#SOBBING ON MY KNEES

[shards-of-narsil]

i’m still stuck here and will be for years to come

[krisslegacy]

if revan was a hozier song he’d be unknown/nith

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

I'm soup-rized you haven't figured the pun out yet

HUH???

[hauntedgarden95]

me to me: okay so we’re gonna play through the whole series again to get a good feel for how my canon should be

Every single one of my OCs: actually we’re changing this story

[krisslegacy]

CAN YOU GUYS STOP MAKING HEARTBREAKING ART LIKE THIS BECAUSE I

I'm not sure you'll get the message

[pastabaguette]

it feels like it’s been a while since i’ve done a fully rendered single illustration like this. two versions here, one with the dialogue and one without.

overall i’m pretty happy with it, although not completely. it’s okay though.

did you catch the little easter eggs i snuck in? (i am evil)

[spleenthecat]

NO. NO NO NO NO NO SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW. YOU GET THIS WHEN YOU INPUT "SORRY"???? FUCK YOU. ACTUALLY FUCK YOU. AND ON FIDDLEFORD FRIDAY?? AAAAAAAAAAHIOUGASHPIUHGPA

[krisslegacy]

DELETE THIS OH MY GODD

I sometimes wonder if post-amnesia revan on their journey to outer space carried around holoprojections of all their friends because they're afraid they'll forget them again

[strwbrryfire]

and it feels good to be known so well, i can't hide from you like i hide from myself

true blue — boygenius

[secriden]

It flays me open to see the way Style is so clearly choosing to love Fadel. The way he does this with eyes wide open, fully seeing and knowing and understanding that Fadel is very much a man with parts at war within himself, who is far from perfect and moreover who will stubbornly cling to his flawed perspectives -- and yet Style chooses and keeps choosing to love Fadel anyway.

And while there is a helplessness to Fadel's love for Style, it is juxtaposed so very beautifully with the way Style's love for Fadel is filled with intention.

It's kind of wonderful how there's nothing idealistic about Style's perception of Fadel. Watch how long Style freezes when Fadel first pulls the gun on Popcorn and Jimmy. Even as they're starting to run away, Style remains petrified, his whole focus fixed on Fadel's hand, on the gun with a (steady, this time) finger on the trigger.

And again, when Fadel threatens to shoot Jimmy, Style's whole body actually jerks in alarm, hands hovering as if he's caught in indecision, before he stands up and tries to physically stay Fadel's hand. Style is acutely aware of the violence that Fadel is capable of and it legitimately terrifies him. Not just because of the physical training that makes Fadel so effortlessly, instinctively lethal, but even more what it says about his metal state and the emotional scars he carries to be able to hurt without thought or care.

It's easy to forget that Style's boldness and defiance in the face of Fadel's threats does not mean that he is unaware or in denial about the deaths which Fadel has orchestrated and been involved with. The choice to keep Popcorn and Jimmy alive is only significant if Style understood that Fadel was fully capable of clinical murder given the justification of being attacked by them.

He's also unflinchingly honest about questioning if Fadel's moral judgement is one that should be trusted. And even more significant is that he calls out how wrong it is that Fadel thinks he has the right to stand as judge and jury at all. It’s kind of wonderful how Style’s love not only doesn’t blind him to Fadel’s faults, it even makes him see the situation more clearly because he so genuinely wants what is best for Fadel.

And we find out this episode that Style is absolutely right to ask those questions!! Fadel has been lied to, used, manipulated; but there's an undeniable aspect of Fadel on some subconscious level choosing to turn a blind eye and trust that Lilly was giving them the 'right' targets in spite of the fact that he knows Lilly isn't a good woman (because we've seen Fadel's fear of her in the way he tries to protect Bison from their 'loving' mother). I remember wondering in episode 1 if the supposedly ethical 'cause' is one which Fadel truly believes in, and I think the fact that he has already tried to leave once tells us that on some level, a quiet voice inside Fadel whispered that there was a falseness at the centre of his crusade.

But the Fadel of right now isn't willing to face this truth just yet. He is still reeling from the discovery of Style and Bison’s double betrayals, still hurting from what he thinks is his unreciprocated love. Right now, Fadel still wants, still needs to feel like he has some control, still needs the wilful self-deception of thinking that his life before Style (without Style) was enough to make him happy. And Fadel would rather pay the price of loneliness (and continuing to hurt someone he knows he still loves) if it means feeling as if the ground he's standing on is solid.

But Fadel has never prepared for someone coming into his life with not only the unwavering determination to look beyond his mask of hostility, but also the ravenous desire and tender care to search and reach for the soft fragility of the light inside his heart. Because as much as Style was challenging and questioning Fadel in this scene, he was also so very clear about the things he sees in Fadel that are worth treasuring. Just look at the gentleness in Style's eyes and the soft way he says "you're pretty decent at your core". The way Style refuses to let Fadel maintain his facade of careless cruelty and clinical detachment to killing, but claims with unshakable certainty that Fadel has never been that self-serving as to kill solely for money.

Style desperately wants Fadel to see the good in himself and to understand and acknowledge that he is so very, very worthy of the adoration Style wants to give him. Can we just pause and take in for a moment: the weight of Style's affection as he presses worshipful kisses to Fadel's injured arm; a silent apology for the hurts already inflicted and wordless promise to care for all of Fadel's injuries in the future.

Style (rock concert; episode 6): "You're doing a lot of second jobs aren't you?" and "Try being someone you want to be."

But Stye's love for Fadel also gives him the courage want better for Fadel. He isn't content to just accept Fadel's life as a hitman; and now that all the secrets are gone, he dares to bluntly ask the questions that he had to hide behind veiled words in episode 6. Style is determined to hold a mirror up to the life Fadel has been living and force Fadel to see the ways it has been eating Fadel up on the inside.

Style is forcing Fadel to face the reality that he does have a choice, that he has options outside of merely surviving this horrible life he feels bound to by fate. (And once again he is right!! Because oh, the harrowing knowledge we, as the audience, now have that it wasn't even fate -- it was the machinations of an evil, scheming, conniving woman who took two grieving and traumatised children and twisted them for her own use! T_T).

But the best part? The part that absolutely fills me with an almost hysterical delight? Style makes it absolutely clear that he isn't asking Fadel to face any of this alone. Because Style understands that Fadel is genuinely terrified -- Style is asking for Fadel to reach for a future together with him beyond this life of a killer, to step off the edge and choose to trust Style again when neither of them know what they'll find at the bottom of that fall.

So Style takes that drop first because what Style does this episode makes me truly feel insane:

He freely calls Fadel faen and owns the unspoken implications of love, commitment, and devotion in that term of address. He promises, over and over that he won't run from Fadel; that his continued presence by Fadel's side is a choice and not a reaction to the gun Style is careful to show he is not intimidated by. He stays unflinchingly honest in everything he does throughout their journey: from his frank desire for Fadel's kiss, to the harrowing vulnerability of his very real fear of death; from the way he obeys Fadel's order to push the car, and also how exhausted he was from the exertion, to the way he stares at the water Fadel is drinking and pointedly says nothing (refuses to ask for any water himself) and then calls out that Fadel offered it to him without prompting.

Style wants Fadel to know that he's seeing everything, that he can hear the silent cries of reluctant care from Fadel's heart, even if Fadel's words are still filled with cold and cruel dismissals, because it makes Style's declarations of love and devotion all the more weighty.

When Style said, "I promise that no matter who you are, I'll still like you" in episode 5, Fadel couldn't trust his words because he didn't have the context of Style already Knowing. But Style has been freed from the shackles of his own lies now; freed to give his promises to Fadel anew with the knowledge that both their secrets have already been stripped bare.

And this time, Style fully respects the boundaries Fadel sets, and acknowledges the storm of anger and hurt in his heart. He isn't demanding for Fadel's forgiveness, nor is he denying that Fadel feels that he deserves recompense.

I remember reading a few takes that Style is simply "restarting" or "continuing" his courtship and episode 8 has totally shifted my perspective on that.

This courtship isn't a parallel, this is a juxtaposition; and the biggest indication of that is the way Style refuses to take anything that Fadel does not give him freely. Style will put himself on display, will offer is body and his heart and ask for Fadel's touch, Fadel's lips, Fadel's heart -- but yet at each crucial moment when Fadel rejects him or turns away, Style's reaction is only one of understanding and compassion and acceptance. Look at the stark difference in these two moments. Look at Style's selfish determination to take in episode 2 as compared to his selfless acceptance of Fadel's right to reject his offer of affection in episode 8.

Because this time his love is real. This time, it's not just empty words dangled to bait a trap accidentally designed to work uniquely for Fadel's fragile heart. This time, Style will place all of his vulnerability in Fadel's hands and take the risk that Fadel will hurt him, that Fadel will be cruel to him, hell that Fadel may actually still kill him at the end of their journey, because Style has made the choice to put Fadel's happiness first. And this is so fucking incredible because I don't think Fadel has had anyone to do that for him since his parents died. Khun Mae certainly didn't, and Bison is his younger brother and the one Fadel has to care for, the one he's responsible for. Who, then, has been around to truly look at Fadel, to see into his heart and the things he desires in his darkest moments, and give him not only what he thinks he wants, but what is best for him?

But the beauty of their narrative is that love has given Style eyes to see true; to see behind Fadel's walls and masks and cruel facade, to the heart of the a man who is still bound up in his trauma and old hurts and isn't ready to let go of his past for the future Style wants to offer him. And all that he saw was worth enough that even with Fadel's gun at hand, even with Fadel sitting literally naked and vulnerable and partially incapacitated because of his broken arm, Style's choice is still to stay.

And I am brought to my knees by this choice because it isn't a thoughtless or careless one: Style literally vows to give his life on his quest to win Fadel back. This is a promise to stay by Fadel side until Fadel either kills him or becomes ready to walk away from his life of violence, because they both know now that these are the only options left.

But Style sees enough in Fadel to make wagering his very life worthwhile, because there's no price Style isn't willing to pay if it means the chance to hold Fadel in his arms again and receive a kiss freely given from the lips of the man he loves.

[deadbaguette]

WE SEE THEM IN SEASON TWO!!!

The path of the strongest

[axiian19-art]

A rambling analysis of Ivan's "Nowhere" (spoilers for up to round 7)

I'll start with my thoughts on the song itself, then break down some of the lyrics.

So, "Nowhere" is quite a bit different from Ivan's other songs, mostly in regards to the melody and his singing. His voice is a lot more... flat, and the pitch and length of the notes vary a lot less. In "Cure" and "Black Sorrow," there's a lot more variance: Ivan's voice goes from soft and low, singing shorter notes, to louder and higher, holding long notes, et cetera.

In Nowhere, the notes are typically shorter, and tend to stay in the same general area on the scale. Ivan's tone stays very consistent; in his other songs, it goes from calm and collected to full of emotion and feelings. He sounds a lot more monotone in Nowhere, and not just because he's singing quietly. He's not entirely apathetic; there's still a lot of emotion in his voice. But it's muted. Numb.

The only line that lacks this somewhat monotone, apathetic tone is "In love with you, when you were mine." This line is EVERYWHERE, and plays in the background of the ENTIRE TRACK.

And all of this kind of makes sense. "Black Sorrow" and "Cure" were both declarations of Ivan's love, and his feelings for Till. They were meant to be heard; they were meant to have an audience in Till. Ivan was projecting his emotions outwards.

"Nowhere" was not meant to be heard by anyone but Ivan himself—not even Till. It represented Ivan's internal thoughts, ones he would never say to anyone else—sort of how like someone might find certain things about a friend or significant other annoying, but choose not to say anything despite thinking it. Ivan is tired, and perhaps even a bit annoyed. He's wondering why Till doesn't return his feelings, and likely, wondering why he himself continues to love Till despite that.

Now, onto the lyrics (English translation b/c my Korean is awful):

That's just the kind of kid he is, so laugh Laugh, because he can't do anything No one cares about someone like him There's nowhere in the world for him to rest

It's been stated (see image below) that Ivan feels like he cannot be loved—that he's undeserving of it, or just doesn't have the qualifications. These lyrics are Ivan speaking about himself. Ivan is unable to get Till to return his feelings ("no one cares about someone like him"), and he is also, ultimately, unable to save Till ("Laugh, because he can't do anything"). To make this second thing worse, it happened not once, but TWICE: first when Ivan couldn't get Till to leave with him, and then when his actions in Round 6 ended up seemingly being for nothing in Round 7.

Another bit of the lyrics is as such:

Worse and worse this painful wound I become more and more numb

Ivan is slowly becoming more and more apathetic, and resigned to his fate, saying that "this always happens to me." Even the song's title is a reference to this: there's nowhere for Ivan to find solace, and all of "this" is going nowhere—"this" being Ivan's relationship with Till. Ivan is resigned to his fate of loving Till—almost certainly more than he loves himself—un"till" the end: until death.

[annqer]

“I have sinned,” he said, “for I have betrayed innocent blood.”

[mediumgayitalian]

“Did you wash your face?”

“Yes.”

“Brush your teeth?”

“Yes.”

“Brush your hair?”

“…Yes.”

As soon as he says it, he coughs. A freckled hand moves to itch at his throat, rub at slowly puffing eyes.

“You, William Andrew,” Lee says, grinning, “are a liar.”

Will scowls. “Am not!”

The effect of his glare is significantly undermined by the redness of his eyes and the cough that interrupts him mid-sentence. Shaking his head, Lee leans into his bunk and scoops his brother up, heading to the Big House. He slides his hand in tangled, curly hair as Will rests his head on his shoulder, still breathing heavily.

“I can feel the knots in your hair, doofus.”

Will curls up tighter in his hold, muffling another cough in his elbow. “Nuh-uh.” He sniffles. “Hey, Lee, am I dying?”

Lee snorts. “No, you’re not dying.” He ducks into the back entrance of the infirmary, flicking on the lights and setting Will on the counter of the nurse’s station.

Will’s brow furrows. “Then what?”

With his swollen tongue, it sounds more like ‘den wah’. Lee picks up the pace — he’s pretty sure, based on what he knows, that the reaction will go away on its own, but a little Benadryl can’t hurt.

“You’re having an allergic reaction.”

He finally finds the stash of Benadryl — who sorted the mortal meds cupboard by colour again — and grabs one of the little measuring cups. Will sees the medicine and immediately starts whining, trying to climb off the counter.

After a minute of wrangling, he manages to keep Will put with one leg over both of his, chin hooked around his shoulder to hinder any escape attempts so he can pour the medicine with both hands. (He pours one teaspoon, even though Will is eight and should be having two. He’s too small for two. It worries him, a little bit — but there is nothing in his vitals to indicate anything’s wrong, so he must just be a late bloomer. Or maybe he and Michael are just destined to remain under five feet for eternity.)

“I’m not drinking it I’m not drinking it I’m not drinking it ew ew ew ew ew —”

“Yes you are —”

“No! Gross! It’s disgusting!”

“You’ve never even had it before!”

Will looks at the tiny little cup like there are worms writhing in it. (He would probably be more willing to eat it if it was worms. Last summer he ate an ant before Lee could stop him. No one told him demigod life would involve wrangling dangerously impulsive children, and he would like a refund, please, thanks.) “I can tell.” He clamps his mouth shut, turning away. “I am not drinking it.”

“It will help you,” Lee says exasperatedly. Was he this difficult as a child? He needs to call his mother. “I can literally see you scratching your throat, you little snot.”

He shoves his hands under his thighs. “No.”

“…It’s bubblegum flavoured.”

Will turns slowly to look at him, evaluating the little cup with suspicion.

“Bubblegum?”

Lee shakes it enticingly. “Bubblegum.”

After a long, tense moment, Will nods once.

“Fine.” He accepts the little cup, bringing it up close to his face to inspect with one squinting eye. “But if it’s disgusting I’m spitting it out.”

He brings the little cup to his lips for the most delicate, most minuscule of sips, more of a dip of the tongue than anything. Lee rolls his eyes. A second later, a pleased look slots on his face, and he downs the rest of the medicine in one large gulp.

Immediately, some of the swelling reduces, and he stops breathing so laboriously.

“There you go,” Lee murmurs, smoothing back his hair. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Gods, you’re stubborn.”

He’s smiling as he says it, leaning down to press a kiss to Will’s freckled forehead. He slumps into it, sighing, arms winding their way around Lee’s neck almost shyly. Understanding the gesture for the plea that it is, Lee scoops him up again, wincing as he elbows his ribs in an effort to get comfortable, and starts putting the medicine away one-handed (by alphabet, the correct way to sort.)

“You sleepy?” he asks softly, feeling Will grow heavier against him. He crosses his fingers — Apollo kids don’t often suffer side effects of medication, but he’s hoping the drowsiness’ll kick in. It’ll be nice if Will actually, like, sleeps through the night. For once.

“Mhm.”

Smiling wider, he flicks off the lights and steps out into the late evening. Cicada song swells in the mid-spring mugginess, owls hooting somewhere in the darkness. The curfew harpies’ chittering grows nearer and nearer. Lee waves to some of his friends as he sees them puttering outside their cabins, running through the last of their nightly routines, and finally ducks into Cabin Seven.

“He out?” Diana asks, hushed, setting aside her guitar to walk over.

Lee hums. “Almost. Had to give him some Benadryl, so he’s sleepy.” His smile turns sly. “He lied to me about brushing his hair and broke out in hives.”

“Of course he’s allergic.” She leans forward, shaking her head, and presses a gentle kiss to his temple. He doesn’t stir. “Goodnight, sweetpea.”

The rest of his siblings call out their own soft goodnights as Lee walks over to Will’s bunk, covered in stickers and bracketed by Michael and Leanna, and sets him on the mattress. It takes him several minutes to pry himself out of his grip.

“Love you,” he whispers. He brushes his knuckle across his cheek. “Night, kiddo.”

———

The next morning, Will sleeps in for hours. The rest of them rise as usual with the sun, but he’s snoring, drooling onto his Star Wars pillowcase. The cabin is filled with muffled snickers and snapping cameras.

“I am going to have so much ammo on him by the time he’s thirteen and embarrassed by everything,” Michael says gleefully. “So, so much ammo.”

Lee grins at him. “Make sure I get a copy.”

The walk to breakfast is almost strange — the twelve of them again, no baby brother. Melody, complaining about the Hermes girl who is not picking up on any of her hints, pauses mid-sentence to ask if she can swear. Cass laughs out loud and allows it. Quickly, breakfast becomes a competition of who can swear the most or the most colourfully, free now that there are no little ears (as if Michael hasn’t supplied Will with a vast vocabulary already).

By the time Will stumbles into the pavilion, rubbing sleepy eyes, breakfast is almost over.

“Well, hello, lazy bones,” Lee teases, getting up to grab him a plate. Will trails slightly behind him, fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt.

“‘M not lazy,” he grouches, accepting the heaping plate Lee hands to him, “you drugged me.”

They walk to the brazier near the Apollo table, taking in the sweet smell as Will scrapes off a hefty chunk of olive bread. Lee waits for him to close his eyes and finish mouthing a quick prayer before guiding him, still sleepy, to the bench.

“I didn’t drug you. You took the medicine yourself.”

“Um, no way! Unless a patient is educated about the risks, benefits, and alternatives about a treatment, they do not have informed consent.” He nods resolutely, evidently proud of himself for remembering the spiel. “Ergo, you drugged me.”

Lee has the sudden, overwhelming urge to burst into tears. Will is — he’s just so bright, and so little. Eight years old and chattering off about informed consent, intently watching Michael in the infirmary, taking notes in his little blue notebook and wrapping bandages on burns with his tongue poking out between lost teeth. When Lee was eight years old, he was chasing his friends around at recess, chattering to anyone who would listen about Pokémon.

He had felt it, when the glowing gold lyre appeared above Will’s head: this child will do great things. They’d all felt it. Cass had gone stiff, eyes flashing green and face creasing in horror, before remembering herself and the big blue eyes watching her, scared, and plastering a smile on her face. ‘Great things’ is never a good thing for a demigod to do. A demigod destined for great things is a demigod doomed.

With every straining molecule, he wants to turn to the heavens and scream, no! You will not have him! You will not use him! He is not yours to toy with, to use until you’re bored! I will not allow it! By my dying breath I will not allow it!

Instead, he swallows around the lump in his throat and says, “What kind of dork says the word ‘ergo’,” and laughs when Will sticks out his tongue. He reminds his baby brother to chew with his mouth closed and keep his elbows off the table, lest his mama kick his ass, and forces himself to focus on the way he leans into Lee’s side as he eats; to memorize the wideness of his unburdened smile.

———

“I’m allergic to lying?!”

“Seems like it,” Lee confirms, closing one eye to line up a shot. He breathes in, holds, then exhales, letting the arrow loose. It hits the bullseye, but not quite as centred as he’d like it to be. Shoot. He sets down his bow, and Will runs off, scooping up the volley and running back with them.

(Gods, Lee loves having a little brother.)

“That’s not a real allergy,” he huffs, placing an arrow in Lee’s waiting hand. “The ten most common allergy types are foods, animals, pollen, mold, dust mites, medications, latex, insect stings, cockroaches, and perfumes or household chemicals. Other allergens are rare but not impossible, but all are a result of physical stimuli. An allergy to a concept or person is a figure of speech.”

Lee squints at him. “Do you know what ‘stimuli’ means?”

“No.”

“It means a thing that evokes a specific reaction. Where’d you read that?”

“‘The Flu, The Plague, and the Common Cold — How We Are Shaped By Reacting’ by Phyllis Ledger.”

“Huh.”

He lines up another arrow — closer to the centre, this time. Good enough.

They don’t learn a lot about paediatric care at camp, or really anything outside of first aid and emergency services, but he’s pretty sure that normal eight-year-olds don’t read and memorize medical textbooks in their spare time. Is he supposed to nurture that? He has no idea how to nurture that.

It’s kinda funny, though. Cute.

“How can I be allergic to lying if that’s impossible?”

“Is sewing a severed arm back on a person using magical nectar and singing songs possible?”

Will pauses, considering. “Okay. I guess so.” He waits, letting Lee focus to make another shot. “I still think it’s stupid. Are you allergic to lying?”

“Nope.”

“Is Cass?”

“Negative.”

“Michael?”

Lee scoffs. “If Michael was allergic to lying, he would be dead.”

“Is anyone else allergic to lying?”

“Nope.” This time, the arrow lands in the dead centre — finally. “Just you, kiddo.”

He’s heard, of course, of children of Apollo afflicted with such an inconvenience before. Their dad is the god of truth, after all. It’s bound to happen.

Will frowns. “What are the parameters?”

Lee glances curiously at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what is lying? Am I allergic to lying, or not telling the truth? They’re different, you know.” He fidgets with the last arrow of the volley, picking at the tail. “Am I gonna get hives if I say something that’s not true, even if I think it’s true? What if I say something that’s a lie but everyone believes it’s true, like when people believed smoking was good for you?” He gasps, looking at Lee with wide, worried eyes. “Oh my gods, am I allowed to be sarcastic?”

Lee tries his very best to hold back his laughter. He is obviously unsuccessful, because Will scowls, shoving him as hard as he can and throwing off his last shot.

“It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” Lee snickers, jogging down the range to gather his arrows. He slides them into the quiver, tossing it and his bow onto the equipment deck. “You’re very adorable when you’re mad. You get all —” he pokes Will’s dimpled cheeks, grinning when it makes him smile — “pouty and red. Like Tinkerbell.”

“You’re mean. You’re a horrible mean big brother and I want Beckendorf to adopt me instead.”

“I’ll let him know,” Lee says drily. “C’mon, kid. There’re cabin inspections tonight; I know you got Lego everywhere. Time to clean up. I swear, if we get Castor again I’m gonna —”

“Oh, I didn’t see you guys! I hope I’m not interrupting your practice.”

Lee stumbles. “— lose it.” He trails off weakly “Hey, Carter.”

The son of Athena smiles widely, dark eyes twinkling. His front tooth is just slightly crooked, and Lee finds himself staring at it.

“Hi, Lee.”

Lee wonders, briefly, if he has suddenly developed tachycardia. It certainly feels like it. He remembers something Will had rattled off during lunch yesterday — hummingbirds don’t actually hum, they just beat their wings thousands of times per minute, often in sync with their heart. Lee feels a strange kinship with the little birds right about now.

Will clears his throat loudly.

Carter startles. “Oh! Oh, hi, Will, I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

Will squints suspiciously. “Uh-huh.”

“I was just hoping to use the archery range, if you’re done with it.” He tucks a lock behind his ear. “Or, um. We can share, if you want.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Lee rushes to assure, “I actually just finished, so I’m all — it! It’s all yours!” He clears his throat, sure his face is flaming. “Uh, take it away! Shoot straight!”

Mortified, he clamps his hands on Will’s shoulders and practically shoves him forward, rushing away as fast as is socially acceptable.

“Okay,” Carter calls out behind him, audibly confused. “See you around, Lee.”

Lee makes some sort of horrible, crackling chucking sound. “Right-o!”

Just bury him. Really.

“Smooth,” Will mutters, the second they’re out of earshot. Then he pauses, delighted. “Hey! I can still be sarcastic!”

Lee flicks him on the forehead, scowling. “Shut up.”

———

“— it just seems so vague, right? I mean, say I look at the sky and say, the sky is green. That’s obviously not true. But what if I think it’s true? Or what if I think blue is green, and green is blue? Am I being truthful? Is truth defined by my belief, or by whoever I’m speaking to? Or some arbitrary, so-called objective standard? And what if —”

“Will,” Lee begs, hands pressed to his rapidly-pulsating temples, “for the love of Zeus, please settle down.”

“I can’t,” he says dramatically. He gets another couple jumps on his (FRESHLY MADE) bed before Lee gets fed up an wallops him with a pillow, sending him tumbling with a shriek. “Child abuse! I’m telling Chiron!” He makes a pleased noise. “Hey, I can still exaggerate! I wonder if acting is considered lying —”

“I am going to lose my mind.”

“— and what about, like, withholding the truth? Like, for example, if you asked me, hey, Will, did I make a big embarrassing fool out of myself in front of Carter this morning, and I do not say yeah, totally, I was embarrassed for you —”

“That’s it.”

Lee pounces on him, murderous, digging his fingers into his brother’s sides as he shrieks with laughter, pinning down his arms so he can’t writhe away.

“Mercy! Mercy! I’m sorry, I’m —”

“You’re literally lying right now!” Lee says in disbelief. “I can see your eyes reddening!”

Luckily, the reaction isn’t so severe this time. Maybe it’s a smaller lie, leaning more into teasing than anything, or maybe even the universe can’t be so cruel when faced with Will’s giggles. Either way, Lee tickles him until he’s begging for mercy for real, gasping as he darts away.

“You’re such a brat,” Lee says fondly, catching his breath.

Will sticks out his tongue. “Nuh uh.”

“Get over here, doofus. It’s nine o’clock. You were supposed to be in bed a half-hour ago, I’ll tell you a story.”

Predictably, that gets him quiet, clambering over the mussed sheets and shoving himself into Lee’s side, leg sprawled over his knees and chin digging into his chest. Big blue eyes turn to him with attention, wider than the sea and skies, sparkling, clear with open trust. The lump surfaces in Lee’s throat again, and he brings his hands up to smooth down Will’s hair, distracting himself by untangling the many knots.

“One day,” he begins, voice a little wobbly, “there was a boy.”

“In a galaxy far far away?”

“No. Shut up.”

Will pouts. Lee kisses him on the forehead.

“There was a regular boy on regular Earth. And he was small and clumsy, because his brain was too big for his body and threw him off balance.”

“That’s called a Chiari malformation.”

“William Andrew.”

“Sorry.”

“Gods. Anyways. The boy.” He clears his throat. “The boy was the most curious boy to ever exist. He would observe things, with his big eyes, for hours, trying to figure out how everything in the whole world worked. He’d memorized how every creature in the pond worked together when he was four years old. By the time he was five he could speak frog, and dance with the fireflies.”

Will giggles. “A boy can’t speak frog, that’s ridiculous. Can the frog speak back?”

“Shhh. Listening ears. One day, when the boy was eight, he got very bored by his house, even with the pretty pond. The frogs were too busy to play with him and the fireflies had flown off to work, so he decided to go on an adventure.”

“A quest?”

“Yes, exactly. A quest for knowledge. He decided he would learn every piece of information possible so that one day he could bring it back to his village and share it with everybody. Do you know what happened?”

“What?”

“He was successful. He spent many years travelling and observing and running from monsters to get all the information he could. And when he came back to the village, the people saw that he was kind and intelligent but very naive, so they sucked out all the knowledge from his head to use for themselves and he died. The end.”

“What? No!” Will pushes himself upright, unfortunately putting his entire weight on Lee’s spleen, jaw dropped in outrage. “That’s a horrible story! You can’t end the story like that!”

“My story,” Lee wheezes. “I can end it however I want.”

“Tell it better!”

“Fine, fine. Get off my organs.”

When Will is settled again, curled in the crook of Lee’s arm and glaring at him suspiciously, Lee continues.

“The villagers didn’t kill the boy. You’re right. But they weren’t very careful with them, either. The boy wanted very much to help, so much that it was sometimes all he could think about. And the villagers didn’t mean to, but they treated the boy like he was a knowledge machine — taking and taking and taking, forgetting to give back, to check on him. One day, the boy was so drained of knowledge that he collapsed.”

“Of stress-induced exhaustion?” Will asks softly. His eyes, finally, have begun to droop.

Lee smiles. “Something like that.”

“Then what happened?”

“The villagers panicked, because the boy wasn’t awake to tell them how to fix him. They didn’t know what to do. Some of them, even, didn’t know why he collapsed at all, they thought he might be cursed and didn’t like him anymore.”

“But he wasn’t cursed, he was sick!”

“That’s right. He was sick, because he didn’t stop to take care of himself. He let people take too much without making sure he had enough to stay whole.”

For a long time, long enough that Lee thinks he’s asleep, Will doesn’t say anything. And then he says, in a very small voice, “Does the boy still die?”

“No,” Lee whispers, tightening his hold. “His big brother comes back from a long trip and heals him. And then he yells are the villagers for making him sick, and makes them promise to be more careful. The end. For real this time.”

“I like the second story better,” Will says. “It’s good that he had his big brother there.”

“Always.” Lee swallows, shifting once Will’s eyes flutter shut, sliding him under the covers. “Always, kiddo.”

[fauvester]

“because I’ll split this world open and tear down the sky before I let him come to even the slightest harm”

[drenched-in-sunlight]

thinking about how the Guidance of Grace in Land of Shadow never points us to where Messmer is (the one at Divine Beast arena points towards the sealed gate aka a dead end). It’s Leda and Dane’s notes that tell us to head East and target him.

Guidance only picks up again after Messmer is defeated 🥲

If you think about it, he never commented on how we were following guidance of the Erdtree like Leda did, he started the fight simply because he wouldn’t accept us as Marika’s Lord. Which means he knows we are not there on his Mother’s guidance (& it’s true, we aren’t)

And it reminds me of his final dialogue again. Since he’s destroyed her blessing, he could only now be a curse. And so he bound himself to her once more with his last breath.

I feel like that’s how Marika knows - a whole world away in her own prison of punishment and crucifixion - and she accepts his curse. In a way, they are reunited once more.

So guidance of grace picks up again, her son’s sacrifice would not be in vain. It would not be for nothing. Miquella’s misguided path to Godhood would be stopped.

It’s not that Leda failed to see who was guiding us at first, it’s simply that the Erdtree never guides us until AFTER Messmer boss fight.