

Soap was there out of necessity. Nothing more, nothing less. Ghost lost his mind following a trail to a cabin. He was not sticking around “out of the kindness of his heart,” or whatever other lie Ghost had unwittingly convinced himself of.

Soap was there because if he wasn’t, Ghost would have gotten himself killed, and that was that. He was stuck there until Ghost came back to himself and stopped spilling his fucking life story as some pitiful excuse for why he’s not a monster.

And now he’s spiraling, again, and proving that he couldn’t be trusted with the simple task of delivering information. Gods above and below, he’s a fucking joke. 

Soap is currently fucking hugging you, you oblivious bastard!

Ghost thought back to the bar fight again, the way Soap clung to him, worried about—

What part of ‘being worried about falling’ would lead to someone leaning their head against the other’s shoulder? Or caressing their fucking hand?! He’s half a damn inch and one impulsive decision away from kissing you!

Ghost really fucking wished that the dead man’s voice would fucking stay dead.

Fuck you.

In spite of the absolute fuckening the past two days had been, he huffed a small laugh. 

“I had a… a friend— my cellmate, actually. He was the only thing that… that kept me going a lot of the time. We’d patch each other up, laugh and joke, remind each other that there was more out there. We always talked about what we’d do when we got out — we were gonna stick together and become mercenaries… ‘heroes for hire’ he always said.”

He laughed wetly, the tears coming back even as he reminisced on long, pained nights made bearable by stupid jokes and drawn out fantasies of the world that lay behind the bars of their cell.

“He…” 

His smile waned. Ghost took a deep breath. 

“He didn’t make it. Took an attack that was meant for me and paid for it.”

Ghost shook his head again and got back to the original point he wanted to make. 

“I can hear his voice now. I don’t know what or how, but I guess getting close to the god of death has unexpected side effects.”

An embarrassed flush ran to his cheeks at his own poor wording, one he was glad Soap couldn’t see. 

“It started under that overhang. Ever since, he pops in every now and then, usually to make fun of me or offer advice while calling me names.” 

Ghost felt Soap smile against his shoulder.

Ghost smiled as well. 

“He likes you, thinks you’re nice.” 

It was one hell of an understatement, but he had a feeling that confessing, ‘the voice of my dead friend won’t leave me alone and he thinks you want to kiss me,’ might make things awkward. He didn’t want to make Soap think that he mistook his kindness for romantic advances.

Oh my fucking gods.

Ghost almost laughed aloud at his annoyance.

Soap asked, “What is his favorite color?”

The present tense didn’t slip his notice but he didn’t feel like diving into what the hell that meant. It was the first thing Soap had said since they hit the road.

Ghost smiled. He answered with a griefed laugh, “Brown, like a freak.”

Soap hummed. After a short pause, he leaned forward somewhat and inadvertently pulled Ghost back. Ghost looked at him with a raised brow, but as per usual he was undeterred and stared at him ruminatively. 

Rumination complete, Soap fell back to hugging holding him with his cheek against Ghost’s shoulder. He quietly commented, “I think I’d be inclined to agree.”

Ghost rolled his eyes and scoffed playfully, “‘Course you would, freak.”

[ezlo-x]

tbh my biggest gripes with totk is the fact that they did it beginner friendly new comer friendly... like i know this is gonna sound mean but genuinely I wish it didn't try to cater to new fans who want to get into tloz cause totk's story failed cause it needed to cater to new zelda fans

idc abt the lore getting rebooted, sure im going to miss the triforce being an essential piece of the story and lore, only to become the Hylian symbol and game's logo (which tbh is strange its like pokemon using the pokeball as their logo/symbol but pokeballs becoming obsolete in new pkmn games). But because it wanted to be new comer friendly botw's story and lore aspects are long gone and only to be referred to as easter eggs to ppl who played botw know. When characters talk about things that happened in botw as if it was a long time ago like the attack of the Calamity 100 years ago but things that actually happened a very long time ago make it sound like its pretty recent.

I don't like how the new sages just don't remember the champions at all. If you get the divine beast helms through sidequests and read their dialogue they speak in this way as it is their first time seeing it like?? Which is so strange cause totk would gladly reference Sidon and Link's companionship with a statue when trying to access Vah Ruta in BotW, but Mipha gets barely a mention from him? My biggest hopes before we got the title of the game was to let go of the champions, as in we don't need them to be back as they already have done what they need to do. But also I didn't want them to be completely gone from the game and only know them through easter eggs and references.

Like yeah TotK is a sequel to BotW but its more so "ok botw was a rough draft, THIS is the story we wanted to do" and it turns out to have inconsistencies. Zelda mentions the Calamity a few times, there are tombstones to placed around Hyrule commemorating people who lost their lives by the Calamity. But the Sheikah technology is completely gone, the towers that were there for eons are gone. I feel like the towers could've been an easy fix to explain why they are gone like "oh these chasms appeared and collapsed the towers, so now we built these new towers in replacement."

Like with Majora's Mask being separate but also a follow up to Ocarina of Time works because. While yes they are using the same characters and same game mechanics. They are using a whole different world/setting that is different from OoT. Where it excuses using the same characters and same game mechanics, cause it has a complete different story but is consistent on where it left off with Ocarina of Time. I honestly thought TotK was going to take place mostly in the skies than in the surface. Since they kept hyping people up with the teaser trailers and then we had SkSw HD being released. Like yeah it will be like some glorified version of SkSw

When I was reading the interviews Nintendo uploaded a few days before TotK's release and saw Fujibayashi say ,"We put in some effort to make sure that it feels comfortable for both first-time players and those with experience of the previous game." In the back of my mind I questioned a bit this cause I mostly asked myself "isn't this a sequel?" but then I reassured myself that they'll probably would reexplain certain things about the previous game and what happened in the story for new comers. But not to this extreme

[ludinusdaleth]

i feel like the mere idea of bringing up orym & ludinus and their entwined threads of fate is taboo, but i cant stop thinking about it.

orym is a rare, nearly impossible kind of protector - a guard, somehow not attached to a corrupt, brutal system. he just wishes to protect his home, his leader. but ludinus, via otohan, attacks this peaceful place. he turns the ashari cautious & agrieved. he turns the society of air into the eye of a hurricane. orym is turned into a widow. his title as guard is marred; he failed. maybe zephrah is forever marked as a battleground & graveyard, now.

orym walks across tal'dorei & marquet, slowly healing beside his friends, protecting them as best he can. but then he learns who killed his family, and she kills his friends, too - and him, for a moment, giving him visions of his dead husband, reopening the wound. he is in the eye of a sandstorm, tinged red by the moon. he is a pilgrim no longer. his attempt to be a guard has once again been thwarted. maybe you cant have peace if you're a protector.

orym is at the center of the goddamn planet, the leylines aligning as he witnesses his leader fall at the hands of otohan, again at the center of his home's wound, and ludinus, again pulling the strings. a protector far stronger, more capable, than him, adorned in feathers, alight with divinity, falls worse. his friends are flung to the far sides of the world. he once again fails as a guard. maybe a guard is too small in the scale of this world's forces to impact the tide at all.

and so, orym nods to laudna as she rips bor'dor's life from him. he shears his hair ever more, adorns tougher armor. he makes a deal with a hag, desperate for any chance someone he cares for could maybe fucking make it out okay - even if his vastly increased sternness to keep them safe pushes all of them farther into fear of their own. he sneers with unfathomable anguish as he sees ludinus at the volcano and wastes every one of his action points to rip his soldiers apart. he uses ludinus's harness. he takes the willmaster's power. he keeps pushing into the bloodred storm. he could never be a guard right. so it is time to be a soldier. to truly protect must mean to run to the source of all of it and end it once and for all.

all of the bells have been forged by ludinus, a horseman of war, but orym takes it most viscerally. he does everything in his power to stop ludinus, but in a way the elf has already won - or perhaps, in his need for exandria to be "saved" (as he percieves his actions will do), he's failed, but the bells have still lost. because this new generation isnt at peace. they arent even heroes. they are soldiers. orym more than anyone else has accepted that is his life, his death, his fate. there is no goal of his that doesnt end at ludinus. ludinus, who just like him, lost everything in a war involving gods. who has felt the way the world keeps turning, unbothered by what destroyed his society. who uses that accursed harness to take power for a cause. who doesnt want to force someones mind to get what he needs, or kill, but does, because it is necessary. who has pushed himself to the point he is a means to an end more than a person, willing to rip himself apart because he doesnt matter, his goal does. who cant see anything but war on the horizon anymore.

when the two are mentioned together it causes folk to bristle. the idea orym could be in ludinus's shadow is seen as a suggestion that orym is evil as him. but, thats not what i intend. it is a terrible thing, watching someone's gaze harden after tragedy. once a long time ago, as the gods fought across exandria, ludinus saw his world destroyed. and so he enacted a plan to ensure that would never happen again. that they would suffer, and mortals would thrive. but his plan was a god's foot, trampling mortal society upon society. and so orym saw his world destroyed. and he knows killing ludinus is how to let it mend. as the two march forward, in a second calamity, i can think of nothing but the first scene of exu: calamity, when pelor & asmodeus fought as avalir fell below them. despite ludinus's raging, incredible hatred of the gods, the biggest tragedy of all is that mortals really are crafted in the gods' image: and he, & orym, are most representative of that endless cycle of war, of this war, a failure of the past generations, of ludinus, to ensure a "true" freedom of mortals. of peace.

willmaster edmunda was a terrible person, but i fear she was on the right track when she spat at orym "some would like to live in harmony [with Exandrians]. some... know the nature of violence, that others like you carry."

he would never have carried it if ludinus had not dropped it at his feet.