#Primal Rite

[genshinimpactresources]

Genshin Impact | Version 5.3 “Incandescent Ode of Resurrection” Key Visuals

Cleaned and upscaled by asddzr on bilibili

Download Link (Google Drive)

[sillymickel]

Becoming Who You Were Meant to Be:  “Dance of the Seven Veils I” offers a profound exploration of how primal psychology and rites of passage intersect to shape our identities.

*Dance of the Seven Veils I: Primal/Identity Psychology, Mythology and Your Real Self* by Michael Adzema (2017) is free September 30th thru October 4th, 2024, and again, Jaunuary 6th thru 10th, 2025.  . Get your ebook-kindle copy then at Amazon.  . At anytime, however, see that the entire book is copied below. You may read it that way … on this page, in this blog.  . Or notice that there is…

[transbookoftheday]

Trans Rites by The Dionysian Public Library

The Dionysian Public Library is thrilled (and chilled) to present our first anthology, Trans Rites: An Anthology of Genderfucked Horror, for publication in print and digital. This collection features a bazaar of eleven bizarre tales of transition and transformation, beastliness and becoming: A bloody rebirth in the woods. A deadly game of consumption and corruption. A scientist putting the pieces of himself together. A patient becoming more and more like the china dolls she admires. A room with no exit except oblivion. A museum in a town renowned for its cryptids. These terrors and more await within.

To embody transness is to change shape, to become something else. The theorist Judith Butler refers to the construction of gender as a process of ritual and naturalization. Hear our screams, our howls, our primal gibbering, our moonlight dances and our bleeding guts.

This collection features the following stories, as well as lyrics and poetry from folk musician Skeleton Drive (Dillon Rae Oliver)

Birthday Suit by Lennox Rex

Fresh Meat by Thea Maeve

Death Taught Me How to Live by Alicia Hilton

Seen by Ju Collins

The Moss Witch of the Cascade Mountains by Mave Goren

Wolformation by Michelle Jacklyn Miller

Fly by Madeleine Varley

Figs for Thistles by E. B. Novetti

Bleed For Your Wishes by R.S. Saha

Frozen Charlotte by Mildred Faintly

Dr. Frankenstein Dabbles in Self-Discovery by C.C. Rayne

[anneapocalypse]

Urianger’s Faith

I think Urianger’s faith is a core part of his character. In fact, I think that most other things about him—his history of secrecy and deception, his lifelong fascination with prophecy, and his growth over a multi-expansion character arc—are better understood in the context of it. So that’s what I want to talk about today!

This essay contains major plot spoilers through Endwalker. It's also really long.

Urianger’s Religion

We should probably talk about what, exactly, Urianger's faith is—or, to start, what his religion is. Like the majority of Eorzeans, and so far as we know, all of the core Scions, Urianger is a Twelve-worshipper. Rites and customs vary widely between the different regions of Eorzea depending upon their patron deity and the local culture, but while the worship of Rhalgr may look very different from the worship of Halone, they all fall under the same pantheon, and their devotees ascribe to a shared mythos regarding these gods and their relations with one another. In brief, there are believed to be Twelve deities, with various familial relationships to one another, who rule over and guide various aspects of the world and life within it. There exist seven hells and seven heavens, created and presided over by the gods, to which mortals will be sent in death according to their deeds in life.

Born in the Sharlayan colony (according to anecdotes about Urianger and Moenbryda in Encyclopedia Eorzea), and presumably raised there until the exodus when he would have returned to the motherland, Urianger’s patron deity is Thaliak, and accordingly when he invokes a singular deity it tends to be the Scholar, as in this rather sarcastic-sounding greeting to Alphinaud in the Heavensward patches:

Why, Master Alphinaud. Would that the Scholar had seen fit to grant me knowledge of thy coming. What bringeth thee and thine here this day?

As in the real world, it’s not uncommon for characters to invoke the names of their gods in casual, humorous, and downright irreverent ways, such as the well-known exclamation of “Thal’s balls!” among Ul’dahns. Similarly, just as an utterance of “Jesus Christ!” does not necessary indicate a profound Christian faith in the real world, characters exclaiming “By the Twelve!” or “Gods be good!” does not alone indicate that they are especially devout.

I think it’s probably safe to say that the followers of Louisoix who comprised the Circle of Knowing are, at the very least, more than nominal adherents of Twelve-worship. As seen in the “End of an Era” video, it is their prayers that summoned primal versions of the Twelve in an attempt to contain Bahamut; they could not have done so were they not possessed of genuine faith.

I think it is possible, however, to single out Urianger as especially religious even relative to his comrades. There are numerous instances in his dialogue that I think demonstrate a singular faith. He regularly interprets good fortune in terms of the favor of the gods to a greater extent that his colleagues. As late as Shadowbringers, for example, when Y’shtola is rescued from the aetherial sea for the second time, he says:

In all of history, there are but few who have returned from a misadventure in the aetherial sea possessed of mind and body both. To have done so twice beggereth belief. 'Tis plain Y'shtola wanteth not for favor among the Twelve.

However, I think it would also be inaccurate and incomplete to say that Urianger’s faith is wholly centered around the Twelve.

Hydaelyn as Mother-Goddess

If you’re going purely by 2.0 onward, I think it’s easy to miss that a broad awareness of Hydaelyn as a personage (as opposed to simply the name of the star) is a fairly new development in Eorzea. Sharlayan, at the forefront of aetherological studies, has been well ahead of the curve on this, with scholars theorizing not only a concentration of aether at the core of the star which they have termed "the Mothercrystal," but possibly even a consciousness, a "will of the star," sometimes also called "the will of Light." This theory was confirmed when the scholars of Sharlayan succeeded in contacting Hydaelyn through the Antitower in the Dravanian colony, granting them knowledge of the Final Days, and directly leading to the exodus from the colony and subsequent preparations for a potential exodus from the star itself. This knowledge was intentionally kept extremely secret, however, even from most Sharlayan citizens, nevermind the rest of Eorzea.

Any conception of Hydaelyn as a deity is a novel concept, and not a part of traditional Twelve worship. We don't generally hear common people invoke Hydaelyn as they would a deity; it's usually one or all of the Twelve. As recently as five years ago, in 1.0, the true nature of the Echo was still widely unknown; Minfilia’s Echo support group was called The Path of the Twelve because the phenomenon was, understandably, believed to be a gift from the gods. The various powers granted by the Echo had been previously documented, but it is only in recent years that they have been hypothesized (Encyclopedia Eorzea specifically uses the word "hypothesized" rather than "believed") to be a gift from Hydaelyn. "Blessing of Light," likewise, is a broad term referring to a variety of phenomena in which Hydaelyn seems to directly communicate with Echo bearers or intervene on their behalf. EE1 tells us that "despite their frequency, little is known about them. However, it is assumed that many of the 'miracles' which appear in myth and legend are actually instances of Hydaelyn bestowing Her blessing upon an individual." Again, this appears to be a recent theory recontextualizing a set of long-documented but poorly-understood phenomena. Any understanding of the struggle between Hydaelyn and Zodiark is also noted here as a recent discovery by the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

(As a sidenote, I don't think it's necessary for our purposes here to get too hung up on where the Echo ends and the blessing of Light begins, as at the end of the day both are umbrella terms for a broad set of distinct but overlapping phenomena that come from Hydaelyn.)

It's probably also important to note that this evolving understanding of Hydaelyn is one both spiritual and scientific. By the time we meet them in ARR, it does seem clear that the Scions have already developed a view of Hydaelyn as a mother-goddess figure, but they're also devoted to deepening their understanding of the world through observation and study. They're working closely with the Students of Baldesion from the beginning of ARR (and a couple of Students can be found hanging out in the Waking Sands in the early game). They are willing to modify their beliefs based on new evidence, and indeed, over the course of the next few expansions, a whole lot of new evidence is going to surface. The political leaders who stood with Louisoix at Carteneau—Admiral Merlwyb, General Raubahn, Elder Seedseer Kan-E-Senna—are also familiar with these novel theories. When the Warrior of Light has their first direct contact with Hydaelyn in the introduction to ARR, thereby receiving a Blessing of Light, it is both their Scion representative and the leader of their starting city who explain to them the meaning of their vision and the crystal of Light they now bear.

And novel though it may be, it is clear that the arrival of the Warrior of Light only strengthens the Scions' belief in Hydaelyn. I think this adds important context to the Scions' reception of the player character and the way they look upon that character as such a beacon of hope. It's not just that the WoL is possessed of great strength and skill, or even that they have the Echo; it's that their experiences are actively confirming the Scions' developing theories about Hydaelyn.

Yet for all their approach to understanding Hydaelyn is of a scientific bent, their relationship to Hydaelyn on a personal level still has a distinctly religious flavor—particularly for Minfilia and Urianger. I'll be bringing up Minfilia a few times here, both because her story is deeply intertwined with Urianger's and because I think in some ways they have a lot in common.

Minfilia herself is an Echo-bearer, though it seems like prior to the end of the ARR patches, she has not experienced the blessing of Light in the way the Warrior of Light has. Nonetheless, as she escapes with the Warrior of Light through the watercourse, it is to her that Hydaelyn speaks—and Minfilia heeds Her call, urging the Warrior of Light onward without her, while she runs back to be caught up in Y'shtola's Flow spell and carried into the aetherial sea.

This much, it seems, was Hydaelyn's doing. But something that I think is often missed about Minfilia is that she does not become the Word of the Mother against her will. Hydaelyn does not pull her into the aetherial sea and simply consume her; with Her power so diminished, she probably couldn’t have done that even had she wanted to. Hydaelyn merely guides Minfilia back toward Y'shtola to be caught in the Flow spell. Whatever Hydaelyn’s intentions (which we can’t know for certain), it’s entirely possible that had Minfilia not made a choice, the Seedseers might have pulled her from the aetherial sea alongside Y'shtola, or she might have eventually materialized malms away in the wilderness like Thancred.

In Minfilia's own words:

There, adrift and alone, Her voice silent once more, I prayed... For those we have lost. For those we can yet save. To Her I would make an offering...

Minfilia gives herself to Hydaelyn. She understands—all the Scions understand—that Hydaelyn is profoundly weakened after protecting the Warrior of Light against the Ultima Weapon. She understands that the only way Hydaelyn might intervene in the present crisis is if She can regain some of her strength, and for that, She would need an offering of aether… and Minfilia, having faith that Hydaelyn will intervene, offers herself.

Though it comes at great cost to her and to the people who love her, Minfilia's faith is rewarded. The Warrior of Light survives. Little by little, Hydaelyn does regain strength, and is finally able to speak to the Warrior of Light again and begin to restore what Midgardsormr stripped from them. The Scions rebuild themselves and continue their work. Through Minfilia, Hydaelyn is able to communicate truths lost to time, to help the Scions better understand the struggles they face. And ultimately, Minfilia goes on to save another reflection and its people from total destruction.

What Minfilia understands, Urianger also understands.

The first time Urianger really caught my attention was in the Warriors of Darkness storyline in the Heavensward patches. I love that whole storyline and what it established about his character, and I love how much it set up threads that will be further explored and paid off later. Shadowbringers was a true delight for me, not just because Urianger is so central to it, or because I love the story in its own right (though those are both true things) but also because it is the resolution of this storyline.

The way Urianger calls upon Hydaelyn after the invocation of the crystals has always stuck in mind:

Mother Hydaelyn, hearken unto Your children's plea! From two worlds do we gather, and from two worlds do we offer a bounty of Light. In this desperate hour, we do beseech Your intercession! We beg an audience with the Word of the Mother─with Your chosen, Minfilia!

Urianger possesses a flair for the dramatic generally, of course. And at the same time, this has always struck me as such an earnest prayer. Even in Her weakened state, he has faith that if they can only invoke the combined power of the crystals of Light—an offering of aether!—She will be both willing and able to work with them to save another shard, which is Her aim as well.

And he’s right. Though it comes at great cost, Urianger’s faith in Hydaelyn is rewarded here.

The Invocation of Saints

While Thaliak may be Urianger's patron deity in the strictest sense, I think his faith rests much more strongly in a figure closer to home: his late master, Louisoix Leveilleur.

All of the core Scions have great respect for Louisoix, even what might be called reverence. I don't think it's a reach to say that the Archons of his Circle of Knowing view him, not only as an expert in prophecy, but as a kind of prophet himself. In an Echo flashback to a time before the Calamity in the introductory questline, you might see Y'shtola saying, "It is as Louisoix foretold…" or Papalymo saying, "…just as Louisoix forewarned," depending on your starting city. Thancred, notably, seems to take a more practical view, saying, "Louisoix will know what to do. We need only trust in his judgment," focusing more on his master's wisdom in the present than foreknowledge of the future. Nevertheless, it is clear that all of them put a profound faith in their mentor. Later in ARR, we see Thancred berate himself for arriving too late to prevent Ifrit from tempering nearby soldiers, saying, "Lousioix would never have allowed this to happen."

For Urianger and Minfilia, this reverence takes on a particular flavor.

Urianger's very first words to the Warrior of Light in 2.0 are: "Dawn may banish even the darkest night…" This is the beginning of a well-known writing of Louisoix, which we later hear in full from the Wandering Minstrel, who has arranged them into verse (though he notes that they were not originally written as poetry):

Dawn may banish even the darkest night, Yet ever shall primal desires burn. Two swords shall vie to lay them low─ A blade born of light and a blade forged of might. Alas, man may entrust his fate unto but one.

I think it's very likely Urianger meant to recite the whole thing, finding it a prescient introduction both to the Scions’ work and what role the Warrior of Light might play in it. However, Minfilia gives him a Look which I think suggests he is losing his audience, and Urianger seemingly course-corrects, saying, "The words of a dear friend. I am glad of our meeting." Nonetheless, it seems clear to me that he holds the words of Louisoix in the same regard he would any canonical prophet, and looks to them for guidance in the man's absence.

In the middle of A Realm Reborn, while the Waking Sands are still bustling with Scions going about their work and new recruits waiting for their first mission, Urianger may be found conversing in a very animated (if perhaps one-sided) fashion with a group of adventurers. If spoken to, he has the following to say:

Knowest thou the import of the broken staff within the solar? It fell from the grasp of Archon Louisoix, the man who, in his abiding love for all Eorzeans, shielded us against the storm of the Calamity.

The way he describes his late master feels almost like a christ figure. Have you heard about our lord and savior Louisoix, who so loved the world that he died to save us?

Both Minfilia and Urianger pray directly to Louisoix at certain points in the story. Furthermore, they both make reference to Louisoix watching over them and even guiding their path forward. Y'shtola, too, seems to hold this view. After the attack on the Waking Sands, she says, "It is as if the benevolent hand of Master Louisoix guides us still. He would not see us undone so easily. Not now, when the need is so great." In an Echo flashback, just before the attack on the Wakings Sands, we see Minfilia look up to the fragments of Tupsimati upon the wall of the Solar and say, "Louisoix, do you see? Your light shines brightly in this one. And in time, it will illuminate the realm once more." In the patches, as the Scions prepare to depart for Mor Dhona, she asks, "Tell me, Louisoix... Would you have done the same?" And in learning that Hydaelyn has been silent to both herself and the Warrior of Light, she says, "Then She speaks to neither one of us. Hydaelyn's silence portends naught but ill, I fear. Louisoix… I pray you yet watch over us…"

And as Urianger brings his plan with the Warriors of Darkness to fruition, just before calling upon the Warrior of Light to invoke the power of their crystals, he utters, "Master Louisoix, guide my hand, I pray you, as fate's thread spinneth upon this most capricious spindle." (Note that as with Hydaelyn, and with Louisoix’s grandchildren, Urianger uses the formal you rather than the informal thou.)

While for other Scions, these invocations largely fall away after ARR, for Urianger they do not. As late as Endwalker, he still prays to his late master and invokes his protection:

'Tis no meager delight to watch Alisaie and Alphinaud grow more resolute in mind and heart. And remarkable though their accomplishments may be, I doubt not that they are destined for still greater things. Grant them thy protection, Master Louisoix. I implore thee…

As the Scions call upon their various allies and prepare to use salvaged Allagan technology to craft a vessel to ferry people to the moon, Urianger has this idle remark:

What serendipitous irony that the remnants of the Seventh Umbral Calamity would become the keys to mankind's salvation. Never more certain have I been that Master Louisoix watcheth over us from the aetherial sea...

In this, it is plain that Urianger's faith is deeply tied not merely to distant gods, but to one particularly trusted mortal leader.

Faith, Science, and Flexibility of Mind

Above, I discussed how the Scions’ understanding of Hydaelyn is both scientific and spiritual. It is also worth noting that this idea of the dead watching over them from the aetherial sea seems somewhat divergent from the standard beliefs of Twelve-worship, the seven heavens and hells to which mortals ascend or descend upon death depending on their deeds. Devout as they may be, the Scions’ beliefs about the afterlife are more aligned with the scientific findings of Sharlayan’s aetherologists. This is evident in 2.3, when Urianger and Minfilia review the principles of aetheric dissipation:

Minfilia: Before discussing our new discoveries, it may benefit us all to recall what we know of aetheric behavior. Minfilia: Let us begin at what some might call the end. When we who dwell in the material realm die, our spirits dissolve into the flow of aether, and are returned to the aetherial realm. Minfilia: In turn, the restless energy which suffuses that plane streams back into our world, giving rise to new life. Urianger: 'Tis as the heavens did decree─the way of all mortal souls. Urianger: 'Twixt this world and the next do the aetherial currents swirl, bearing the very essence of life. Thus doth the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth continue unabated.

I find this exchange particularly interesting, because it does not seem to me that the Scions see any conflict between their faith in the Twelve and their understanding of aetherological phenomena. In fact, Urianger explicitly frames the latter in spiritual terms: “’Tis as the heavens did decree.” Integrating a scientific understanding into his nonetheless devout worldview does not seem to be an issue for him, or for the Scions generally. This seems perfectly in keeping with the Sharlayan ethos to me, but it also seems pretty consistent with who Urianger is as a person, with his love of esoteric texts packed with metaphor and poetic imagination. Even were the tenets of Twelve-worship strictly codified across Eorzea, which I suspect they are not on the whole (Ishgard's strict textual orthodoxy seems to be the exception and not the rule), Urianger is not a literalist. It’s probably not a reach for him to interpret "hells and heavens" as poetic interpretations of observable reality.

Urianger will later say that his studies in prophecies have granted him a “flexibility of mind,” and I think that’s an accurate descriptor.

The Art of Foreknowledge

At the heart of Urianger's faith is his belief in foreknowledge and fate.

We are told that prophetic works have fascinated Urianger from a young age—and at this point, I think we need to take a step back and talk about what, exactly, prophecy is in this world. So far as I know, Final Fantasy XIV doesn’t ever really give us a clear definition, but we can deduce some things from context.

Divination takes a variety of forms in this universe, from the astrology we see in Sharlayan and Ishgardian practice, to tomes of poetic verse which are accepted as having some true bearing on the future or the nature of the world or both. It is the latter which is Urianger’s primary field of expertise, though he does seem to have some background in the theory of astrology, and takes it up in practice later on.

That part about certain texts being widely accepted as prophetic is pretty important. We can guess that among scholars of prophecy there is an accepted canon of sorts—works which are acknowledged by scholarly consensus as bearing prophetic relevance. In the cutscene with Elidibus in the Great Gubal Library, Urianger initially scoffs at the Gerun Oracles as “apocrypha”: non-canon, not accepted in scholarly circles as significant. (Elidibus, of course, refutes this by calling it “a truth long forgotten.”)

Prophecy in fantasy fiction often focuses primarily on predictions of the future, but there is a more nuanced understanding to be had of prophecy as speaking of past, present, andfuture, and of truths fundamental to the nature of reality. This is certainly true of many of the texts we hear Urianger recite. Some offer a more vague sort of wisdom, such as the verse Urianger recites for the Scions upon their departure to the Far East:

Look ye where the sun doth rise, see crimson embers, dark'ning skies... Look ye where the sun doth fall, see azure lost amidst the squall.

There is certainly some meaning to be found in these words with regard to the events of Stormblood: conflict in both east and west, war on both horizons. "Azure lost amidst the squall" might even be interpreted as a poetic reference to Estinien's activities. Still, these words offer no great revelations. Compare this to the Gerun Oracles, which Urianger comes to accept it as not only true, but corroborating the revelations of the Word of the Mother with regard to the Sundering, the Reflections, and their destruction in the Umbral Calamities. Even of this text, Urianger acknowledges, "their copious use of allegory defieth any single interpretation." Prophetic texts, it seems, are rarely straightforward.

So, we return to the question: what is prophecy? Where did these writers gain the insights which they put to verse? Did they even understand their significance at the time of writing? Unfortunately, in this regard we really have only conjecture. I think it's easy enough to come up with plausible theories. The prophets might have been experiencing the Echo; they might have had contact with Ascians; they might have been spoken to by Hydaelyn Herself. The game, alas, does not offer us these answers. Indeed, even of the text most central to Louisoix's journey into Eorzea we know almost nothing.

The Divine Chronicles of Mezaya Thousand-Eyes are a series of prophetic writings that seem to describe each of the first six umbral calamities. This text is so widely-known that even Garleans are familiar with it and the Legatus Nael van Darnus of 1.0 fame also apparently regarded it as prophetic (according to GamerEscape’s 1.0 summary, The Rise and Fall of the White Raven). Of the famed prophetess who penned it, we have almost no information at all. The various fan wikis don't even have pages for her, as there is basically nothing to include there. Her writings, however, seem to be accepted as prophetic. In fact, the six verses of the Chronicles were widely cited as proof that no further Calamities would occur… until a seventh verse was found inscribed on a stone tablet in a cave.

Louisoix Leveilleur, Sharlayan's foremost expert on prophecy, believed this verse pointed to a seventh impending calamity. According the the Unending Codex, it was for this reason that Urianger joined the Circle of Knowing, seeking to understand the truth of this text. And the belief that Eorzea would soon be plunged into another calamity led Louisoix to leave Sharlayan with his followers and venture south into Eorzea to help her city-states prepare for the worst.

In their understanding of this prophetic text, they found purpose. Which leads us to…

Fate and Purpose

I want to return to Urianger's words about Louisoix in the Waking Sands, specifically the latter part of it:

The stars wheel across the heavens, and the skies brighten once more. The survivors gather, and ignite a fiery dawn to burn away the glowering shroud. Ah, but destiny, thou art beautiful...

Destiny, thou art beautiful. This is how Urianger conceptualizes the Scions gathering in the wake of their beloved master's sacrifice. We're still about mid-ARR here, before the Warrior of Light has slain Titan. Compare to Y'shtola's idle dialogue at the same point in MSQ:

As you have doubtless witnessed in your travels, the lands of Eorzea are gasping under the pall of a suffocating darkness. I must wonder if it is this darkness that invites disaster, or simply that disaster has left such gloom in its wake. One thing is for certain: now is not the time to relax our vigilance.

Urianger is hardly unaware of the trials facing the Scions and Eorzea at large, and yet his framing of their present circumstances is distinctly one of hope. Where Y'shtola speaks ominously of "the pall of a suffocating darkness," Urianger speaks almost rapturously of "a fiery dawn to burn away the glowering shroud."

Keep in mind, too, that these words about the beauty of destiny follow directly from Urianger speaking of Louisoix's death. This sentiment will be echoed later when, upon the death of his oldest and dearest friend, Urianger declares, "The moon sinketh, taking her leave of the heavens. Yet her passing heraldeth the coming of a new day. Moenbryda hath fulfilled her destiny, hath she not?"

This is Urianger's response to loss. He affirms his belief in fate—not simply in predestination, in a future that may be foreseen, but in a brighter future that will give purpose to such sacrifices.

Encyclopedia Eorzea Volume 3 tells us that Urianger’s parents rarely had time for him as a child, occupied as they were with their own research. I think this likely impressed upon him from a young age that there was always something more important than him. And when his parents effectively abandoned him with the neighbors and departed for “parts unknown,” never to return, that idea would only have been solidified.

For a child already fascinated by prophecy and the idea of fate, I imagine it could have offered some kind of comfort to believe that the pain of his abandonment was all for a higher purpose, a greater good.

I can imagine how this belief, so ingrained in him as a child, could lead him to go along with his mentor even when Louisoix declared that Moenbryda must stay behind, and offered her no explanation as to why. It's clear that Urianger felt some guilt in the wake of this decision, specifically his choice not to explain Lousioix's intentions, believing their master wanted Moenbryda to come to that understanding on her own. As he laments after his friend's death, "Knowingly did I deny my friend the comfort she craved." Yet he did all of this, undoubtedly, not only out of faith in his mentor's judgment, but because he believed it to be in service of a greater good. And in fact, he seems to take Moenbryda's final words as affirmation that Louisoix was, in fact, correct. "The realization hath set her free. She may now find the peace which hath for so long eluded her."

So in the end, to his thinking, it all worked out as it was meant to.

I don't think Urianger believes that the future is set in stone. If that were the case, then personal choice would be meaningless; there would have been no reason to intervene in the first place, to warn the Eorzean nations of the Calamity, if the future would play out the same regardless. Indeed, Urianger speaks frequently of choice, and agonizes over the difficult choices he holds himself responsible for making.

What he does believe for a long time, I think, is that in the face of an impending and forewarned crisis, there is often only one path forward to avert it. The role of the one who would heed the warnings of the prophets is to make the necessary choices no matter how painful, to take the necessary actions, to make what sacrifices must be made.

When he overhears his oldest and dearest friend about to sacrifice herself to destroy an Ascian, he does not intervene to stop her. He speaks of her having "fulfilled her destiny," even as he will torment himself for this decision for a long time to come.

And as the Scions face mounting challenges for which they are increasingly unprepared, Urianger increasingly decides that his role is to take those burdens upon himself.

Changing Roles

I did not get to experience 1.0 for myself, and so what I know of Urianger's role in it is sadly limited to what has been preserved by other fans. To the best of my understanding, his role was as a kind of doomsayer, traveling from settlement to settlement and sharing prophecies of the Calamities in an attention-getting manner. Though his approach was off-putting to many, his performance ultimately succeeded in its aim: serving as a diversion for the Garlean Empire, leading Legatus Nael van Darnus to fixate on apprehending him, while in the meantime Louisoix and his fellow archons were able to rally the Grand Companies to face the coming crisis. (@mirkemenagerie has a great post about that.)

By the time ARR begins, this performance is no longer needed, and Urianger has taken on a much different role in the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, an organization formed from the merger of Louisoix's Circle of Knowing and Minfilia's Path of the Twelve. He is now the keeper of the Waking Sands, and the Scions' primary adviser on primal lore, and only rarely ventures out in the field with his fellow Archons.

And I think that initially, Urianger seems happy enough with this role. Though he may not get out as much as he once did, the Waking Sands are lively with new recruits. Urianger can be seen at various points during ARR having spirited conversations with other NPCs. In one bit of idle dialogue, he says, "As the primals fall, so do our spirits soar. Though mine aid be but modest, I nonetheless am heartened in my duties."

Urianger is happy here. Though the Scions face many mounting trials, he is surrounded by a community united in purpose with a leader in whom he may place his trust, and his duty is clear.

It's not until the ARR patches, when things really go awry for the Scions, that we begin to see the seeds of doubt in our steadfast arcanist.

The Seeds of Doubt

The defeat of the Ultima Weapon fundamentally alters the Scions' path and their role in Eorzea. While they have always been in communication with Eorzea's leaders and called upon for aid, now they are thrust into the public eye in an unprecedented way. 2.1 opens with Minfilia reflecting upon the myriad support from various parties suddenly on offer—and the price that inevitably comes with it. Urianger seems to share her ambivalence:

'Tis the lot of the powerful to attract the covetous as well as the needy. Thus doth prudence dictate that those with power proffer aid with one hand whilst the other resteth ever on their hilt. Alas, we have not the luxury of time to decipher our petitioners' machinations─nay, not while the beast tribes do labor unseen, defiant in defeat, to raise up their fallen primals once more. Doubt not that they shall return─stronger and bolder both─nor that we shall be the ones to meet them. This sacred charge shall ever be ours. 'Tis but a pity we are so few, and our fortune so finite...

By this point, tragedy has already altered Urianger's surrounds irrevocably. The Garlean attack on the Waking Sands has left dead many of the people with whom he once socialized on a daily basis, leaving the Scions' headquarters a much quieter and more somber place. Urianger himself, fortunate enough to be one of those spared, endured capture and imprisonment.

And further change threatens to unsettle the place and the people amongst whom he has found a home. Despite Minfilia's reticence, we see her increasingly bow to the vision Alphinaud has for the Scions—what he sees as continuing the work his grandfather began. Repeatedly, we see the two of them clash over what is best for the Scions—and each time, we see Minfilia cede ground.

Urianger is not without his own concerns about the Scions’ new direction, though he refrains from clashing directly with either Alphinaud or Minfilia, likely out of his deep respect for both of them. Nonetheless, he chooses to stay behind in the Waking Sands and continue his research there. "I had thought to relinquish the property," Minfilia explains, "but he was quite adamant, and I had not the heart to disagree."

As the Scions prepare to depart for Mor Dhona, Urianger confides in the Warrior of Light:

Thou art ever welcome, [Forename], but I require no assistance. Pray take thy leave unburdened by concern for my well-being. Verily, thy countenance bespeaks a desire to quit this place without further delay. Hm. Mayhap thou thinkest this chapter of our tale concluded─that these halls should rightly be consigned to the annals of history...? In man's eagerness to seize the future, how readily he doth set down the past. Full many a proud pioneer hath bravely stridden into the great unknown, only to find there the banner of his ancestor, faded by the eons. And still man glorieth in his discoveries. 'Tis through his pride that wisdom doth ever give way to ignorance, while they who lurk in shadow remain hidden, lost no sooner than they are found. <sigh> Be not offended, [Forename]. Thy conduct hath ever been beyond reproach. Despite thy surpassing strength, and all thy many victories, thou hast never been so convinced of thine own greatness as to imagine thyself above the failings of thy forebears. Mayhap it is the Echo which hath opened thine eyes to the lessons of history. Would that the same could be said of─

(At which point he is cut off by Minfilia's scream as she is accosted by Elidibus.)

It is not difficult to imagine that in the midst of so much upheaval, Urianger's remaining in the Waking Sands might be his way of clinging to one familiar thing, a place he feels at home, even if it cannot be for him what it once was. That said, he clearly has very real concerns about the Scions' direction on the world stage, and worries that his trusted leader is failing to heed the lessons of history.

I have no doubt that Urianger has great love and respect for Minfilia, but I do think this is when his faith in her as a leader begins to waver a little. Whether he meant to name her or Alphinaud before he was cut off is ultimately irrelevant, as Minfilia has capitulated to Alphinaud's vision for the Scions. (And I don't mean to pick on Minfilia here; she's another one of my favorite characters, and I think she does the best she can with the circumstances in which she finds herself and largely does manage to rise to the challenge of leading the Scions in Louisoix's absence. Through no fault of her own, she's simply ill-equipped to handle the increasing visibility and political volatility of the Scions' position, and the deference with which all the Archons seem to feel they should treat Louisoix's grandchildren only further complicates an already messy situation.)

And the hits just keep coming. Up until now, the Scions have worked closely with the Students of Baldesion, receiving substantial support from the Sharlayan organization and frequently consulting them for their research. They've barely arrived at Revenant's Toll when Urianger brings the news that he is unable to contact the Students, and fears the worst. Not long after, contacts in Sharlayan confirm the shocking news that entire Isle of Val, where the Students had had their base, has vanished. Once again, these likely include colleagues and friends, people with whom Urianger once communicated regularly for a common purpose. Now missing under terrifying circumstances, and feared dead.

It is in the midst of such turmoil that Urianger makes a rare trek out into the field to observe a primal firsthand—feeling, perhaps, that in the absence of the allies who had once provided valuable insights, it is his duty to observe all he can, even if it's quite a departure from his usual domain of written lore. And not long after that, faced with the puzzle of tracking down Lady Iceheart's hidden aetheryte, he calls upon Moenbryda.

In the light of all that has come before, this is such an interesting choice. Moenbryda’s expertise in aetherology is certainly invaluable to their present crisis, but there’s no doubt that it would have been valuable at many points prior. Louisoix Leveilleur has been dead for five years. Only now, after the Scions have suffered major losses at the hands of the Garleans and lost even more with the disappearance of the Students of Baldesion, does Urianger contravene the will of his late mentor, and ask Moenbryda to come to Eorzea.

So far as we know, this might be the only time he’s ever done that.

I bring all this up because it is here, in the ARR patches, where we see Urianger begin in subtle ways to question the wisdom of his trusted leaders. I don’t think this means that he in any way doubts the intentions of Louisoix or of Minfilia, or their principles in the broad strokes. His reverence for Louisoix persists all the way to Endwalker, and he continues to behave with great deference toward Minfilia, as well as toward the twins. There’s just a subtle shift here from Urianger simply doing as he’s told, to Urianger acting out of his own sense of duty to do what he believes necessary.

I didn't realize until the conversation in Endwalker that the implication of Urianger’s “I heard all” is meant to be that he was there just offscreen listening when Moenbryda died, not simply that he heard the others discussing her death after the fact. Though he clearly did not overhear her words about understanding Louisoix’s sacrifice (as the Warrior of Light has to tell him), his Endwalker dialogue makes it clear that he could have called out to her and begged her to live—and he did not. Knowingly, he allowed her to sacrifice herself to destroy an Ascian—for the greater good.

Moenbryda hath fulfilled her destiny, hath she not? Thus does Urianger justify her sacrifice, as well as his own part in it, and thus does her death serve to reinforce his existing beliefs, even as it torments him with undeniable regret.

A Creed Sacrosanct

At the end of the ARR patches leading into Heavensward, the Urianger approached by Elidibus has seen nearly every person and institution in which he placed his faith crumble and vanish. Louisoix is dead, the Students of Baldesion missing and presumed dead, many other friends and colleagues lost, Minfilia missing, the remaining Scions scattered to the winds, the Waking Sands near-empty. Beyond what he may contribute to the search for the missing, coordinated by Tataru from distant Ishgard, Urianger is rudderless and leaderless both.

What remains is his faith in a greater good, in a higher purpose. And this time, when duty calls, he will choose to place that burden on none but himself.

The way Elidibus speaks to Urianger, I don’t doubt that he’s been observing the Archon for some time, because he seems to know exactly what buttons to push. For one thing, he approaches Urianger just when he is at his most vulnerable and alone. The Warriors of Darkness don’t actually come on the scene until post-Heavensward; Elidibus didn’t strictly need Urianger yet and doesn’t seem to have had him doing anything throughout Heavensward, but nonetheless, this is when he chooses to make contact. Upon their first meeting, he says, “I would speak of fate, Archon. Yours, mine—the fate of this very star.”

Later in 3.1, when we see them in the Great Gubal library and Urianger scoffs at the Gerun Oracles as apocryphal, Elidibus replies:

It is a truth long forgotten─a tale of the beginning, and of the path we have been set upon. Our fates were ordained long ago, Archon. The Garleans are no exception. Nor the Triad. You know what must be done.

We have only a few brief scenes of their interactions, and yet in these few words it’s made plain how Elidibus gained Urianger’s faith, not in his intentions, but in the truth of his words. As Urianger says later:

‘Twas in the hope of opening mine eyes to said revelation that they first came unto me, imagining it sufficient to secure mine allegiance. Nor would they have been mistaken─were my heart a temple to truth alone. But as a devoted follower of Master Louisoix's teachings, and for the love I bear him and his, I hearkened not to their words.

Elidibus is able to persuade Urianger of the truth of the Sundering, the Reflections, and the Rejoinings. Where he miscalculates is in missing Urianger’s core belief, his faith in the core of his mentor’s teachings, their entire purpose in coming to Eorzea: To ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom—it is indolence.

By the time his friends are found and the Scions begin to rebuild, Urianger is already in the weeds with Elidibus and the Warriors of Darkness, and that secret in itself serves to further isolate him from his friends—though clearly not without misgivings. After pushing Arbert to confront the Warrior of Light, we see Urianger in a private moment of doubt, saying to himself:

What good a creed one cannot uphold? What hurts soothed, what lives saved... O hapless fool, what hast thou wrought by thine own hands? Minfilia, my friends─I shall not now beg your forgiveness. Full deeply though it paineth me to walk it, I shall not stray from my chosen path. As Moenbryda remained steadfast, so too shall I...

And once again, Urianger places the greater good, those who may yet be saved, before all else. Once again he accepts, as a necessary sacrifice, the loss of a trusted leader and a dear friend—though in this case, it is worth noting, Minfilia is for all practical purposes already lost to her friends, having offered herself to Hydaelyn. It is impossible to say whether she could or would ever have returned to mortal life, given that she has made effectively the same sacrifice the Warriors of Darkness made; nonetheless, her willing journey to the First does, in the eyes of her friends, all but eliminate that possibility. Urianger does not send her to the First, despite what Alphinaud says in an emotional moment; he couldn’t have forced her to go, especially had it gone against Hydaelyn’s will. What he does is functionally what Elidibus did to him: he tells the truth, and offers a choice. As Urianger chose to act, as Moenbryda chose to act, so too does Minfilia.

Nonetheless, he accepts that his friends will hold him responsible, for her loss and for the deception both. This he considers an acceptable sacrifice for the salvation of a distant star. He accepts the burden of this responsibility—and ultimately, he sees his faith in Hydaelyn and in Minfilia rewarded. The First is saved from absolute destruction by Minfilia’s intervention.

It’s no wonder, then, that it takes Urianger so long to change direction. Every sacrifice up to this point has been devastating, but still seemed ultimately necessary. Louisoix. Moenbryda. Minfilia.

It’s no wonder that, upon arriving in the First and seeing what his actions have wrought, he agrees to go along with the Exarch’s plan.

The Point of Failure

Once again, Urianger accepts a temporary deception and a permanent sacrifice as necessary in the service of the greater good.

Though Elidibus and the Exarch have very different motives, I think there are some striking similarities in the way they approach Urianger. Both, it’s safe to say, have observed him and his personality, and deemed him the best choice of accomplice. Both persuade him by getting him alone, and once persuaded, keeping their secrets will further isolate him from his friends. When the Warrior of Light arrives in the First, the Scions are scattered and distant, each pursuing their goals alone, and I think it’s safe to say that the secrecy has contributed to that—particularly for Y’shtola, who seems to have realized early on both that the Exarch was hiding something and that Urianger’s vision didn’t pass the smell test.

Once again, we see Urianger having clear reservations about the path he’s chosen. He appears anguished in the Echo flashback with the Exarch, asking whether this is truly the Exarch’s wish before he agrees. When Y’shtola expresses her concern for the Warrior of Light, and questions him about the veracity of his “vision,” his eyes drop to the floor as if in shame. Still, as before, Urianger accepts that he will face condemnation for what he has been party to. Once again, he has faith that it will all be worth it. The Warrior of Light and the First will be saved, his faith will be rewarded, and he will accept the responsibility for what it cost.

It’s not without cost even for the Warrior of Light, who is kept in the dark about what’s happening to them as they slay the Lightwardens, and clearly suffers considerable pain from the accumulation of Light once it reaches a critical mass. Urianger bears witness to this, and I don’t doubt that he feels remorse for it, even as he is committed to his path.

There’s this beautiful moment after the defeat of the Rak'tika Lightwarden where Y'shtola asks Urianger to describe the night sky to her. He describes it thus:

A sea of shimmering stars. Diamonds strewn across a raven gown, boundless and beautiful. 'Tis an exquisite sight not unlike that of the Source. Calm and gentle... and forgiving...

This comes directly after Y'shtola presses him for the second time on telling the Warrior of Light the truth about the Light's corruption.

Once again, the cost weighs upon Urianger. He longs not only for the reassurance of faith rewarded, of a higher purpose served, but for forgiveness.

In his conversation with Ryne, Urianger speaks of life as "a tapestry of fates," and of the difficult decisions that must be made by those who strive to do good. He concludes with this:

Thou needst but have faith. Have faith and all will be well.

And I don't doubt that he means it. Is this not, after all, what he is doing? Continuing to withhold his knowledge and deceive his friends, out of faith that the Exarch's plan will succeed, and all will be well? If the Warrior of Light declares their trust in his plan in Kholusia, he swears to them that that trust is not misplaced. That their faith will be rewarded, that all will be well.

Thing is, in the end, that sentiment is proven wrong.

Faith isn't enough. The Exarch, however well-intentioned, fails to account for Emet-Selch's interference, the plan fails, and now Urianger is forced to confess his deception, not in victory, but to a friend on the brink of death.

After the revelations with the Warriors of Darkness, Urianger speaks frankly to the Warrior of Light, saying, “Speak thy mind. I do not expect thy forgiveness.” He even says later that Alisaie was right to condemn his choices. But he does not quite say he was wrong, and I think that’s apparent in the fact that when confronted with a similar scenario by the Exarch, though it is with obvious reluctance, he makes a similar choice.

And though Urianger even now does not openly beg forgiveness… his posture toward the Warrior of Light is very different. He goes to one knee, bowing his head before them. He says, “I offer no excuse.” He asks to be allowed to join them in setting things right, promising that his talents are at their disposal. He effectively throws himself upon their mercy. If the Warrior of Light forgives him, the look on his face is one of absolute relief, joy, and gratitude. There’s no doubt in my mind that that is the outcome he most desires, though he hardly dares hope for it.

This time, I think he knows he's fucked up. Perhaps it took the Exarch's plan going terribly sidewise for him to reach that point. I think this is a critical turning point for Urianger, one that sets him on the path to genuinely reevaluating his world view.

A Different Path

I've spent a long time pondering the fact that Urianger never has much of a visible crisis of faith upon learning the true nature of Hydaelyn.   

He remarks upon it, of course, following Emet-Selch’s revelations about Hydaelyn and Zodiark in Shadowbringers:

'Tis oft said truth is a matter of perspective. Yet upon this matter, there can be but one truth. I only pray it is not his.

From that moment on, I was honestly waiting for more of a reaction from him, especially after the confirmation in Endwalker by Hydaelyn’s own words that She is, in fact, a primal. You’d sort of expect it, right? More and more, as time has gone on and their understanding of the world has broadened, the faith of the Scions as a whole and Urianger’s devotion in specific has shifted away from the Twelve and toward Hydaelyn as an all-encompassing mother-goddess. To learn now that She is truly a primal—one of the very beings the Scions have sought to eradicate, for their devastating effects on the land and on people… Can they still trust Her guidance? Are the Echo-blessed merely tempered? What does it all mean?

Indeed, I think that these revelations very likely would have triggered a crisis of faith in pre-Shadowbringers Urianger.

But by Endwalker, Urianger is not that person anymore.

In Endwalker, we see the culmination of Urianger’s long character arc in several key scenes. The first of these comes on the moon, after the Loporrits, well-intentioned but anxious for the success of their venture after the lukewarm response to their preparations, have taken him aside and asked him to act as a liaison of sorts—to use his powers of persuasion to convince their collaborators that the moon will be a suitable vessel for the people of Etheirys.

On the surface perhaps, the Loporrits aren’t asking him to tell any really dramatic falsehoods—just talk up the moon, make it sound good, while passing along any information he can on what could improve it. And all in the service of saving a whole world full of people. He’s done far worse for that.

The subtext, however, is that Urianger would be acting to push the evacuation plan—perhaps at the expense of putting his efforts toward a way to halt the Final Days for good. Though this plan might well save the people of the Source, the reflections would be lost—a sacrifice beyond anything that’s been asked of him before. And yet if they fail to stop the Final Days, and exodus proves the only option left… could his powers of persuasion prove the difference in saving who they still can?

It all seems to immediately strike a nerve. “And so fate doth conspire to set my feet upon this path once more...” Moreover, Urianger hones right in on why he has been chosen for this task. “Is it so plain that these strangers could intuit it at a glance? My capacity for silence and secrecy... and duplicity.”

For a moment, it even appears that he might be considering going along with it. Once again, he references fate… but almost immediately, I think, he begins to turn away from that path. Y’shtola even remarks, “Urianger usually puts more effort into concealing his clandestine endeavors.” And when the Warrior of Light catches up to him, Urianger is unsurprised to see them, remarking, “Thine arrival is timely as ever.” It seems that he has already chosen not to move in shadow.

For his experiences in the First have changed him, and in the conversation that follows, he will explain why.

To me, this scene is a truly inspired moment of character development. In the hands of a lesser writer, we might have just gotten a "I don't want to lie and hide things from my friends anymore, because deception is bad" kind of epiphany. And like, sure, but that's never really been the core of it. Urianger doesn't keep secrets because he loves lying and being deceptive. He actually really doesn't. He hates it. Every time he's done it, it's been because he believed it was the only choice that would server the greater good, and the critical bit, as he finally says so candidly, is that he never looked for another way. Just as he didn't intervene to stop Moenbryda from sacrificing herself so that they could find a alternate source of aether to destroy an Ascian, he didn't look for an alternative to going undercover with the Warriors of Darkness alone, and he didn't try to convince the Exarch to look for an alternate solution to the Light problem.

“Dutiful disciple of Louisoix,” he says of himself, “ever looking to the greater good…” But the greater good part has also never actually been his problem. The Scions are all about the greater good, and most of them have been ready and willing to throw themselves on the sword should the greater good require it. The real significance of this description isn’t the greater good, but the dutiful disciple of Louisoix. Louisoix, their master; Louisoix, the prophet of their age.

Louisoix, who himself once asked Urianger to travel the realm alone and act as a diversion, while he himself moved in shadow to prepare Eorzea for the worst.

Urianger may have a natural talent for theatrics and misdirection, but he didn’t learn this from nowhere. He learned it, and performed it, at the behest of his beloved mentor, his prophet, his saint. The man who said, The worst is coming, and laid before them a path to fight it. And in his absence, Urianger has followed the path that Louisoix laid out for him: doom foretold, and one path to avert it, a path marked by, as he says now, subterfuge and sacrifice.

It's only here on the moon, faced with the request that he be the hype man for evacuating the entire star’s population onto a spaceship crewed by rabbits, that he finally says: There must be another way.

Even now, while he hopes to persuade the Loporrits to consider another avenue, he initially thinks to take that burden on himself so the responsibility of failure will be his alone. But when the Warrior of Light approaches, he confides in them, takes their encouragement to heart, and invites them to join him.

Ultimately, Urianger decides to stay on the moon to offer the Loporrits his aid, while his friends continue their work down on the surface. A plan that allows for multiple contingencies, making the best of the Loporrits’ preparations even as they hope not to need them, and most critically, a plan which requires cooperation and communication, not secrecy. Even now, it is possible they will fail. Yet for the first time, Urianger accepts that he need not carry his burdens alone. He has faith that his friends have the strength, and indeed the desire, to bear them alongside him.

This is the shift in Urianger’s faith, and the reason that in Endwalker his resolve is not shaken, but is in fact stronger than ever.

Standing Together

Urianger’s second key scene in Endwalker comes after he has returned with a gaggle of Loporrits eager to see Etheirys for themselves and learn how they can help.

Here is perhaps a good time to recall again that despite the stories of his early childhood, the Urianger we know as an adult has always been a fairly social person in his own way. In his 1.0 role, he might have been off-putting to some, but he was certainly not a recluse, and the work he was doing required its own particular type of charisma. In ARR we see him not hiding away in a corner with his books, but engaged in conversation with fellow Scions. Even in childhood, it seems like he found it difficult to relate to other children thanks to his singular personality and interests, rather than any innate misanthropy, and Moenbryda’s efforts to befriend him were ultimately successful because she made the effort to understand him.

Isolation seems to mark the darker periods of Urianger’s life, the times in which he undertakes the greatest subterfuge. And even then, he is never truly alone. In fact, he seems to succeed in these situations largely thanks to his skill in understanding and relating to those different than himself—a skill learned from his dear Moenbryda, perhaps. He manages to gain the trust of the very jaded and world-weary Warriors of Darkness. He submits himself to exhausting trials to gain the favor of the pixies and becomes practically an expert in the customs of the fae. It’s little wonder that he bonds so quickly and so well with the Loporrits, facilitating a great exchange of information and a much deeper understanding, ultimately getting them involved in the Scions' efforts to defeat Meteion and stop the Final Days.

For all his eccentricities, Urianger thrives in community, perhaps even more so in community with the odd and the unusual.

And thus do Moenbryda’s parents observe with great affection when they are reunited with him in the Sharlayan hamlet:

Wilfsunn: And look at you now. At the center of the crowd─the reason there even is a crowd, having brought these people together. You've no idea how proud we are. Bloewyda: To see the boy our daughter trusted and believed in more than anyone... grow into the man she always knew he could be.

Urianger’s final key scene in Endwalker is in Ultima Thule.

It took me months to fully process the final events of Endwalker after playing through it. It's not that I disliked it—far from it, in fact. It was deeply cathartic to play through, and left me with a lot of lingering emotions. The main thing I had to grapple with was the sacrifice aspect. For the Scions, I think so much of their arc as a group has been moving past the idea that every victory must involve some heroic sacrifice. We have seen the culmination of Urianger's character arc in his understanding that sacrifice is not always necessary, or at least should not be assumed to be the only way. Moreover, Endwalker as a whole is about the need to stand together. We see not only the payoff of the Scions’ relationships, strengthened over the course of several expansions, but the payoff of the many relationships the Warrior of Light has forged in their adventures, all coming together to save the world.

So why does this story then culminate in the Scions sacrificing themselves one by one, so that the Warrior of Light can forge on alone?

I do think we are meant to understand that the Scions are not permanently dead and gone. Even in-universe, the Warrior of Light is given to understand that between the malleability of reality in this dynamis-based place and the power infused into Azem’s crystal, it is possible to bring their friends back. Hydaelyn hints at it, noting that souls were drawn to the WoL in their journey through the aetherial sea. Y’shtola says it outright:

Though my body will soon dissipate, there may be a way to restore it. Azem's magick. So long as our souls remain, you can use it to summon us back. But you mustn't, for it would mean losing our way forward. This, I only reveal so that you can promise not to invoke the magick.

G’raha, too, as he prepares to give himself to open the way forward, asks the Warrior of Light for several promises for the future, all of which indicate faith that they will be reunited.

And this all builds on what the Warrior of Light has seen in their journeys, in particular the understanding of life and death and the aetherial sea which their descent into the Aitiascope recently confirmed: the souls of the dead do not always dissipate immediately into their component aether, but may linger, still conscious of themselves, in the aetherial sea, even for considerable time. In the Aitiascope, we see departed friends come to the side of the Warrior of Light to lend them aid.

When Bloewyda says, “I can see her in you, too. Feel her. She walks with you, wheresoever you go…” and Urianger replies, “I think… I can feel her too,” it may sound like mere sentiment at the time. When the Warrior of Light and Alphinaud see a vision of Haurchefant and Ysayle at their side as they fight to prise the Eyes of Nidhogg from Estinien’s armor and save their friend, we might doubt whether they are literally there, or whether it’s simply their memory that gives our heroes the strength to succeed. But this, I believe, is what we are meant to take from the journey through the Aitiascope: it is not mere sentiment. In this world, the departed can and sometimes do watch over their loved ones from the aetherial sea for a time, even if they cannot intervene in mortal affairs.

And thus, whatever it is precisely that happens to the souls of the Scions as they leave their corporeal forms in Ultima Thule to bend its reality to their will, they are not gone.

Thancred’s intitial sacrifice to save his friends seems to be pure impulse. He has no time to think, only acts on instinct, and bids them live, and in this asserts his will over reality. When the others understand what he has done, however, each in turn are faced with a choice.

And Urianger’s approach to this choice is somewhat different than the rest. He does not simply announce his decision on the spot, but takes the Warrior of Light and G’raha aside to confide in them. (It seems he still harbors some discomfort in revealing his thoughts to the whole group—perhaps not least because he knows how the twins will respond.) In this conversation he reveals not merely his plan, but the thoughts that have led him there, as well as some guidance for their next steps.

In true Urianger form, he speaks of faith, and of fate. Addressing G’raha, he says:

I once placed my faith in thy chosen path, walking at thy side full knowing that we were bound for thy demise. I ask now that thou returnest the favor, and abide in faith as I fulfill mine own destiny.

I think it is important here that Urianger’s belief in fate, in purpose, persists. Moreover, he uses the word destiny in the context in which he has always used it: to offer purpose and hope in the face of loss.

But no longer does he presume that facing his destiny means facing it alone. “Yet even if I must needs go to such lengths,” he says, “I cannot well feign ignorance of the answer I have found within... The answer to the question: in what moment might I stand strongest?”

It’s clear that since their arrival in Ultima Thule and Thancred’s sacrifice, Urianger has been ruminating upon this question. This time, he has the opportunity to consider the choices ahead, not simply make a decision on the spot, and he seizes that opportunity, looking for where he may do the most good.

He does not say outright what answer he found, not yet, but it becomes clear when he steps up to join Y’shtola in opening the way forward.

My resolve hath never been as strong as thine. Full oft have I wavered in my decisions, and afterwards been stricken with regret. In spite of this, I may still stand with my comrades, supporting them as they attempt the greatest of feats. This truth, I have learned in the course of our journey.

And not only does Urianger help to forge a path by bending reality, by his words and his insights he also helps to guide his friends to confront each new despair that bars the way—even after he has vanished from their sight.

Ultima Thule is not truly about sacrifice, but about a tremendous leap of faith. It’s about the strength to keep going even in the face of loneliness and despair, to know that one is not alone no matter how alone one may feel. This Urianger has learned, and the Warrior of Light will in turn as they take those final steps.

By the end of his arc, Urianger has learned that he stands strongest at the side of his friends. And perhaps this is not quite a new revelation for him, but a truth learned and forgotten and learned again and again. Character growth need not be a straight line. In his youth, Urianger was an isolated child who learned to accept Moenbryda’s friendship, and it was by her encouragement that he pursued his own path of learning which eventually led him to join Louisoix and the Circle of Knowing. I point back to the animated, talkative Urianger we see in ARR, who in the face of loss and sacrifice yet looked to the future with hope, with faith in his companions and in the continued guidance of their mentor. I think this is a truth he has known before, but one he lost sight of as his community and support system crumbled around him. We might look at Urianger’s downward spiral following Moenbryda’s death as a dark night of the soul, in which he clings to his belief in fate and ordained purpose all the more tightly, for what he has sacrificed for them, even as his insistence upon carrying the weight of duty alone sets him upon an increasingly dark and lonely path.

I wonder if he sees something of that dark and lonely path in Hydaelyn Herself, when he stands before Her and hears Her words: “There was no kindness nor justice in the tragedy I wrought.”

And as Hydaelyn is unburdened at last in entrusting the future to others… so now has Urianger found peace by placing his faith in his friends.

Conclusions

Faith has always been a core part of Urianger’s character. All his life, he has looked to forces outside himself to guide him to the truth and the right path forward, and to reassure him in the face of loss: to the gods, to prophetic writings, to trusted leaders, to the stars. And he has striven to follow what he believed was the right path, even when it meant great sacrifice and pain—even when it drove a wedge between himself and the people dearest to him.

In the end, Urianger does not lose his faith, but rather the shape of it changes. In this he finds greater peace and purpose both, understanding that he need not walk in shadow, or alone.

Having finally met Hydaelyn face to face and understood Her purpose, I think Urianger understands that this is, in fact, what She would want. In Her death, She entrusts the future to Etheirys’s people. And though we unfortunately do not get to see Urianger (or most of the Scions) react to the true nature of the Twelve and their departure from the world in Myths of the Realm… I think he’d be okay about that now, too. It is in those who stand beside him that he now places his faith, not in distant gods. And Urianger has faith that his friends will happily share in his burdens, forgive him his failings, and celebrate their victories together.

And in this new faith, he has also gained faith in himself. He can accept his own strengths and weaknesses, confide in his friends without fear of judgment, request their aid without shame. We see Urianger look to the future and embrace his duties with far greater confidence and far less doubt and torment, knowing that even in the darkest moments, he can rely on the friends who stand at his side.

Endnotes

A huge thank-you to @eriyu for her searchable transcript of MSQ dialogue at xiv.quest, without which this essay and most of my Urianger research would have been a great deal more difficult.

An additional thank-you to all the fans who have worked to preserve material from FFXIV 1.0 and make it available on YouTube, on fan wikis, and in tumblr posts; I am forever in your debt.

[shera-dnd]

I have decided against my better judgement to be weird about the Dawntrail MSQ

and we can't talk about an expansion set in the fantasy americas without talking about

COLONIALISM

oh yeah, we're going there baby

So disclaimer that I may be brazilian, but my ass is white as hell, so take everything I say with a grain of salt. Also if any native americans have made posts on this please let me know so I can boost their analysis as well

Also also I'm more than happy to delete this post if I mess up. I'm genuinely trying to make a thoughtful analysis, so if I fuck up just say the word and this thing is gone from this website

Oh also also also, Dawntrail MSQ spoilers ahead!

So FFXIV has had a... messy relationship with colonialism over the years

The fact that the major antagonists for the first half of A Realm Reborn a literally called "beast man tribes" is absolutely not a good start to this story

Add to that the fact that The Twelve (Eorzea's gods) are shown to be kind all powerful deities, while the Primals (the tribal gods) are evil spirits summoned to bring destruction to the world

and yeah no ARR is not good with that shit. It's EXTREMELY not good. If I hadn't been told it got better later on I would have dropped this shit before I got to Titan

But they have been taking steps to unfuck things. First we're shown that even the "civilized societies" (in this case the catholic elves) can summon Primals, then that Primal summoning isn't an actual native custom but was introduced by foreigners with malicious intent, and that not all "beast man" practice that

Then they changed the names of the "Beast Man Tribe Quests" to "Tribal Quests" and then finally to "Allied Society Quest"

Which would have been an empty gesture had like half of the post-Shadowbringer patches, as well a lot of Endwalker, not been about forming alliances with those people and working together with them, recognizing that they have as much right to the land and to life as any Eorzean, this all culminating on the Primals being summoned with the express purpose of helping you protect the world you all share

I guess they realized that they couldn't have their big bad for most of the game be the evil expansionist empire, if they didn't like actually reflect in their own imperialist fantasies they were propagating

Then the teaser trailer for Dawntrail drops and everyone in the fandom is like "wait... are we gonna do a colonialism?"

And memes were abound of how all those lessons from before don't apply to the "New World" of Tural

THANKFULLY the actual questline leading to Dawntrail helped to settle some of those worries

We're not going to Tural to explore a new uncharted land, but are actually being invited over by the local royalty in order to aid them with their right of succession. We get introduced to the nation of Tuliyollal and how it's a thriving land with its own culture and not just a "terra nil" waiting to be colonized

Still there are some worries that this is gonna turn out poorly and that we're just gonna end up being white saviors

But I think they managed to avoid that pretty well

For starters neither the Scions nor the Warrior of Light are the protagonists of this story. You're all simply supporting character's in Wuk Lamat's story

A story that centers her people, her culture, and her family

And it's not even one culture. They don't portray Tuliyollal as this monolithic mish mash of every single native american culture

No, the lands of Tural are in fact comprised of multiple different people's and nations, each of them with their own customs and traditions which are informed by their history and the lands they live in

In fact learning about their cultures and partaking in their customs is the whole point of the Rite of Succession. It's all set up so that the next Dawnservant would be someone who understands and respects each of the peoples that comprise Tural

(I could, and probably will, write about what Dawntrail has to say about what makes a good ruler)

And our girl, Wuk Lamat, is shown to be the rightful heir because she really goes out of her way to understand each of the nations and show her appreciation for their customs

Putting her well above her Sharlyaboo brother Koana, The King of Unresolved Daddy Issues Zoral Ja, and whatever the fuck is going on with Bakool Ja Ja

(I joke, I love my two headed traumatized dumbass)

Tho I will admit that this does end up giving the tribes a somewhat "planet of the hats" vibe. Like their named NPCs are diverse and interesting, but you can just assume that most random NPCs of any given people are gonna act according to the stereotype

Which is unfortunate, but I have hopes that with the next few patches and the addition of Dawntrail's own Allied Society Quests, we'll get to see more to them

But that... is only up to lvl95 and the end of the Yok'Tural (southern Tural) segment

because then we get to Xak'Tural (northern Tural) and holy shit does it feel like they drop the ball there

Like they really COULDN'T keep themselves from making Shaaloani a fucking Wild West map

Instead of doing anything with the actual cultures and histories of Native North American people, they just do wild fucking west

Because there's ceruleum in them thar hills! And apparently Koana turned most of the region into Sharlyaboos too

So we get a bunch of Wild West frontier towns mixed with native american tribes and mud brick cities. We have trains and guns and a sheriff and a duel at high noon, but now everyone got native american names

At least there's one group off to the northern side of the map who seems to stick to tradition and live in harmony with nature, and that group is shown respect by the other people of the region

so we at the very least avoid the "cowboys vs indians" crap, but my god does that region just feel bad compared to everything else they had done so far

Then we get to the big twist: THE CYBERPUNK PORTION OF THE GAME

because yes, we go full fucking cyberpunk

so turns out that a whole segment of Xak'Tural got colonized by the kingdom of Alexandria, including the lands of the Shetona (Erenville's people)

And I feel like this is the most poignant section of the MSQ when it comes to colonialism

Because here we have Alexandria, an empire that has reached the limit of what it can do sustain itself on its own world, and so has decided to spread out and colonize others in order to gain resources

We see the Shetona and other natives of the region being separated from their families and kept in isolation from the rest of their people

And tho Queen Sphene is shown to be a kind and caring ruler who gives people a choice when it comes to joining the empire, WELL SHE'S STILL THE QUEEN OF A FUCKING EMPIRE

Like her form of kindness and just stagnant peace is put in stark contrast with Wuk Lamat's own love for her people and more proactive pursuit of happiness and harmony

(again with the "what makes a ruler theme")

Also the people that choose to be assimilated into the Alexandrian Empire? Yeah, they're doing so because Alexandria has advanced medical technology and you can only receive their aid if you're a citizen

Not only that, but you have to be a working citizen. We see later on a character being denied medical aid, because he lost his job, thanks to the King's decision and at no fault of his own

yeah this is cyberpunk, not just sci-fi

ALSO can we talk about how the technology used for that medical aid and the little gizmo they give you to signify you're now a citizen, will literally erase the memory of the people you lost

So the Turali who are assimilated into Alexandrian culture not only lose ties to their culture and their loved ones, but are not allowed to grieve their loss, because what they once had is slowly being erased

How their choices add up to survive on their own OR be assimilated

How this all takes place IN NORTH FUCKING AMERICA!

THE CYBERPUNK CITY IS LITERALLY SET IN THIS WORLD'S EQUIVALENT TO THE UNITED STATES

So yeah, I don't think is is accidental. I genuinely thing that they're making a point about the realities of imperialism and colonialism, as well as taking some shots at the US while they're at it

Of course this part is still centered around Wuk Lamat, and instead of having a moment of "the only ones who can stop the evil white europeans are the GOOD white europeans", we have Wuk Lamat be the one to save the day, defeat Sphene, and save her people from the colonizing empire

So I would like to argue that everything that happens from lvl97 onwards is them picking up the ball again and making a real point

buuuut that comes at the cost of us being unable to engage with the native peoples of Xak'Tural outside of the context of colonialism

Which genuinely fucking sucks, and I hope it will be remedied with the post-Dawntrail patches

As well as handling the whole shared land situation they ended up with and how this might end up in a Land Back sort of movement, and oh boy can they mess shit up royally there

So in conclusion FFXIV has had a messy relationship with colonialism and imperialist fantasies and tropes, but the devs seem to be making a concerted effort to undo their mistakes and show respect in their depictions of american natives

They still fuck up

boy do they

but they're at least trying, and I'd say Dawntrail so far has been quite well executed

so yeah, look forward to more insane rambles like this one I guess

[raayllum]

today on TDP's consistent re-contextualization: the Sunfire elf tribunal in 4x06 (because I was rewatching and noticed some interesting set up / parallels for S7)

1) The dispute being a mourning ritual at all, since arc 2 (like the rest of the show) has an emphasis on grief. This is particularly evident since S7 is going to focus on bringing the dead back into the land of the living and affirming that life-death theme (whereas in S1, we didn't get any funeral rituals outside of S1 in Katolis; S4 comparatively shows two funeral rites)

2) Death being seen as "the dark night" (Aaravos wants to bring about eternal night / is a fate worse than death) and light guiding the spirit through said darkness till it be unified wholly with its primal / the light. Don't even think I gotta include the 6x06 screencaps for that, or the fact that Aaravos has corrupted both the moon and the sun Nexuses in an attempt to solidify an eternal night of literal death.

3) Aaravos saying that his years with Leola couldn't hold a candle to deeper mysteries; Callum refusing to snuff out his Light (Rayla) and therefore not being truly permanently Lost to begin with, no matter what may happen to him with dark magic. This is also interwoven with N'than in the same episode offering to help the group not get lost on the Path of Despair, which... yeah, hi metaphor for depression and hopelessness amid grief.

The fact that possession equals being dead or already dead, as well as dark magic's associations with death... vs light and life. Yeah. Yeah.

4) The emphasis on cruel punishment / rashness in the name of the greater good even when that means tearing a family further apart or the punishment being unnecessary (all around) and the victim(s) not being listened to no matter how much you begged, bargained, or pleaded (looking at you 1x03 Rayla and Runaan as well).

5) The application of accountability as well as the cruel motif rearing its head for the first time in arc 2, as it will become a mainstay

She had every opportunity to consider the pain she could cause. And she did not. She was callous. She was careless. She was cruel.

6) Both Aaravos (whose name means between light and dark) and Lucia (whose name means light) are involved in the trials we see in 4x06 and 6x06 respectively. Because Lucia is not killed and is shown mercy and compassion, she's able to contribute positively as a member of society in a way that also addresses her initial concerns; she takes on a positive purpose after the harm she's caused. She is tasked with rebuilding. Because Aaravos is not shown true mercy, and his daughter is brutally executed, he grows to no longer care about any harm caused, and his life takes on a negative purpose. He tasks himself with destruction. Also typical TDP emphasis on Choices throughout.

7) The contrast of "She is not innocent" being true in Lucia's case and untrue in Leola's case work together to set up Rayla's trial in S7. They also bode well for Callum's character arc. If he does dark magic again, he may not be 'innocent' on that level, but that doesn't matter; he still deserves life and love and to be saved / spared ("I'm not going to kill you"). The same could be true on Claudia's level (and was true for Viren, as he was imprisoned rather than executed).

[ffxivxd]

The Gnath hive mind's chief deity, Ravana is in the form of a combat god. As he believes in the rite of combat to be sacred, the Primal Ravana revels in battle with worthy opponents while wielding Chandrahas, his legendary blades of moonlight.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Elements of the 10 Story Genres

by Blake Snyder

The 3 elements of a BUDDY LOVE story

An incomplete hero who is missing something physical, ethical, or spiritual; (s)he needs another to be whole.

A counterpart who makes that completion come about or has qualities the hero needs.

A complication, be it a misunderstanding, personal or ethical viewpoint, epic historical event, or the prudish disapproval of society.

DUDE WITH A PROBLEM

An innocent hero who is dragged into a mess without asking for it—or even aware of how he got involved.

A sudden event that thrusts our innocent(s) into the world of hurt—and it comes without warning.

A life or death battle is at stake—and the continued existence of an individual, family, group, or society is in question.

FOOL TRIUMPHANT

A fool whose innocence is his strength and whose gentle manner makes him likely to be ignored—by all but a jealous “Insider” who knows too well.

An establishment, the people or group a fool comes up against, either within his midst, or after being sent to a new place in which he does not fit—at first.

A transmutation in which the fool becomes someone or something new, often including a “name change” that’s taken on either by accident or as a disguise.

GOLDEN FLEECE

A road spanning oceans, time—or across the street—so long as it demarcates growth. It often includes a “Road Apple” that stops the trip cold.

A team or a buddy the hero needs to be guided along the way. Usually, it’s those who represent the things the hero doesn’t have: skill, experience, or attitude.

A prize that’s sought and is something primal: going home, securing a treasure, or re-gaining a birthright.

INSTITUTIONALIZED

Every story in this category is about a group—a family, an organization, or a business that is unique.

The story is a choice, the ongoing conflict pitting a “Brando” or “Naif” vs. the system’s “Company Man.”

Finally, a sacrifice must be made and you get three endings: join, burn it down… or commit “suicide.”

MONSTER IN THE HOUSE

A monster that is supernatural in its powers—even if its strength derives from insanity—and “evil” at its core.

A house, meaning an enclosed space that can include a family unit, an entire town, or even “the world.”

A sin. Someone is guilty of bringing the monster in the house… a transgression that can include ignorance.

OUT OF THE BOTTLE

A wish asked for by the hero or another, and the clearly seen need to be delivered from the ordinary.

A spell, which we must make logical by upholding “The Rules.”

A lesson: Be careful what you wish for! It’s the running theme in all OOTB’s. Life is good as it is.

RITES OF PASSAGE

A life problem: from puberty to midlife to death—these are the universal passages we all understand.

A wrong way to attack the mysterious problem, usually a diversion from confronting the pain.

A solution that involves acceptance of a hard truth the hero has been fighting, and the knowledge it’s the hero that must change, not the world around him.

SUPERHERO

The hero of your tale must have a special power—even if it’s just a mission to be great or do good.

The hero must be opposed by a nemesis of equal or greater force, who is the “self-made” version of the hero.

There must be a curse for the hero that he either surmounts or succumbs to as the price for who he is.

WHYDUNIT

The detective does not change, we do; yet he can be any kind of gumshoe—from pro to amateur to imaginary.

The secret of the case is so strong it overwhelms the worldly lures of money, sex, power, or fame. We gots to know! And so does the Whydunit hero.

Finally, the dark turn shows that in pursuit of the secret, the detective will break the rules, even his own — often ones he has relied on for years to keep him safe. The pull of the secret is too great.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[theegemini92]

CALANMAI: Spring Court 🌸🪷🌺

I feel like everyone loves to form these think pieces on only the Night court and it’s only the night court that has lores and traditions. Basically sjm as put everything there that it makes all other courts less attractive, less important and less appealing, which I think is not fair. Im tired of all the in CC connections to the night court or ToG connected to Rhys etc. it gets boring and stagnant and I’m over it. I want something new and fresh. So I chose the next one in ACOTAR that at least we have some incline of which is Calanmai 🌝

I know it’s brushed off because of how Tamlin is hated, but besides the spring court we don’t know much about the others. Ok….

Calanmai isn’t actually a spring festival if we are going to use the welsh explanation. Basically it marks the beginning of summer. But some of the key features of this rite were reimagined in ACOTAR: fire rituals to honor the sun, fertility celebrations (the sexy time ☺️) to honor the earth and sky, dancing to promote unity with other courts, the use of flowers and greenery.

So here are my two scents on Calanmai

It’s presented as a sacred rite tied deeply to the magic, fertility, and prosperity of the Spring Court and, by extension, all of Prythian. I say prythian because it was stated that all HLs participate in this rite.

Lucien says:

“It's the Great Rite, Cauldron boil me! Didn't anyone tell you what it is? [...] Fire Night signals the official start of spring-in Prythian, as well as in the mortal world.

Side thought Did spring offer majority of their land to the humans? Which means they could’ve had so much land as the night court before??? Thoughts?

Continue:

I...] Here, our crops depend upon the magic we regenerate on Calanmai-tonight. [...] We do this by conducting the Great Rite. Each of the seven High Lords of Prythian performs this every year, since their magic comes from the earth and returns to it at the end-it's a give and take."

Lucien then goes on to explain how Tamlin will have magic going through him, etc.

So if it’s a give and take, the crown that ferret wanted so badly, what is she GIVING? The HLs all serve prythian so what has ferret done in other courts? 😂

So Not only is the spring court important it depends on the spring court to put food on everyone’s table aka rhysie goosie and ferret. I bet she doesn’t know where her food comes from.

Also the question of Rhys not taking part in this rite last time is always questioned. Lucien tells Feyre that after Tamlin believed Feyre had been abducted in the Night Court at the time of Calanmai, he refused to perform the Great Rite. Lucien took his place, taking lanthe, the most powerful Fae female in the court at that moment, (tam can’t catch a break with These powerful females 🤣) into the cave and performing the Rite even though he hated her. Which means that many HLs can send people in their courts who are powerful like ianthe to take their place when they cant make it.

The HL being power itself are CONDUITS, without them the magic may faulter because we as readers don’t even know HOW THE HLs came to be. Tamlin, as High Lord of the Spring Court, channels the primal magic of the season to renew the land’s fertility and magic. During this rite, Tamlin temporarily surrenders himself to the raw, ancient forces of Spring Magic, ensuring the continued abundance and balance of his court’s lands and its people. See him surrendering and coming all the way back to bite ferret… I wish that was me‼️🤣🤣🤣🤣 I’d surrender too…

Anyway… 😄Here are some of my theories on how the Calanmai rite at the spring court benefits Tamlin, the spring court and all of prythian:

• as HL, it reaffirms Tamlins Role as a Conduit of Magic. he solidifies his bond with the land and its magic, strengthening his power as a protector and ruler. This part is important because his court’s health is tied to his ability to serve, not just rule.

• maintains balance to the magic of the land and prythian as a whole.

• a very important detail here that people seem to miss, Calanmai is TRADITION AND RESPONSIBILITY! In a time of political tension, it could reinforce Tamlins role as a leader aligned with the natural order. Hopefully in his pov those who deserted him in his court as well as the other courts cannot by pass him if something is to happen to the land without the rites performed. He will be needed. He cannot stay cooped up forever.

• I think it’s fairly obvious that this rite ensures fertility and growth. Lush vegetation, bountiful harvest etc, I think that’s where the sex part comes him 😄

• so I think Calanmai also is a rite performed to reinforce the warding spells and protection barriers surrounding the Spring Court, safeguarding it from external threats and maintaining the balance of power within Prythian. It makes sense because after the Asteri came and caused interruptions, the HLs wanted something that could protect them when another alien came. And it makes sense that velaris is still strong with all its barrier intact (pretty prison)

• I love this part…. The rite Maintaining connections to old magic 🪄 old primal magic that existed before even the HLs. As much as ferret spits on fae tradtions, old magic is not tamed, it goes no where and will always need the old ways to satiate it. The tradition preserves the court’s unique identity and ensures its magic does not wane over time. (And just because people’s tradtions are different from yours doesn’t mean you should not respect it. *coughs* feyre🙃)

• Without Calanmai, the ripple effect of unchecked or stagnant spring magic could destabilize the balance across courts. Each court in Prythian is tied to its respective season, and The Spring Court serves as the starting point of the cycle of growth, fertility, and rebirth that sustains all of Prythian’s lands.

• the HLs participations also brings unity, they aren’t secluding themselves, they don’t forget why they are HLs and also one people. I’m thinking over the millennia they have forgotten so some choose not to take part in it. I guess. But these should be the times their alliances formed and become stronger… 🤦🏾‍♀️

Calanmai is not merely a ceremonial event in my opinion , it is a magical and political necessity as I said before and For Tamlin, it reinforces his strength and bond with the Spring Court. For the Spring Court, it guarantees fertility, protection, and prosperity. For Prythian, it ensures that the cycle of life and magic continues unbroken. Participating in Calanmai is both a privilege and a responsibility.

A little side thought: As someone who is heavily into spirituality, I believe that the nature courts deal more with the physical and the celestial courts deal with the spiritual eg. Spring provides food for the physical body, night provides dreams and nightmares for the astral body. (If this makes sense?) 😄

[witchofthesouls]

I can't believe you did an alternative TF One Sentinel who became a Charlemagne or William the Conqueror because he did conquer the whole set of Prime valve, and then later spite/hate-fucked his canon self to keep that 100% achievement run.

The myths that Cybertron must have on Sentinel down the line must have been dramatically hyped and utterly impressive.

Yep. He's a sore loser, a poor winner, and a complete menace for achievement runs. He most definitely took the kids from his selfcest venture and rears them with the rest of their siblings.

That Sentinel will be happily buried under hundreds of sparklings and later thousands of grandkids and great-grandkids. It will get to the point that nearly all Cybertronians-by-carriage could claim spark lineage to him as Sentinel was the primary sire or a significant code donor.

In that world, that is how Sentinel became a Prime in the far future. Cybertronians, after many generations, couldn't believe a mere mortal had that kind of virility, and the Thirteen basically formed Conjunx rites among their own kind, so there was a shift in the records on how Sentinel was portrayed from a secretary to Primal Consort ('Sentinel of the Primes,' since he basically was a stud for all of them and stayed with them until his end) to Sentinel Prime. Future theologians, mythologists, historians, and anthropologists get into deep, vicious debates over the 'true' status of Sentinel.

Some of the more eclectic sects believe that his spike was blessed straight from Primus, or he was a kind of reproductive spirit to help bolster the Primes, so he has some very risqué iconography and artwork dedicated to his spike and is a considered a patron of fertility, abundance, and fatherhood.

Even in the afterlife, he's still getting manhandled by large frames and crushed by Prime valve because the Thirteen aren't letting go of their piss-baby secretary that they trained considerably. He's like the universe's angriest energizer bunny attached to the most horniest spike with never-ending transfluid production. Sure, he had traitorous plans, but that all fell wayside with sex, bitties, and a lot of pampering.

[genshinimpactresources]

Genshin Impact | 5.3 Phase 1 Namecards

All Namecards

[sillymickel]

"“Dance of the Seven Veils I” offers readers a comprehensive understanding of reality and the self." How to acquire free copies of Adzema's massive & detailed exposition of primal psychology.…

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[violetsiren90]

Evergreen | Bang Chan/Reader

Pairing: wolf hybrid!Bang Chan x human!f!Reader

(A Nothing But You universe fic)

Genre: hybrid AU; one-shot; established relationship; domestic fluff; slice of life; mountain living; pregnancy

Word Count: 1689

Summary: Seasons change, life moves on - but some things stay the same.

Content Warning: PG-13 for themes but my page and all its content are 18+ (minors, dni); wolf hybrid rut; mentions of knotting and marking; mentions of rut symptoms that include insomnia and lack of appetite; deep emotions; the use of "your" and "belonging" in the sense of committed love NOT ownership; pregnancy; mentions of different states of undress; domesticity and shared domestic responsibility; homesteading; Chris being the sweetest and most caring 😭💕; Chris chopping wood 😳; mentions of food and eating; implications of sexual intimacy, parenthood

Author's Note: I guess I went and fell in love with these two. This is a companion one-shot to Nothing But You. This one-shot is a different flavor, not as soft and cozy all the way through - there are more notes here, I think. Some sweeter, some sharper, but in the end, it's still them. I wanted to peek into their lives and see how they lived and loved. 🥰

If no one has told you yet today, please know that you are so loved, and so worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

~January~

Snow burdens the branches of the pines, the bitter North wind whistling between the trees, through the darkness, and over the blanket of fresh powder shrouding the forest floor. The mountains are sleeping, but your wolf is awake.

He nearly collapses, sinking to his knees as he shuts the cabin door. You spring up from your place by the fire to rush to him, but he holds up a hand, a growl rumbling low in his chest. You freeze. Panting, he slowly raises his face. Snowflakes cling to his lashes and dust over his head and shoulders. The dusky circles under his brown eyes speak of weariness, yet their expression is dark and wild. His nose is flushed from the chill. Beads of sweat quiver on his brow.

The fever still hasn't broken.

It appeared two days ago, with other sudden changes. Christopher has grown restless and short-tempered, and won't sleep in your bed. He smells intoxicatingly of cedar wood and amber.

You've been through it all before, his annual rut at the end of winter - four days of watching him endure the throes of primal agony. He would steal away at night, to hunt, your proximity far too overwhelming for his heightened senses and desires. Unchecked he would fail to stop himself. He would take you, mark you, knot you.

He hadn't in the four years you'd shared a bed and the comfort of the other's flesh. You'd spoken of the mating rites, but he always held off, afraid to break you. So protective of you always, and without a second a thought to himself.

You respected his space, his wishes, attempting to help him navigate the torment of his natural longings as best you could.

But this year it had taken him like a wild fire. The fever wouldn't break. He wouldn't sleep or eat. And now, here he was, half frozen and shivering on the floor.

No more.

You slowly cross to pull him up against his weak protesting. You peel away his frost-damp clothes and drag his heavy frame to rest upon the bed. With his last strength he tries to push you away, but you slip under the blankets beside him, pulling him into your arms.

His eyes flutter shut as he curls against you and nuzzles into your neck, whimpering that when he wakes it will be too hard for him to hold back.

You tell him not to try.

You tell him that you need him, want him - all of him. This part too, with all the others.
You assure him softly that you're not afraid, nor should he fear to make you his...you already belong to one another, after all.

You whisper that you love him.

Christopher exhales, tears trickling down his cheeks to mingle with the sweat and melted snow. You hold him to your breast, brushing soft kisses into his hair.

Cedar wood and amber.

~April~

You shake out a flannel shirt, crinkled and bunched from wringing to hang it on the line that stretches from the side of the cabin to a young yellow birch within the clearing. You smile as you fasten it with clips. He had worn it on the first day he visited the diner. It was faded then, and it has grown more timeworn still. But the fabric is thick, the seams hand-sewn, and if the dye has begun to abandon the thread it is only ever the softer. 

Strong and soft, like him.

The warblers are singing in the branches of the white pines as they busily fashion their nests. You stroke a hand down over the little bump of your belly, musing over the nesting that has started to change the trappings of your own little home. There's still plenty of time, but Christopher's excitement has poured forth in the form of hard work, and you're certain that when your time comes he'll have stored by enough for the next three winters yet.

You hear the rumbling of his truck a ways off. He left in the wee hours, the bed loaded down with wares to sell to suppliers in town. By the time you've strung up the last piece of washing he's already at the mouth of the trail, his arms laden with flowers and parcels wrapped in brown paper. The light wash of his denim shirt brings out the early kisses of the spring sunshine on his honeyed skin.

You follow him into the house where he puts your wildflowers into a vase and insists that you sit while he tends to lunch. Unwrapping the brown paper packages you find a set of pretty maternity pajamas, a box of chocolates, and the goat's milk soap you like. 

He's already eaten half his sandwich when he sets yours down, and you tug his wrist, pulling him into a chair to prevent him from setting out to work yet again. 

When the dishes are cleared you won't let him leave. He'd work every second of every day and well into many nights if you let him. But today you want him to rest. It's a mild and lovely afternoon and the chores are done. Other things can wait.

You sit across his lap on the porch swing he built two summers before. Your arms encircle one of his as you rest your head on his shoulder. 

His lips brush your forehead as his thumb caresses the little curved scar where the slope of your shoulder meets your neck. The one that means you belong to him and no one else.

The birds sing and the swing creaks.


~July~

He calls you from around the other side of the house. You draw an arm over your dripping brow and struggle up from where you're crouched to spread a batch of plump, ripe blackberries between the screens of the drying rack. There are still so many. Some you'll turn into jam. Christopher will eat the rest. He loves them. You rest the colander still half-full with berries against the full swell of your belly, wrapping an arm about the rim to keep it in place. 

You're hot and uncomfortable these days. But, when the morning's work is through, you'll go down to the lake together to shed the day's heat in the cool, still waters. You'd been every afternoon that week. Christopher was a strong swimmer, and would stay in far longer while you sat on the shady bank with a book. When he finally quit the water yesterday, he'd never found his clothes - instead he'd pressed you back into the lush green grass and made you sigh his name. 

As you round the far side of the cabin your eyes catch his form. He stands under the sweltering sun, stripped down to pair of fitted khaki work pants and thick suede boots. His muscular chest is slicked with sweat and he stands, panting, with his weight pressed into his right hip. He holds an axe in his hand.

His mouth pulls up at the corner and his tail swishes at the site of you. You tuck yourself against him wrapping your free arm around his damp waist. Oh how you want to swim. To hold his strong body in the dark water.

He gestures with the axe at what he's fitted together with stripped pieces of soft pine. A little cradle. He nudges it with his foot, setting it to rock. You bring a blackberry to his lips and he accepts it.

You kiss him.

Salty skin and summer fruit.


~October~

Your eyes flutter open to the sound of little cries. You sit up and stretch, blinking in the softness of the early autumn light.

You inhale deeply. Cinnamon and hickory smoke.

Outside the air is growing crisp and the leaves of the deciduous trees are blushing and abandoning their hosts, covering the floor of the wood in their pageantry. Fruit and game have begun to grow scarce as the forest prepares to enter the long slumber of the colder months. Nights require fires more often than not.

There is a small fire crackling now. A little black cauldron hangs over the flames, and you can smell the porridge simmering within. The man you love sits in a rocking chair near the warmth, a little bundle in his arms. He looks up at you as you rise and he smiles. He's been all smiles lately. In fact, you don't think the little dimple has left his cheek since he met the tiny she-wolf in his arms two weeks ago.

He says she looks like you, but all you see in her beautiful little features is Christopher. She has two tiny fuzzy ears and a darling little tale.

You reach down to stroke her fat cheek and your heart aches.

It aches from love, so much of it.

When the doctor placed her in your arms a part of your heart that you hadn't known existed burst to beating. You thought you loved the man who had knitted her inside you as much as you were able, but you had been ignorant in that respect as well. When he took your daughter in his arms and looked down on her face you thought that there wasn't room in your chest for things so vast, so deep.

You named her Hannah, for the sister her father had lost. It meant "grace".

So fitting, you think.

You move your fingers into Christopher's curls and he looks up at you. His brown eyes are soft and warm. The lovely eyes you saw that first day at the general store - the same through every changing season.

The maple and the birch will wax and wane, but not the cedar, not the pine.

Some things will remain.

And he is evergreen.
 

-Fin-

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 28: Blurred Lines

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.3k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The world tilts as Astarion’s grip slackens, and you’re weightless, teetering at the edge of oblivion. Your heart—a dead, useless thing—manages to throb with phantom desperation as you realize he might actually do it.

He might actually let you fall.

The Styx churns below like a living wound. The current writhes, eager to claim another victim, and the sound it makes—a low, insidious hiss—finds its way beneath your skin. An acrid smell rises from the waters, promising agony, devoting to strip you of every piece of yourself that you’ve managed to hold onto.

Even if you wanted to fight, even if you had some clever plan tucked behind your teeth, there’s nothing you can do against the inevitability of gravity.

Against the inevitability of him.

Your mind scrambles through memories, trying to find some hint, a sign that you missed. You think of your time together, the fire that burns between you—sometimes love, sometimes hatred—always a dalliance with danger. You think of the quiet moments, the words unsaid between touches. They meant something, right?

What if it never meant anything at all? Maybe it really was all just a game to him, as he has claimed innumerable times. Now, here you are, the fool pensile on the precipice of obliteration, thinking you could somehow reach him again and pry out the remnants of the man you love from the hollow, heartless shell that’s taken his place.

What will it take? Astarion's grip loosens further, and you can almost feel the moment you slip through his fingers—the moment where everything ends, where everything is erased. Will you forget him, forget all of this, if the waters take you? Would that be a mercy? Would that be the release you’ve been chasing?

No. A primal terror flares in your chest, burning hotter than the infernal winds that scorch Avernus. You don't want to forget. You don't want to lose everything that makes you... you. The memories, the pain, the love—they're all I have left. A broken, twisted part of you still clings to hope and believes there’s a way out of this. There has to be. You didn’t survive the mind-flayer tadpoles, the Absolute, the Netherbrain, and everything in between just to lose everything now.

Did you?

And yet... there’s that other voice whispering insidiously in the back of your mind. What if this is all that’s left? What if you’re just clinging to a ghost, a delusion that died long before you had the courage to admit it?

The panic wraps around your thoughts like a clamp, and your hands claw at Astarion's wrist and arm, but his strength is unwavering. Your vision blurs as you look up at him, seeing that dangerous glint in his eyes—a hunger, a power, a cruelty that you thought you understood, but maybe you never really did.

It’s funny, in the bleakest way, that after all you’ve endured, it’s this that undoes you. Not a battle or a blade, but his indifference. A choice he could make without a second thought, or maybe he’s thought of nothing else. You can’t even tell anymore.

Astarion's grip loosens an unbearable fraction. Every inch of you rebels against the plunge into nothingness below, and you pull your legs up, toes curling with the instinctive, useless urge to find purchase, but there’s no ledge, no handhold, nothing except the awaiting maw of the river.

You look around wildly, your gaze snagging on mirages that aren’t there, desperate to conjure someone—anyone—who might wrench you away from this declivity. There’s no rescue waiting, no ally in the depths, or salvation in the heights. It’s just you and Astarion, and the narrow bridge of his fingers wrapped around your neck.

“Just... just do it, Astarion.” It’s a ragged demand, desperate and raw, slipping through clenched teeth.

You’re not even sure what you’re asking for. To end this? To make it quick? To make him prove that he truly doesn’t care?

He says nothing, his expression a mask of cruel delight, revelling in your surrender. The silence stretches until his grip shifts again—just barely, just enough to make your stomach lurch, to send you one heartbeat closer to that waiting crimson maw.

And you swear you’re actually falling.

Astarion’s grip disappears as he pulls you back with a violent jerk, sending you tumbling like a discarded plaything. You skid across the jagged terrain of Avernus, rocks biting into your skin as the impact jars your bones. You scramble to right yourself, only to find him standing there, staring down at his own hands as if they belong to someone else entirely.

“What the fuck was that?” he mutters, turning his arms over as though searching for answers hidden in his flesh. “You think this is some kind of game?” he snaps icily. “You provoke me, push me, and then expect what? Mercy? Compassion? A bloody saviour?”

You try to interject, but his words drown you out. “You’re utterly foolish, you know that? Like a moth flitting towards a flame, completely unaware you’ll get burned. It’s astonishing, really. How many times do you need to learn this lesson?”

“You’re making this far too easy for me,” he continues, more to himself than you. “Do you want to be erased? Is that what you crave? I can certainly oblige, darling. You toy with my emotions, and cling to this pathetic hope that I still love you.” His voice falters, falling over the words with none of his typical eloquence.

Astarion’s rage swells, turning him into a whirlwind of motion as he paces back and forth. His elegant frame moves with a predatory grace. “You truly are insufferable!” he growls, gesturing wildly as if the very air around him is to blame for your audacity. “Do you ever stop to think, even for a moment? Or is your brain too muddled with delusions of grandeur?”

He whirls to face you, eyes flashing with a treacherous light. “What do you expect from me? Do you honestly believe I care enough to save you from your own stupidity? You’re acting like a child, and it’s frankly exhausting. Yet, here I am,” he continues, a hint of self-loathing creeping into his tone.

His pacing quickens, and he runs a hand through his tousled hair, frustration spilling from him like water from a cracked vessel. “You’re so godsdamned desperate for affection, clawing at me with all the grace of a rabid animal. If I were any less inclined to humour your whims, I’d have dropped you into the Styx ages ago. It’s a bloody miracle I haven’t.” He pauses, and the anger temporarily melts away. “But I cannot quite bring myself to do it, can I?”

The silence that follows is rife with tension, fury, and an odd kind of tenderness coalescing that neither of you can quite grasp.

Astarion’s harsh, mocking laughter rings out. “I thought I was finally making progress with you, my lovely little plaything. I had you right where I wanted, didn’t I? Seducing you into betraying your precious husband.”

You can’t help but bristle at his taunts. “You are my husband, Astarion. A part of him anyway.”

Astarion’s response is immediate—a laugh that drips with disdain. “Oh, please. I would never marry my spawn. The very thought is laughable.”

“Was it all a manipulation?” You press, eyes narrowing as you meet his gaze head-on.

He answers with a whetted, unapologetic, “Yes. That’s what I do, isn’t it? Seduce, manipulate, use sex as a noose to pull the unsuspecting closer, and you, my dear, are no exception. I’ve spent centuries honing this talent. You’re just another pawn on my elaborate little chessboard.”

The satisfaction in his voice sends a chill racing down your spine, but you refuse to let him see how much his admission wounds you. “I don’t believe you,” you challenge.

“The lines blur, don’t they?” he concedes. “Between manipulation and desire, between power and something resembling care.”

It’s an admission, raw and unexpected, and it leaves you disarmed. “Then why push me away? Why not let yourself feel?”

He looks at you with an inscrutable expression, and you can’t quite decipher what it means. “I’m not built for softness, love. It’s easier to break things than to mend them.”

“Maybe that’s your choice,” you retort, emboldened. “But it doesn’t have to be mine.”

The compulsion slams into you like a wall—undeniable, unforgiving. His voice is cold and commanding, barely glancing your way as he snaps, “Follow. Don’t talk—I need to think.”

The order thrums through you, forcing you to fall into step behind him, trailing at his heels like an obedient pet. Every inch of you aches to resist, but your limbs obey without question, each step landing in sync with his own. Each one sends a pleasurable trill through you as if he’s put his hand directly in your brain and is caressing the pleasure center.

He paces along the Styx’s edge, his eyes fixed ahead, occasionally darting down to the murky depths. He mutters, a haphazard string of paranoia, sometimes biting, sometimes distant. You catch fragments, but you cannot make any sense of them.

Eventually, he stops, and you nearly bump into him, managing to halt just before your nose collides with his back. A rickety structure of warped wood and iron-bound posts juts into the dark, viscous river. An old dock, but in such a state of disrepair that it’s hardly recognizable as one any longer.

“Do you know how to call on the Ferryman?” He demands, sounding like he’s barely holding onto his temper.

You know exactly who he’s talking about—the knowledge picked up during those long, restless nights studying the twisted ways of the Hells, but you find your lips glued shut, your body rigid and unyielding. Your glare is the only answer you can muster, a withering look you hope conveys all the words he’s barred you from speaking.

Astarion's brows pinch, and then he lets out a huff, rolling his eyes. “Oh, giving me the silent treatment now, are we? How very mature.” He scoffs, seemingly unaware that he’s the one who’s forced this quiet upon you. “Honestly, it’s a little childish, even for you.”

He resumes his pace along the river’s edge, clearly irked by your lack of response. “I mean, do you even grasp what we’re up against here? Or are you too busy brooding to be of any use?” You try to will your mouth open, to force your voice past the invisible restraints he’s placed, but the compulsion holds you fast.

“Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one doing any real thinking here,” he mumbles, half to himself, half to you. “It’s all theatrics with you, isn’t it? Little games and… glares.” He narrows his eyes, shooting you an annoyed glance. “But, at least, I can always rely on that death stare of yours. Really, it’s about all you contribute some days.”

“This insufferable silence of yours—do you think it’s clever?” He lets out a scathingly sour laugh. “Honestly, it’s nigh on impressive how you manage to contribute less and less every day.”

You might roll your eyes if you had control of them. It’s both supremely irritating and oddly amusing. He’s the one who’s bound you to silence, and yet here he is, working himself into an absolutely fine rage, about your lack of response. He’s so self-absorbed, so utterly unaware that it would be laughable if you could invoke even the smallest hiss.

Finally, Astarion turns on you, and his patience fully snaps. He storms over, grabbing you by the shoulders, his fingers digging into your arms with a bruising intensity. “Enough of this!” he barks, shaking you slightly as if he might dislodge an answer from you by force.

You remain as stiff as stone by the very compulsion he’s forgotten he imposed. His eyes narrow as he studies you, his anger gradually morphing into confusion as you remain stubbornly, infuriatingly unresponsive. The realization dawns on him, and he spouts a series of low, irritated curses under his breath. The invisible bindings are cleaved, and you stumble slightly, blinking against the sudden freedom.

A laugh bursts from your lips. “You absolute idiot,” you taunt.

He crosses his arms, his brows pinching together as he glowers at you. “Careful,” he warns menacingly, though the confidence in his tone is maddeningly firm. “I could toss you back over the Styx anytime I like, and this time, I would not hesitate.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with a cruel glint. “Though, perhaps, you enjoy tempting fate?”

“Oh, do go on,” you reply, lifting your chin to meet his gaze, feigning a sweet innocence you know he loathes. “For all your bluster, here I am—perfectly unscathed.” You take a single, daring step closer, crossing your own arms in mockery. “What’s stopping you?”

He snorts, shaking his head with a sneer. “Absolutely, nothing. You would do well to remember that, pet. Do you know how to summon the Ferryman or not?”

You grin, savouring the upper hand, if only briefly. “I do, actually. Be warned, there’s a cost. Nothing’s free in the Hells.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, exuding the kind of casual arrogance that makes you itch to wipe the smirk right off his face. “Do I look like someone concerned with petty tolls?”

“Fine then.” You gesture at him with a dismissive wave. “If you’re so unconcerned, use those fancy ascended powers and summon a werewolf. We’ll need to give the Styx something… lively.”

His eyes blaze, igniting in that baleful scarlet glow. He takes a step toward you, as if to see if you’ll flinch, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. Shadows converge, pooling on the ground, twisting together until a werewolf emerges from the inky pit.

Before the beast can even fully realize its predicament, Astarion shoves it with a careless hand, sending it tumbling headfirst into the river. The werewolf’s struggles cease within an eye blink; the waters swallow it whole with a miserable howl.

Charon heeds your call. His boat materializes out of the mist, the vessel itself a thing of twisted, shadowed wood, seeming both ancient and unbreakable. Lanterns hang from the prow, casting a sickly green light, illuminating the hooded figure standing on the deck, his skeletal face hidden beneath layers of ragged cloth. Hollow eyes stare back at you, empty yet somehow penetrating, as though he’s peeling back your flesh to see what’s left of your soul.

Charon’s ancient voice scrapes against the air like a dare for the foolish to press their luck. “Who disturbs my waters?”

Astarion straightens, stepping forward with a grin that borders on insolent. “We need to travel to Abriymoch.”

You start to nod but pause, frowning as you turn to Astarion. “Abriymoch? Why Abriymoch, when the goal is Cania?”

Astarion’s gaze threshes with annoyance, as if the answer should be painfully obvious. “Cania is cold, dearest,” he snaps with a seemingly endless supply of condescension. “I doubt you would survive more than a second, or have you forgotten what bitter cold does to fragile, little creatures like yourself?”

“Payment,” Charon intones while outstretching his hand.

Charon’s long, skeletal finger points expectantly at the coin purse on Astarion's belt. When Astarion upends it, the coins that fall into Charon’s palm are woefully insufficient. The ferryman’s hollow gaze shifts from Astarion’s hopeful grin to the pathetic stack of coin. You’re not quite sure how he does it, given that his face is hidden, set deep into the hood of his robes, but somehow he still manages to convey that he’s clearly unimpressed.

Astarion’s face twists in vexation for a second before he pastes on a charming, winning smile, speaking in that too-smooth tone that he’s perfected over centuries. “Now, now,” he begins in a timbre of molten caramel, “Surely we could arrange a little... discount?" Think of the potential business lost.”

You snort, earning a glare. He clearly has no clue who he’s dealing with. Charm, to Charon, is about as useful as a torch in broad daylight, and your smile only widens as the silence drags. Until Charon’s skull shifts, the hollow sockets locking onto you with that unreadable yet thoroughly unsettling stare.

Without hesitation, Astarion sidesteps in front of you, arms crossed, his voice suddenly much sharper. “She’s off limits.” His tone is clipped, ice sliding into his words as his stance shifts, protective in a way you’re sure he’d deny if questioned.

Charon’s hand turns to you, bony fingers stretching forward. “The quarterstaff,” he rasps. “Your only weapon.”

The weight of his demand settles on you. The staff may not be essential to your magic, but it is far from useless. Crafted with centuries-old enchantments, it heightens your power, steadies your aim, and forms a formidable buffer against hostile spells and attacks. Without it, you’ll face Mephistopheles with only raw magic—far less than what you'd need against a devil of his calibre.

You reach behind your head, fingers curling around the polished wood. You hesitate, running your thumb along its smooth surface, feeling the faint pulse of the magic woven through it. The thought of surrendering it here on this cursed voyage makes you feel more vulnerable somehow, but the price has been set.

With a sigh, you lock eyes with Charon as you make your request. “For both our tolls. It should cover the both of us.”

Charon tilts his head, an eerie slowness to the movement, as though he’s testing the limits of his joints. “Your toll,” he grates, “has been paid. The quarterstaff is for him.” He gestures to Astarion, his fleshless hand clenching over your staff as you release it, and the very bones in his fingers seem to absorb it whole, leaving nothing in his palm.

A shiver of dread slithers down your spine. Someone has paid your toll already, but who? For what purpose? You feel the cold press of a debt that hasn’t yet been named, lurking in the shadows of the future, waiting to demand payment at the worst possible occasion. Whoever or whatever wants you to descend further into the Hells is watching, and the motives they harbour are anything but benign.

“Well, lovely,” you mutter, shaking off the creeping unease. “You owe me a bloody quarterstaff when we get back.”

Astarion gives you a sidelong glance. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage to 'repay’ you somehow. Really, though, such a fuss over a stick.” He smirks, gesturing for you to board with smug self-assurance. “Don’t fret, pet. If anything happens, I’ll protect you,” he taunts with that annoyingly, adorable shimmy of his shoulders.

Stepping onto Charon’s boat, you try to shake off the lingering foreboding. The journey ahead feels heavier now, as if the very air knows there’s more to come—more than Astarion’s schemes, more than the unforgiving path before you. As the boat begins to drift away, you find yourself wondering, once more, just how many prices are yet to be paid before this journey’s end.

The boat sways gently, a sickening lilt over the Styx, far too quiet, save for the occasional slosh and the sighing rasp of Charon’s oar cutting through the murk. The vessel itself is small, built only for the ferryman and the unfortunate souls he transports. Despite the lack of space, you do your best to keep away from Astarion, tucking yourself into a corner like a shadow clinging to the edges. Thinking is hard enough without him leeching the air from your lungs with his presence.

You press your forehead to your knees, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to block out the Styx’s ghastly presence—the stench of decaying flesh wafting up from the water, the whispering howl that rushes past your ears, sounding far too much like tortured souls crying out from the depths. You concentrate to stop the insistent, absurd habit of breathing, one left over from life that your body clings to out of muscle memory.

Your fingers drift to the cold, metal band circling your finger, tracing the familiar shape of your wedding ring. It’s oddly grounding here in this place of perpetual suffering and loss. Astarion still doesn’t know that you agreed to kill Mephistopheles. No, he wouldn’t understand, or he’d laugh, or worse, he’d start plotting ways to use it against you. What in the Nine Hells were you thinking? Killing an archdevil? The very notion teeters on the fringes of madness, a suicide mission that all but guarantees your annihilation.

But what choice do you have? You need your husband back, the real Astarion, not this corrupt echo, who looms at the edge of his memories, seemingly more intent on tearing down what little is left of who he once was.

Would this version help you, or would he truly try to sell you for a taste of power or some useless, momentary prestige? Or is his aim far worse, perhaps, to entirely erase the part of himself that loves you? It’s an exhausting riddle, one that seems pointless to try and solve, yet you can’t help but turn it over, sifting through the fragments for a clue. You bite back a scoff directed at yourself. How many times will you wager your life for the slim hope of bringing him back?

A soft scrape pulls you from your thoughts; Astarion shifts, his gaze flitting your way, cool and calculating. It’s a look that would have cut you once—a knife glinting with contempt—but now it barely scratches the surface.

You meet his gaze, unflinching, letting whatever spark of defiance you have left answer him in silence, and then you look away, back into the ichor waters swirling beneath the boat, wondering if the Styx itself has answers for impossible questions.

The thump of a hovering heartbeat cuts through your thoughts. Before you have a chance to shore up your defences, Astarion drops down beside you, his assessing gaze surveying your expression. Typical. He never seems to tire of prodding at your vulnerabilities, but godsdamn him if it’s not infuriatingly familiar.

“Looking a bit peaky, aren’t we?” He leers, almost playfully. “Must be absolutely famished for blood by now. I’m impressed, really. When I was a fledgling spawn, I couldn’t go more than a day before I was tearing at anything that moved.”

It’s rare and unsettling to hear him talk about his past like that—the spawn he was. He usually keeps that part buried under layers of sneers and silences, as if even acknowledging it gives it some hold over him. You’re tempted to dig deeper, to pry a little more of his history loose, but you fear it would only serve to provoke him.

You meet his gaze. “Are you volunteering, then? Because I can assure you, I’d be delighted to take you up on that.”

His lip curls instantly. ��Don’t flatter yourself.” A breathy scoff escapes him, his gaze returning to the Styx’s grim horizon. “As if I’d willingly offer you a single drop of my precious blood. I've got better things to do than play juice box to the likes of you.”

A nagging unease tugs at you, a quiet dissonance that’s hard to ignore. You should be hungry, ravenous even. By now, your muscles should be cramping, your stomach an insatiable pit of bloodlust clawing for relief. But instead? Nothing. No gnawing hunger, no pain, no pulsing ache for sustenance.

The realization hits like a frozen blade slipping between your ribs. Shit. It had been him, your Astarion, who’d woven the compulsion to dampen your hunger on the day you married. You’d asked him, pleaded even, for a reprieve, so you wouldn’t use Shadowheart as a chew toy… again.

He’d agreed hesitantly, binding the compulsion tightly, giving you peace. This version wouldn’t know. He couldn’t. You pray to whatever gods may still listen that it stays that way.

A blessing, yes, but a curse all the same. If that compulsion is lifted—should he ever discover it and decide to sever it—there’s no question in your mind what will happen. You’ll become little more than a wild, unhinged beast.

This Astarion can’t know about it, not if you want even a hope of holding onto whatever tattered fragments of control you have left. His suspicious eyes rake over you, probing for answers. He’s too close already, picking up on the smallest tremor of unease. There’s no choice but to bury it, shoving the truth into a corner and throwing up a veil of sardonic humour.

“Oh, please,” you say with a feigned, dramatic sigh, “is it so hard for you to believe that I simply have an iron will? Not all of us lose our minds after a day without blood, you know. Some of us have restraint.”

He scoffs, one elegant brow arching. “Restraint? You? How delightfully unbelievable, but I suppose even delusions can be entertaining in moderation.”

You shrug. “Believe what you like, darling.”

His eyes narrow, lips twisting in a wicked smirk as he leans in closer. “I know you are hiding something,” he murmurs dangerously. “And, just like any little secret, it’ll reveal itself sooner or later. They always do.”

Your heart clenches, but you force a laugh, flicking him a dismissive gesture of your hand as if it might distract him. “Please. As if there’s anything left that you don’t know already. I’m not that interesting.”

“Not that interesting?” He clicks his tongue in feigned disappointment. “Pity. I thought I’d married a woman with more… substance.”

The barb slides off your skin easily, his attempts to dig through your defensesces meeting only laughter and barbed retorts. He leans in closer, his gaze drilling into yours with a relentless edge. You keep his focus on the banter, his questions pinging off you like arrows against steel. He tries again, baiting you with sly insinuations, but each time, you deflect to keep the true answer buried.

After a while, he sighs with frustration, muttering something, and you—you just keep smiling, hoping he’ll grow tired of the game before he sees through the cracks.

“When we reach Abriymoch, you will stay at my side at every moment. You will not wander off. You will not do anything that could get you—or more importantly, me—killed.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but it’s that lack of compulsion that tempts you to prod, just a little, testing his limits.

“Is that an order or a plea?” you ask, with feigned sweetness, watching his eyes narrow. “Or are you just that desperate to keep me close?”

He sneers, his patience peeling away. “Desperate? If anything, I would relish some peace and quiet. The only reason I’m keeping you tethered to my side is to prevent you from running off and making an absolute mess of things.” He leans closer, his gaze gleaming like a blade in the dark. “I will not have you ruining my plans with your foolish bravado.”

“Good to know I’m just the sidekick in this little venture.”

He scoffs, the sound colder than any rejection. “That is giving yourself too much credit. Sidekick? More like a leashed pet. A liability. Don’t fool yourself—you are not here because I need you. You’re here because I allow it.”

“Is that so?” You lift an eyebrow, refusing to look away, fingers tapping your lips as if contemplating. “Does it help you sleep at night, reassuring yourself you’ve got me on a leash?”

He laughs humorlessly. “If you so much as think of straying too far in Abriymoch, I’ll find you and drag you back like the disobedient creature you are, and believe me,” his gaze dips, cruel pleasure filling his eyes, “you will regret testing me.”

The words hang between you like a drawn blade, and yet you refuse to drop your grin. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Keep up the attitude, my sweet, sweet spawn, and you might get exactly what you’re asking for.”

You bask in the strange exhilaration that comes with losing your fear of him. There was a time when you would have trembled at the thought of Astarion's wrath, certain he would seize any opportunity to end you, but he hasn’t acted on his never-ending festivity of threats. Not once.

It’s intoxicatingly liberating, this absence of dread. Is it bravery or mere folly? Is this newfound audacity a testament to your strength, or simply the product of your own stupidity? Love or compulsion?

As you mull it over, Astarion’s laughter pierces your reverie. “Oh, do tell. I’d love to know what grand notions are swirling about in that lovely head of yours.” He leans in closer, crimson eyes bleeding malice and amusement. “Or are you merely concocting yet another excuse for your impending doom?”

You narrow your gaze at him. “I’m sure you’d love that, wouldn’t you? A tragic ending to the tale of us. Such a deliciously dark story.”

He smirks, tilting his head with mock innocence. “I live for tragic endings, my treasure, but I’d prefer you to survive a little longer—if only to entertain me.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, as though sharing a secret meant for your ears alone. “After all, it would be terribly dull without your delightful, little insights. I must admit, your attempts at defiance are more amusing than I anticipated.”

You roll your eyes, both flattered and frustrated. “Awe, Astarion! You think I’m entertaining? Or just a distraction?”

“Can it not be both?” He straightens, feigning a serious demeanorur, but the mischief is palpable. “Your company has its charms, more than you think, though I do wish you would stop moping about your fate like a sullen child. It’s rather unbecoming.”

“Funny coming from you, of all people,” you retort. “You seem to enjoy playing the tragic villain, parading about with your dramatic flair.”

Astarion chuckles richly with sardonic undertones. “Ah, but that’s the beauty of it! I am both the villain and the narrative’s most charming rogue. Quite the duality, wouldn’t you say?”

You can’t help but wonder if the thrill is merely an illusion, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable plunge. You glance at the swirling waters of the Styx, feeling a strange sense of kinship with the murky depths. After all, you are both trapped in this twisted narrative.

“What is it, love? You seem awfully lost in thought.”

“I’m trying to decide how best to navigate this mess,” you say, forcing a lightness into your tone.

“Oh, come now,” he coaxes, his voice silky smooth. “You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little excited. The peril, the uncertainty—how could that not pique your interest?”

“It’s hard to be excited when I’m not sure whether you’ll save me or throw me to the wolves.”

Astarion leans closer, his breath ghosting against your skin. “Perhaps a little of both, depending on my mood.”

You’re not sure if you should feel exhilarated or terrified by that, but a wicked resolve blooms. Fuck this. Fuck fear. Fuck his threats and, most importantly, fuck him. Maybe you’ll turn this chaotic situation into a thrill ride before he sells you off, or you end up dead trying to save him. With a playful determination, you crawl into his lap, relishing the surprised expression on his face.

Astarion’s eyes widen, an amalgamation of bewilderment and indignation. “What in the Hells do you think you’re doing?” he protests, an incredulous edge to his voice. Yet, despite his protests, he doesn’t push you away. Instead, he shifts to accommodate your unexpected move.

“Just getting comfortable,” you say, settling into his lap with exaggerated drama, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Astarion’s protests continue, his voice rising with a mock outrage. “This is ridiculous! You cannot just—” He stops, a flicker that looks suspiciously like mirth crossing his face. “What makes you think you can crawl into my lap like some—some pet?” He narrows his eyes, but you can see the way his lips twitch upward despite himself. “You do realize you’re playing with fire, don’t you? I could toss you into the Styx without a second thought.”

You nod. “I’m well aware, but isn’t that the best part?”

“No, it’s not,” he retorts, but even as he says it, his arms wrap around you, drawing you closer as if to shield you. “You think this is a game, don’t you? This reckless behaviorur—”

“Hush now,” you coo, your fingers playfully clamping over his lips, silencing him mid-rant. “Let’s not ruin this with your whingeing. We should rest while we can before we reach Abriymoch.”

You let your eyes fall shut, perhaps idiotically placing trust in him that he hasn’t earned or deserves.

He tips his head, and you shudder involuntarily as his lips brush over your ear, a tantalizing whisper carried on his breath. “I’m far too excited for that,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, a deep chuckle vibrating against your skin.

Astarion bucks his hips into you boldly, pressing his growing arousal into your backside. You tut him, shaking your head playfully. “You can keep your excitement to yourself. You stink.”

He feigns indignation, drawing back as if you’ve slapped him. “What in the Hells do you mean by that?”

You goad him further. “Oh, I forgot! There haven’t been any mirrors for you to admire yourself in lately. But honestly, you’re terribly dirty and smelly. It’s quite a shame, really.”

A chuckle escapes him in a huff, almost as if he were trying to hold it back. “And you, my dear, aren’t in much better shape yourself. One could hardly mistake you for an ethereal beauty right now.”

You lift your chin defiantly, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “I did not hear any complaints when you were putting your mouth all over me.”

His eyes round with surprise, intrigue frolicking around in his irises. “Ah, but you see, that’s where you’re mistaken. My tastes are quite refined, but I assure you, I can overlook a certain... foulness for the right incentives.”

“Oh, really?” You challenge, your intonation teasing. “What exactly qualifies as the right incentive, Astarion?”

He raises an eyebrow, a sly smile curling on his lips. “Why, the allure of your blood, for one. It’s a shame I can’t indulge in that right now, but rest assured, the moment I can, I won’t be distracted by such trifles as your unfortunate aroma.”

You laugh lightly, the sound mingling with the ominous whispers of the Styx, creating a strange harmony. “How positively noble of you. I’ll be sure to clean up for you the next time you wish to drain me dry then.”

Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. I wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself with such trivialities. Besides, there’s something delightfully raw about you right now.”

“Raw? That’s one way to put it,” you snort. “More like I’ve just crawled out of a hellish pit.”

Astarion arches an eyebrow, his lips curling into that infuriatingly charming simper. “So, tell me,” he asks suggestively, “what would you award me with should I locate the hellish version of an inn in Abriymoch? One with a bathtub and a real bed, perhaps?”

You tilt your head teasingly. “Maybe nothing, maybe everything. You’ll just have to find one and find out.”

He slides an elegant finger beneath your chin, tilting your gaze upward to meet his. An electric current crackles between you as his eyes bore into yours, searching. You can’t remember a time he has looked at you quite like this.

“Perhaps you’ll make it worth my while,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper, laced with a sweetness that feels almost foreign.

Then, before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative kiss. It’s soft, hesitant at first, a whispered caress of silk against your skin as if he’s trying to learn how to be gentle. The wind’s mournful howl quiets into the background as the warmth of his mouth envelops you. The taste of him is faintly sweet, albeit tinged with a perilous promise.

As his kiss deepens, it transforms into urgency yet undeniably delicate, a frisk of warmth and hunger that sends a shiver cascading down your spine. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks. It’s a contrast to the jagged edge of his usual countenance, revealing a tenderness that leaves you breathless and confused. When he finally pulls away, his eyes flutter open, and you catch a glimpse of the shifting within them—flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. It dims quickly as he seems to wince, squeezing his eyes shut with a sharp intake of breath.

You think you even hear a faint whimper, or perhaps a whine, but the wind whips it away before you can grasp it fully. The raw vulnerability in that sends a rush of concern through you, an instinct to reach out and soothe whatever pain he’s hiding.

As if propelled by some force beyond your understanding, you whisper the words before you can stop yourself. “I love you.”

Astarion’s eyes anchor to you. He doesn’t reply—not that you expected him to, but he doesn’t rebuke you either. He shifts slightly, pulling you closer, so your head rests comfortably beneath his chin. His breaths heave and shutter, fingers digging into your arms with a grip that feels protective, possessive, perhaps a blend of both.

The chaos of the Hells continues to unfurl around you, grotesque and magnificent, swirling shades of crimson and obsidian merging like an artist's palette gone awry. Astarion's hold on you is firm, and the rhythmic beating of his heart—so wonderfully alive—thumps against your ear. It’s a reassuring reminder of the life that flows within him, the life you helped return to him, and you find yourself momentarily lost in the sound.

In this surreal blend of desolation and intimacy, you finally allow yourself to relax, surrendering to the strange safety of his embrace. As the boat drifts further toward Abriymoch, fate—whether toward doom or salvation—awaits you.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

- Oh, thank fuck he didn't drop her. - So, how is everybody enjoying the Hells thus far?

[devi1sange1]

If sjm is truly planning on Gwynriel, she dropped the ball because…

“There are plenty of other unspeakable things that could be happening to her, Cassian said, voice thickening, “To Emerie and Gwyn.” The shadows deepened around Azriel, his siphons gleaming like cobalt fire. “You— we trained them well Cassian. Trust in that. It’s all we can do.”

Will NEVER be—

But Azriel asked softly, “What about Elain?”

From the shadows near the entrance to the tent, Azriel said, as if in answer to some unspoken debate, “I’m getting her back.” Nesta slid her gaze to the shadowsinger. Azriel’s eyes glowed golden in the shadows. Nesta said, “Then you will die.” Azriel only repeated, rage glazing that stare, “I’m getting her back.”

I stood. Met Azriel’s wrathful stare.

Azriel was honing Truth-Teller with relentless focus…

Azriel’s shadow hand grasped my own, tugging me closer. His rage rippled off his invisible form.

Azriel gently removed the gag from her mouth, “Are you hurt?” She shook her head, devouring the sight of him as if not quite believing it. “You came for me.” The shadowsinger only inclined his head.

And no, I’m not even talking about the fact that Azriel risked his life to save Elain, because sure, it was illegal to save Gwyn in the rite (it’s not like he’s incredibly defiant and doesn’t gaf about the Illyrians but sure). It’s the complete lack of reaction. A common argument I see is, “Well we don’t have Azriel’s point of view of the BR.” But… we don’t have his pov of the Elain rescue either. You guys know you can still convey a characters feelings without their pov right?

Notice how when Elain was taken, Feyre repeatedly mentions Azriel’s rage, his wrath, his precise focus and determination on rescuing Elain. And she’s not even his supposed mate. You can’t include any of that at all when his supposed mate is kidnapped by the same people that abused and bullied him? Notice how easy it was to include how enraged Azriel was at the idea of Elain being hurt. Do you know how easy it would have been to include similar language when the Valkyries were taken?

Listen I’m no writer, but just spit ballin here (forgive me this feels like a crime):

Azriel said tightly, “My spies got word that Eris has been captured by Briallyn. She sent his remaining soldiers after him while he was out hunting with his hounds. They grabbed him and somehow, they were all winnowed back to her palace. I’m guessing using Koschei’s power.” […] Az said, “We have to get him out.” Cassian drew up short. “We?” Cassian could tell by the look on Azriel’s face, by the cold rage that practically seeped from the shadowsinger like his shadows, that Azriel liked this plan just about as much as he did. The sheer determination that Azriel usually possessed when given a mission gone, his focus, his mind, somewhere else entirely. The spymaster mirrored Cassian’s own feelings right back at him: pain, rage, and something else he couldn’t quite place.

Or…

“There are plenty of other unspeakable things that could be happening to her, Cassian said, voice thickening, “To Emerie and Gwyn.” The shadows deepened around Azriel, his siphons gleaming like cobalt fire. “You— we trained them well Cassian. Trust in that. It’s all we can do.” But Cassian could tell that something was off with his brother, in the way he spoke. He couldn’t tell if Azriel was trying to convince him of this matter, or if he was more trying to convince himself. Azriel’s focus drifted, and Cassian saw it then, the rage in his eyes, in his demeanor… it was the same as his own. And Cassian wondered if Azriel, too, felt like a piece of him was missing, if he understood how this waiting game was gnawing at some primal part of him, a part that was aching to be unleashed.

AND ITS THAT EASY!

Like seriously this is the “mating bond” people fight tooth and nail to defend? Is this truly the couple that SJM is trying to get us to fall in love with in preparation for the next book? Because she honestly did a poor job if that’s the case. So which is it? Are they not endgame/mates or are they another drop in the ‘poorly written by sjm’ bucket?

[matthew2641]

A Baptism in Blood: The Nihilistic Purification of Hannibal

The notion of forgiveness, as expounded through the discourses of theological and moral philosophy, is a sacrosanct act of severance  - an ontological renewal through which individuals extricate themselves from past transgressions and recalibrate their moral and spiritual equilibrium. In the Christian paradigm, absolution is more than a juridical reprieve; it is an act of divine purgation, not merely pardoning sin but obliterating it, restoring innocence and severing its corrupting power. However, in Hannibal, this notion is deliberately perverted: forgiveness is not a liberation but an instrument of subjugation. Here, absolution transforms into an ouroboric rite - a macabre liturgy in which supplicants become ensnared within a necrotic lattice of control, culpability, and annihilation.

One aspect in which this perversion manifests is within the series’s rich visual and symbolic motifs. The sumptuous meals that Hannibal prepares are more than just indulgences of the flesh; they are sacraments suffused with an unholy grandeur. Such lavish repasts exist as malevolent doppelgängers of the Christian tradition of the Eucharist, meant to symbolise transubstantiation of Christ’s flesh into a vehicle of grace, Hannibal’s consumption by contrast, is a damnation - devouring rather than sanctifying, his victims desecrated in an unctuous theatre of aestheticised predation. Moreover, the recurring image of water furthers this inversion. Initially invoking the cleansing imagery of baptismal purification, water is rendered an agent of chaos. No cleansing flows from its depths, only a primal abyss, harkening back to the amniotic void. The act of submerging oneself in water, often shown as violent or disturbing, mutates into a harbinger of failed renewal. In this universe, salvation is not a promise of true spiritual redemption, but a bitter mirage that remains forever out of reach.

Nowhere is this corruption more evident than in the complex dynamics between Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, and Abigail Hobbs. These relationships transcend simple character interplay, becoming a dialectical struggle for domination - a form of esoteric communication in which forgiveness is neither beatific nor emancipatory, only a talisman of domination. Love, by extension, is not an unblemished vessel of tenderness; rather, a festering wound aching with ruinous yearning. Encumbered by self-interest, mutual defilement, and the inexorable erosion of the self.

Will and Hannibal, though seemingly poised at opposite ends of the moral spectrum, perceive Abigail not as an autonomous individual but as a conceptual artifact. She is a spectral effigy of lost purity - an ersatz daughter for Will, and for Hannibal, a revenant for his beloved Mischa - a fulcrum upon which their competing theological visions pivot. The visual syntax of the series accentuates the dissonant and impossible nature of her position - she is placed in spaces of tension, at the margins of the frame or physically estranged from the protagonists, yet never truly outside of their gravitational pull. In this way, her existence is marked by the temporal stasis of purgatory: a suspended, interstitial space where she remains forever on the cusp of identity, never wholly belonging to either father figure, and yet, inextricably tied to both. 

Christian eschatology heralds forgiveness as a conduit through which the soul is restored to its Edenic purity. Yet, Abigail is a soul exiled from such simplistic dualities, contesting this purity model. Neither wholly victim nor unrepentant perpetrator, she is caught between the inherited monstrosity of her father and conscious agency. Through an awareness of this fact, she seeks not purification, but survival. Will seeks to absolve her in Potage (S1E3), reflecting the previously outlined transactional view of absolution: “You’re not your father. You’re not the monster he wanted you to become.” Here, Will assumes the role of a Christ-like redeemer, his forgiveness appearing as a salvific benediction meant to deliver her from the taint of her father’s sins. However, this is a forgiveness steeped in self-deception, for Will, pardoning Abigail is not a divine absolution but a desperate invocation of lost agency, an illusory salve for his own complicity in the horrors that have shaped her existence. His forgiveness does not cleanse - it merely recontextualizes, a futile endeavour attempting to transmute guilt into grace. This aligns with Freud’s concept of repetition compulsion, wherein trauma is unconsciously reenacted in a doomed effort to master it. Will is no benevolent saviour; but a man entrapped in the recursive architecture of his own psyche, seeking in Abigail the scaffold upon which to reconstruct his fragmented self. Abigail, like Will, remains trapped in the moral ambiguity of her actions - a state of perpetual suspension denied both salvation and damnation. Will’s ultimate descent into annihilation, culminating in his sanguinary embrace with Hannibal in The Wrath of the Lamb (S3E13), is the apotheosis of this compulsion. His self-immolation is far from an act of transcendence, but an ecstatic obliteration -  an offering of the self upon the altar of a love too corrosive to sustain anything but devastation. By embracing Hannibal and consummating his surrender to the abyss Will conflates destruction with agency.

Hannibal, in contrast, reframes Abigail’s trauma as an inheritance, her father’s sins are not burdens to be expunged, but rather emblems of a greater power. In Potage, he tells her, “You accepted who he was. You will always have that over Will. You already knew your father. He had to wonder.” Rather than offering liberation, Hannibal reshapes Abigail’s identity through his forgiveness, binding her to him, not as an act of grace but of possession. Unlike Will, who seeks to absolve Abigail of her past, Hannibal weaponizes it, turning it into the foundation for her rebirth under his guidance. In this respect Abigail, too, finds herself in the circuitry of repetition compulsion. Having been raised in a world where survival meant complicity, she may have found Hannibal's tutelage familiar. In helping stage her own death, she attempts to reclaim agency, denouncing emancipation in favour of continuity through submission to a structure she understands and now believes has the means to navigate, a fatalistic embrace of the cycle. Abigail’s transformation from victim to willing participant in Hannibal’s world marks her final, tragic rejection of Will’s version of redemption. She no longer seeks forgiveness in the traditional sense; she seeks something more elusive - her own place in a world devoid of clear moral absolutes.

Hannibal, however, is no supplicant. He does not yearn for forgiveness as a means of redemption; he demands it as an enthronement. His lament to Will, “I let you know me. See me. I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it,” is not merely an elegy of rejection but an indictment of disobedience. For Hannibal’s desire is not purification but acceptance, and thus his transgressions are not aberrations but testaments to his divinity, earning exaltment. In this way, he is not simply a perversion of the Christ figure - he is a parodic Messiah, a devouring wolf clothed in the sheep's vestments. For Hannibal, forgiveness is not an act of grace but a mechanism of consumption: to forgive him is to surrender, to relinquish oneself utterly. Will, though a long faltering disciple, eventually succumbs to the ecstatic inevitability of this theology in Mizumono (S2E13). During which he allows himself to be gored in a "strange surrender," as Bryan Fuller describes it: "He allows the gutting. He almost feels as if he deserves it in light of what he’s done; he’s betrayed Hannibal." An oblation offered in penance for his own betrayal. This is not a fault in his forgiveness, but its consummation: an eschatological revelation in which he does not simply forgive Hannibal, but surrenders to the all-consuming sanctity of his doctrine.

Abigail’s final moments in Mizumono serve as the ultimate repudiation of Christian forgiveness. Her resurrection, a grotesque parody of divine rebirth, is devoid of redemptive meaning. She is not restored to life in a triumphant sense but merely to become a pawn in Hannibal’s grand tragedy. When Hannibal slits Abigail’s throat, it is not an act of wrath but the fulfilment of his twisted liturgy. He "saved" Abigail, in the sense that he let her live under his wing, but her existence was always contingent upon his will and in failing to become his ideal, she is excised with the same clinical elegance with which she was preserved. In Christian doctrine, failing to receive divine forgiveness results in eternal separation from God. Hannibal, as an almost godlike figure in his own narrative, enacts this separation with brutal finality. This slaughter consolidates the theological schema Hannibal wishes to impose upon his world, that there is no celestial amnesty as we understand it, no boundless agape through which the fallen may be redeemed - there is merely possession and excision. The very method of Abigail’s undoing, the languid incision across her throat, mimics the Christian iconography of the Paschal lamb, a sacrificial archetype of innocence. Though, unlike the sanctified oblation of Christ, Abigail is stripped of volition and thus redemptive teleology; not martyred but discarded, reduced to an ornamental casualty in Hannibal’s cathedral of ruin. As her body was cradled against the cavernous dark of her surroundings, the composition recalls the Pietà, yet absent of its sublimity. This is not the Madonna lamenting the body of a crucified Son, but a predatory deity relinquishing his broken creation with preordained savagery. Then, as the desecration is completed, Hannibal steps into the storm, allowing for the rain to baptise him in an additional blasphemous mimicry of penitential ablution. But this is no true purification, no soul is made luminous beneath the torrential downpour, it simply erases. A nihilistic effacement washing away all false pretences that both Will and Hannibal had married themselves to - that Abigail might yet be redeemed, that Hannibal might be anything but consuming. 

In the wake of Abigail’s death, Will is left to contend with the futility of his forgiveness. His attempts to redeem her, to offer absolution were rendered impotent. Abigail had not only failed in being liberated but had the tragedy of her existence prolonged. Such profound inevitability led Will to become more amenable to Hannibal’s version of forgiveness, and ultimately submit himself to it fully. In the grand design of Hannibal, forgiveness does not sever the shackles of guilt - it tightens them, binding its recipients in the recursive waltz of moral contamination. In this exquisite distortion of Christian sacrament, lies the surest route of destruction.