#The Keltiad

[rosheendubh]

Thrawn concepts…Supreme Commander-Empire of the Hand and Imperial Remnant…

[chicagosavant]

lol-Thrawn thawts….

—Derriel Book (the Shepherd from Firefly/Serenity) IS JorgCar’das….Change muh’mind…

—Tyber Zann IS an Operative gathering Intel on the Galactic Empire (lying across the other side of a spatial anomaly) for the CoreParliament…

—BlueSun Corp is aligned with BlackSunSyndicate…and are both involved with a Reaver-Vong-Chiss Skywalker-Navigator-RiverTam-other female human psionics-exploitation scheme…

—Luthen Rael and Thrawn (not from Rebels/orAhsoka series Thrawn) MUST have some sort of confrontation…I mean, the whole ArtHistorian foil just seems way too *convenient*…

—Kelts in Space weaves into this tale so seamlessly….

—CintaKaz is my new GrrlCrush, and lover of my biSexxy Keltoi OC advanced practice medic…(I NEED Cinta to survive the GalacticCivilWar—personal AU-is that she’s a Dathomiri Witch…)

—Somehow Severence’Tann-is related to Kung’urama’nuruodo (altered to Kivu’Rama’nuruodo)-is related to Borika-Thrass-Thrawn…

[msbarrows]

I hate when there's a book series I LOVED when I was younger, and would very extremely happily re-buy as ebooks, and they're just.... not available. I mean, I DO still have my original paperback copies of them all (somewhere...) but with my eyesight these days I vastly prefer ebooks.

*Shakes fist in general direction of whatever probably-corporate-entity is currently sitting on the copyright for Patricia Kennealy's Keltiad series*

[chicagosavant]

”And shadow-sweet as autumn wine that fills October's beaker to its golden rim...”

I see you as I saw you then. The sky Was luminous behind you, and the hills Were purple as the asters in your arms, And shadow-sweet as autumn wine that fills October's beaker to its golden rim.

A bronzèd bramble clinging to your skirt, Adown the dusty, leaf-red road you came, With scarf of misty river-green and hair Loose-caught and smould'ring with the sunset flame And leaping like the torch of Phaeton.

I see you as I saw you then. The sky Was luminous behind you, and your eyes Were purple as the asters in your arms, And shadow-sweet as autumn dreams that rise Unbidden on the heart of loneliness.

Mirage by Louisa Fletcher

[longsightmyth]

Me, whispering: got another one for you ms kennealy-morrison

(Celts in spaaaaaaaace)

[books-coffee-and-the-woods]

Whoopsie book haul today (feat. mead!)

Friend and I went to a used bookstore so she could get a present for her coworker....and I was excited to find a whole bunch of de Lints, the next 2 books of the Keltiad series, and some other odds and ends that are on my TBR!

SO excited for The Onion Girl, I've been looking for it for ages!

[libriamore]

Every time I read something related to the Mabinogion/ Cuchulainn cycle I feel like I’m rewiring my brain

[rosheendubh]

Lol—Thrawn is a wonderful example of a fallen hero, victim to his own conviction to the point of delusion. I hate ‘Rebels’ frankly—too kiddy, and way too bizarre in the ‘mustachio’d villain’ portrayal (also, did no one notice the way bizarre resemblance between the actor playing Paul Atredies in ‘Dune’, and space Aladdin/Erzra? Will NEVER unsee that, just like LiveActionPrawn as Blue Data/Elon Musk…lawd’ help me!). Tainted by the compromises made to rise through the ranks of Imperial hierarchy, and the best part, ar’Alani calls him out on it…it’s also why, Thrawn becomes such a fascinating fanfic AU study in redemption arcs. I don’t follow Deus Ex Baline—though borrowing from canon, and merging with Legends EU (and AU crossover with Firefly/Serenity and the Keltiad), does grant some interesting source matter from which to draw. When everything you’ve built, bled for, sacrificed principles and identity in order to conform and adopt a persona acceptable to a new power structure (bc one’s convinced it’s for ‘the greater good’—defeating the Grysk/YhznVong) unravels, how does one secure resources to adapt, but also answer to accountability from those who challenge the ethical/moral convictions? Like JorgCar’das or Ar’alani, or even the cause of the NewRepublic—Luke/Leia primarily. That’s what makes Thrawn so interesting, and heartbreakingly tragic—I want that fic where he’s forced to face the consequences of his actions, where those actions actually result in the destruction of the Chiss homeworlds, just when he feels he’s secured their future as their savior…in one sense, I do see where the old Thrawn trilogy (in combo with Hand of Thrawn duology/and the stand-alone tales tales Zahn write like OutboundFlight), ties into the Newer Ascendency trilogy, and Thrawn/Empire trilogy. They follow the evolution of an ideologue and idealist, who ends up on the wrong side of the moral balance. The slow slide of absolute power corrupting absolutely, even if Thrawn’s end game wasn’t necessarily piwer for the sake of power, but power in order to ‘save the Ascendency/Galaxy’ in the way he felt possible (via Imperial Hegemony), with Thrawn calling the shots. Zahn created a fascinating antagonist, so much do that I’d argue Zahn’s own writing ability can’t quite capture the subtleties of emotional conflict which belie the subtext of Thrawn’s internal vs vs external motivators. Though, I blame that more on the scope of plot-driven vs character-driven writing which embodies the kind of military sci-fi genera writing Zahn mostly produces…just my humble opinion tossed about for spice. There’s certainly no shortage of fics exploding through AO3/ffn.net engaging this very topic…

I dunno, and I haven't read the Ascendency novels to be clear, so I can’t speak of who he was before his exile - but maybe Thrawn accepting Grand Admiral for that shitshow on Batonn sealed his fate. Maybe he wasn't the one to pull the trigger, maybe he was appalled by the needless death - he still took the promotion, even if he didn't want it. The moment he took the rank plate was the moment the blood on his hands became insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The moment where all his intentions begin to be buried by his actions.

Everyone is all about how Thrawn isn't that bad of a guy - and honestly I do agree that his character is misunderstood more often than not - but he still did terrible things with the Empire. Turned a blind eye and condoned much more with silence.

Because the fall of Nightswan and Batonn may not have been his fault - but he accepted the stain when he took his promotion.

For all you try to keep things fair, it doesn't matter if you're working in a system that is instituted to be cruel. And while Thrawn had never claimed to be a good man, and had only joined ultimately for the protection of his own people, there's something to be said of this deterioration of morality. How he doesn't understand politics, but is still shaped by the dangerous and vindictive workings of Imperial political scene, forgoing honesty for station.

Pirates and smugglers turn to insurgents and rebels. Capture turns to execute. He kills to prove a point.

He develops for the worse. For all he shapes the Imperial Navy, it shapes him all the same. I dunno. Complex character and all o that. He’s no scum of the earth true evil, but he’s no shining star either.

[rosheendubh]

Thrawn...Sox...more Sox...

Tragically Defined...

~~

Ceiling lights flickered, casting a yellow pallor over figures huddled in the waiting area. The antiseptic reek failed to mask the stench of sickness permeating the lower-level Coruscant clinic. Rhyanon navigated a crowd of alien bodies. Her medical droid, IT-7, hovered beside her, its optical sensors scanning, cataloging ailments. Misery smothered hope in these festering warrens of Coruscant's underbelly. Only Imperial decree dragged the reluctant elite down from their glittering spires above.

IT-7's bleep disrupted Rhyanon's thoughts. A Rodian's mottled skin pulsed green with fungal infection. A hulking Gamorrean whimpered, tusks cracked and oozing, its cries like those of a child. A gaunt woman cradled a feverish infant, its skin burning. Rhyanon treated them, dispensing medication, offering quiet comfort with practiced hands. But her heart churned. Thrawn's promise gnawed at her, unrestricted access to these forgotten levels, with only IT-7 as chaperone. A test? A power play?

Hours later, she navigated the grimy cityscape toward Thrawn's residence. The monolithic structure, polished durasteel and tinted transpariplate, loomed like a predator. The ceaseless grind of lifts, speeder traffic, and distant sirens were a constant reminder of the ecumenopolis beyond. After the clinic's stagnation, the cool, still air felt alien. She sought refuge in the training dojo, a spartan space with smooth floors and reflective glass walls.

Rhyanon moved through rehearsed battle-forms, each motion precise, but memories crowded her mind. The night before... a sharp ache, bruised flesh, violated trust. She shifted, elbows and knees striking. Geis's image shattered the dojo's calm. Her sister's face, contorted in agony, lifeless eyes. The Reavers, grotesque nightmares, hands stained crimson. She cut the air with fighting sticks, beating back phantoms branding her wrists and thighs. She drew an electro-staff with a snap-hiss. Its energy field crackled, mirroring the tremble in her hands. Thrawn's iron control shattered, replaced by something feral that used her, took her, left her raw. The staff became a whirlwind. The Emperor's game. She, the pawn, her sister the sacrifice. Rhyanon stilled. A pounding heart, sweat beading her forehead and dripping between her shoulder blades. Her ragged breaths filled the silent training chamber, a maelstrom of thoughts, far too loud.

A female Twi'lek, not the usual alien staff, met Rhyanon as she exited the dojo. Her green skin flawless, her dark eyes held unsettling insight. In lilting Basic, she delivered the summons. "Grand Admiral Thrawn requests your presence at dinner. Medic Yhana. He understands you may have other obligations, but wishes you to know the decision is yours."

Rhyanon recognized her from the clinic. She'd come in with a fretful toddler, his tiny lekku inflamed. Rhyanon had given her the unaffordable anti-infective.

Declining was unthinkable, a subtle display of Thrawn's power. Rhyanon considered it in silence, broken only by the residence's churning atmospheric cyclers. Sensing Rhyanon's unease, the Twi'lek ventured, "He might find some comfort in seeing you tonight. He seems...troubled."

"As opposed to what? His usual ebullience?" Rhyanon snapped. The Twi'lek's lekku twitched, her expression tightening. Rhyanon regretted her outburst. "It's fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just let me clean up, and I'll be available presently."

The Twi'lek nodded, a brief, strained smile on her lips.

"Thank you. For helping my son," the Twi'lek said, before she led Rhyanon to her chambers "Few venture to the lower levels. Fewer still treat us as people."

Rhyanon inclined her head. "It's my duty," she murmured, the words hollow.

A gown, hair ornaments, and jewels for her throat, ears, and upper arms glittered under soft lighting. When she emerged, the servants lining the corridor gasped, their eyes wide with a mixture of admiration and fear.

Rhyanon entered the hall, a dancer's measured strides showcasing the sorn-silk molding to her curves. The amethyst garment shimmered. Thin straps bared her shoulders and arms, her skin alabaster in the dim light. A silver chain circled her waist, a reminder of her status: a captive adorned for her captor. Her damp, moon-pale hair, braided and cascading over one shoulder, was woven with blood-rubies and sea-ebonies. Matching ear-bobs swayed, catching the light. A sea-pearl circlet graced her throat, serpentine bracelets coiled around each upper arm.

She schooled her face to serenity, her ice-blue gaze on her Twi'lek escort's swaying lekku as they moved through an outdoor arcade. Muffled city sounds faded into the distance. The path wound through towering Wroshyr trees, their long shadows stretching in the artificial twilight toward a meticulously crafted oasis that defied the sterile, urban landscape: an inner-courtyard garden, a bioluminescent sanctuary for nocturnal flora and fauna. Shrubs, trees, and flowers flourished in darkness, petals unfurling in a silent ballet. Insects like living jewels and birds with starlight plumage flitted through the air, lacing patterns of light against the velvet night.

Rhyanon gasped, her composure faltering. She turned, ensnared by the garden's marvel. Walls resembling a tumbling mountainside descended into a vale. A stream, alive with glowing fish, crawled through the scene, its surface rippling with sky-midges. The waters tinkled, spilling toward a fountain-pool, surrounded by countless floral species. From the pool's dark surface rose a magnificent Orga tree, a living relic recalling the night she'd met Thrawn. Then, it had been a cluster of dried twigs. Now, luminescent branches reached toward the artificial sky like supplicating arms, a tapestry of gleaming leaves and fragrant blossoms.

Beneath the Orga tree's canopy, Thrawn sat on the fountain's edge, a white smudge against the gloom in the impeccable uniform of his new rank: Grand Admiral. His back to her, he angled toward her at her gasp of astonishment. He inclined his head, a slight motion conveying absolute authority. His garnet eyes fell on her. Anxiety constricted Rhyanon's ribs, but she schooled her features to placidity.

He nodded toward the Orga tree. "Impressive, isn't it?" His voice sliced the silence, ominous and alluring. "Your touch, Yhana. It lingers."

She bowed her head, a noncommittal gesture. "It was nearly dead when we first met."

"And now?" He turned toward her, his crimson gaze unreadable. "Is it merely alive? Or something more?"

She stepped closer to the Orga tree, her form vivid in its glow. "Life finds a way. Even in the most sterile of environments."

"Indeed. Evolution. Adaptation. All things you understand intimately, wouldn't you say?" The banked coals of his eyes scoured her.

She lifted her chin, her gaze ice-cold. "I understand the will to survive, Grand Admiral. As do you."

A smile ghosted over Thrawn's lips. "Astute as always, Yhana. Even after last night's...passion." He paused, noting her wince. She felt the weight of understanding in his gaze. Thrawn, different last night, his iron control shattered. Palpatine, unable to read Thrawn through the Force, had devised the encounter, seeking any glimpse of sedition in his pet admiral.

"You were right about Palpatine's machinations," he said, his features tensing. Perhaps recalling how she had fought him through every moment of that macabre dance.

"The Unknown Regions," she said, her tone clipped. "An inconvenient censure. Especially on the eve of the Empire's final push."

"The Emperor's plans are not always transparent. Even to me." He paused. "I considered questioning the assignment. Briefly."

"But you didn't." A prime military leader sojourning like a scavenger beyond Imperial territory. Most officers of his rank would have fumed at the obvious political slight.

"Discretion, Yhana," he said softly, "is sometimes the better part of valor. Even for a Grand Admiral."

"Two weeks," she whispered, her gaze drifting to the Orga tree's brilliance, the words belying the horrors in her mind. "Blood under my nails, matted in my hair. Two weeks before I realized it was my sister's. The Emperor made me forget."

Uncertainty held them speechless, Thrawn's expression shadowed. He sensed the currents beneath the surface. She refused to make this easy for him as he searched for his next words, a rare lapse of awkwardness.

Predictably, he retreated to the cerebral. "Loyalty," he posited, voice ironic, "never questioned, yet always tested."

Rhyanon turned to him, eyes flashing. "Fragile. Easily broken," she challenged.

"And yet," he continued, gaze unwavering, "the greatest betrayals come not from enemies, but from those we trust."

"Or those who claim to protect us," she countered, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

He inclined his head. "The Emperor sees what he wishes to see. And uses whatever tools are at his disposal."

"Including us?"

Regret flickered across his crimson eyes. "We are all instruments, Yhana," he said softly. "In the hands of fate. In the hands of the powerful. Do we choose our own music? Or simply dance to the tune played for us?"

A pained laugh, a despondent shake of her head. "How metaphoric. I imagine my patients wonder who stiffed them with their selection of tunes." She turned from him, staring into the sparkle of winged insects flitting amid the fountain's waters and flowers.

"I imagine so. You do good work. I wouldn't dream of impeding such essential service," he replied, drawing another fierce glare. "Regardless," Thrawn continued, his tone bland, "if Nuso Esva is anywhere, it's in the Unknown Regions. And Tyber Zann with him, not including whatever factions are supporting them." The names caught Rhyanon off-guard, a manifestation of the galaxy's shifting political chaos. A tainted favor, Thrawn having given her viable targets for her vengeance, gleaned from her memories. Someday, making the perpetrators pay for her abduction and her sister's death.

Sensing her anger, he gestured to the garden, the vibrant, teeming life. "Tell me," Thrawn probed, his voice low, "does this please you?"

"It's extraordinary," she admitted, the orchestrated beauty soothing her resentment. "But still, life under glass." She ignored his considering hum.

She stepped around the pool, drawn to the Orga tree. Bioluminescent mycelia ran in pulsing sapphire veins along its trunk and branches, plaited by delicate fronds, trailing in scintillating cascades into the water. A gasp escaped her lips when a geyser of light erupted from the top branches.

"I thought the flames were just a projection," she exclaimed, strands of mist spinning out from the Orga tree's blossoms, coalescing around her. Glitterbugs and nymphadoptera swarmed through tendrils of scarlet light, a twinkling halo drawn to her energy.

"What is this place?" she asked, breathless. Living fire plumed from her palms, intermingling with the insects.

Thrawn's crimson eyes, reflecting the garden's kaleidoscope, absorbed her wonder. "A retreat," he said softly. "A refuge. A sanctuary. A homage to the worlds I've lost—" his voice dropping, a peculiar shyness she found unsettling. "A place of worship. How did that tale end?" he asked, dredging the past. "The one you told, the first night I’d requested your company?"

"Of Blodeuwedd. The Lady of Flowers?" she replied, captivated by the spectrum of currents spiraling about her. “She fled her maker, Gwydion ap Don.” Forms resolved between her extended hands, like miniature organic galaxies. “A woman, sown of blossoms, who left a track of stars across the heavens. My ancestors called it the Milky Way, the path of her freedom." The ancient myth resonated with her own yearning for autonomy.

Oblivious to Thrawn, she traced the lifecycle of the glitterbugs. "They lay their eggs within the Orga fruit," she explained, “a symbiotic relationship. Each relies on the other."

"The effect," Thrawn added, his voice a low rumble, "produced by spores, pollen dust, the release of water vapor. It stimulates the bioluminescence of the winged fauna and the mycelia on the tree bark." He paused, fascinated by the subtle energies she summoned. "I've never seen a closer embodiment of the Red Flame.”

"Spare me," she teased, attempting to breach the intensity of his gaze with levity. "I thought lectures on obscure iconography were off the agenda. For tonight, at least."

"No lecture," he assured with a wry look, familiar with her impatience regarding his cultural fetishes. "Just an ancient belief. An imparted philosophy. The Red Flame. Cunning, courage, discipline, and preparedness. Mind and body in perfect harmony with the universe.” He stood and approached, stopping just before her amid the swirling light. “Beauty." The word snared her with its magnetism.

He reached out, palms hovering in the glowing nimbus just above hers, a silent offering. "Ever since my brother's death," he began, voice strained by old grief, "I dreamt of climbing a great ladder into the heavens, trying to carry him, you, my crew... even my enemies. Trying not to leave anyone behind, reaching for the stars, but still flailing, falling. Like he died, I imagine, crashing in that colony ship. I haven't had that dream for years," he confessed. "Until last night."

"That was the memory Palpatine dragged from you?" Rhyanon asked hesitantly. The humiliation he'd inflicted on her, even at the Emperor's impetus, still stung like a fresh cut.

Something cold and hard flickered in his crimson eyes. "No. All Chiss learn to fortify against telepathic intrusion. A precaution, should one fall into enemy hands." He paused, his gaze locking with hers. "It was you. Whatever opened between us during our—" a rough catch in his voice, "—initial encounter." Thrawn reached toward her, hands passing through the parting phosphoric mists. His long fingers folded with hers before she could retreat. Rhyanon’s gestures stilled within his gentle grasp. Small, amorphous clouds of light floated, swirling, between their palms. He filled the tranquil garden with a mesmerizing whisper. "My people speak of a prophecy. So old, some scholars say it predates the Primordial Migration off Riy'a'silva, long before Csilla's Ice Age. Of a girl who sacrificed herself to flame, bringing light and warmth to her kin. She rose from the ashes of her pyre, awakening the sun and stars with the First Dawn, leaving behind an eternal ember hidden in time and space before fleeing into a distant sun, mounted upon a Thunder Hawk."

His gaze, a bloody sunset, seared her soul. "The Red Flame was her oath of protection against evil. A promise of rebirth, a woman appearing in a time of great darkness, bringing justice, commanding the secrets of elemental life."

His conviction bewildered her. "That seems an impossible feat for anyone. In one lifetime—or a thousand," she remarked with a brittle, humorless laugh.

"An aspiration, then," he allowed, amused by her deflection. “Serving through one’s lifetime, or—a thousand lifetimes."

"Thrawn," she whispered, a fragile protest, as he closed the distance between them. "Please, I—" His mouth pressed to hers, swallowing her gasp. A kiss that reeled, both question and conquest.

"You are amber and silver and starlight to my sight," he murmured in Cheunh, against her. "Fleeting dawn and fleeing dusk...ephemeral, Rhyanon." The words echoed in her mind with longing. Let me bathe of your essence.

Caught in the whirlwind of his emotions, the sheer force of his will, Rhyanon surrendered, fingers tangling in his midnight hair, body molded against him. Vibrant currents pulsed from her hands, swirling around them. She felt his heartbeat, a counterpoint to her own, the rush of his blood mirroring the heat coursing through her veins.

A low groan vibrated through his chest as he shifted, arms tightening around her. The kiss deepened, a dizzying vortex of raw, untamed need. His skin tasted of salt, his breath of Corellian ale. He clutched her to him as if he feared she might vanish. In that moment, at the heart of that enchanted garden, beneath that magnificent Orga tree, she was his, and he was hers, the rest of the galaxy fading into insignificance.

Thrawn swept her up, carrying her from the pool. Kneeling, he set her gently upon a blanket spread over soft grass, a bed strewn with glowing star-lilies. A low table nearby was laden with delicacies – exotic fruits, glistening meats, crystal decanters of what she suspected were expensive vintages. A testament to Thrawn’s meticulous planning, his desire to seduce her senses, offering a taste of the pleasures he could provide. A feast untouched, forgotten.

Rhyanon couldn't look away. He was a paradox, this man. A warrior and a scholar, a pragmatist and a dreamer, a captor and a lover. And in this moment, in the heart of this mystical arcade, she was utterly, irrevocably, lost in him.

He released her, his fingers grazing down her arms, tingling paths of pleasure burning along her skin. She watched him undress, each movement deliberate, almost ritualistic. Piece by piece, the stark white of his Grand Admiral's uniform fell away, revealing the alien blue of his skin, hard muscle sculpted by rigorous training. Intricate tattoos adorned his arms and shoulders, standing out in stark relief against his chest, scars puckered across his torso, an old scorch mark seared into his thigh.

Rhyanon's heart skipped as he turned to her, his physique chiseled by shadow and the garden's dim light, a masculine perfection that stuttered her breath. His eyes blazed with a hunger mirroring her own. He reached for her gown, brushing bare skin, a jolt of electricity. She shivered, anticipation warring with resistance.

His fingers tarried at the base of her throat, roving to the thin straps, slipping them from her shoulders. The fabric pooled around her hips, then her feet. His gaze darkened, lingering over her breasts, his nostrils flaring as he drew a deep breath.

He urged her backward with a hand on her chest. "Lie down," he commanded, his voice husky.

She obeyed, sinking onto the blanket of glowing star-lilies. He followed, his body a welcome weight, radiating heat. He shifted, settling to his knees, his hands framing her contours, possessive and oddly reverent. He drew her legs apart, exposing her to his gaze.

His fingers traced a path from her throat, down between her breasts, to the juncture of her thighs. The caress dallied, awakening a dampness that betrayed her response. His erection pressed against her belly, the heat of him, an insistent pressure, exuding the musky scent of arousal.

"Thrawn..." she sighed.

He didn't answer with words. He moved lower, between her parted knees, his gaze unwavering. "I've no record of your people," he said, his voice hypnotic. "Their artistic expression, spatial or aesthetic progression." Shifting into her native Brytonic, a direct transmission to her mind, And you-an enigma...oeth and anoeth. The thought trailed off as his tongue dipped, warm and demanding, to her core. She gasped, fire blooming, flushing her skin as she arched against him, fingers tangling in his hair.

Vurawn , she whispered, his birth name, a ripple in the bridge linking them, a relic from his life before the Empire. It wrought a tempest of conflicting emotions within him, echoing back to her. Desire battled apprehension, her senses devoured in the flames stoked by his hands and lips. Did the shadow of past trauma still sour their burgeoning passion?

Thrawn felt her turmoil, shared it. His name, spoken in the intimacy of their thoughts, awakened unfamiliar feelings he tried burying, seeking the intoxication of her flesh and mind, his lust a gathering storm.

Amid the exquisite torment, a tendril of thought, shaped out of Brytonic, reached her. Do you wish me to stop? <Ydych chi'n dymuno i mi stopio?>

Sharp, sweet sensations overwhelmed her. Rhyanon trembled, hands knotting in his hair, hips rising instinctively, a primal surrender. A gasped "Yes," escaped her lips, a plea born of despair. She craved his touch, even as she yearned for it to end.

He opened his mind to her, a conscious offering. He needed her to understand, to see beyond the Grand Admiral, beyond the Empire's shadow, a crusader driven by a purpose purer than Palpatine's, a man yearning for a connection that transcended their circumstances.

Thrawn's voice, low and resonant, evoked the ancient music of her native tongue. "Do you want me to stop?" <Ydych chi eisiau i mi stopio?>.

Her heart twisted, a pang of grief piercing the haze of desire. His need, his vulnerability, drew a shuddering sigh. "Vurawn," his name, a melancholic surrender. Her eyes closed.

The secret vestige of that name stirred something within him. Vurawn —in Brytonic, a croon resonating from Rhyanon's mind. Fuaran —artesian waters bursting forth. Varuna —a god of lost oceans. The glide of his tongue, the way he savored her taste, a tremor of their surging lust, became a torrent sweeping away all resistance, leaving only raw craving.

Thrawn rose above her, seeking her mouth, her tang on his lips. "Don't fight me," he breathed, pressing against her entrance.

She reached up, tracing his shoulder. He leaned in, nipping at the delicate skin beneath her jaw. She shivered. He continued, nips and languid licks tracing her neck, down to her shoulder, then back along her collarbone to the frantic flutter at the base of her throat.

He ground his hips slowly against hers. Pleasure soaked her core. Her hands found his neck, smoothed down over his shoulders. He moved with slow, deliberate thrusts, each stroke against her mound a throbbing ecstasy.

Gripping her from beneath, he lifted her, hitching her knees against his waist. He plunged into her heat, tearing a strangled cry from her.

Her nails raked across his back as he shuddered against her with a staggered groan. Her legs wrapped around his hips. She taunted him with nips and fierce kisses, sweeping wet warmth along his neck, biting, suckling at the pulse line of his throat.

He sank into her again, and she sighed, desperate in her rising desire. Her thighs tightened around him as he bottomed out, and she tilted her hips, each upward sway driving him deeper.

She pulled his lips between hers. A sharp gasp escaped him. He bit her lower lip, their limbs locked, motions brutal.

Thrawn settled against her, their bodies aligned, skin to skin. His thrusts set an instinctive rhythm, his hands tracing her sides, fingers digging into her hips as he pounded against her with tender savagery.

One hand grasped her hair, a subtle tug eliciting her ragged sigh. His face was right beside hers, mouth just to the side of her lips, so close she felt his breath on her skin. Muscles deep inside clenched, and she ground herself up against him, meeting each downstroke.

Rhyanon opened her eyes to his gaze. Those enigmatic red slits held no secrets, the most unguarded she'd ever seen him, rabid and carnal in her embrace.

His pace increased, each thrust powerful, driving her higher. A sensuous litany poured from her lips.

A single, sudden thrust, and she felt him pulse, buried deep inside her. His low groan sent her into a euphoric spin, hot seed flooding her. She rocked against him, clutching his buttocks, waves of fire washing up along her limbs from her battered cleft, leaving her dragging for air, wrung and exhausted. They clung to each other, breath mingling, sweat-slicked bodies racked together in a final, spastic release as he collapsed over her, both gasping, spent.

Thrawn rolled onto his back, with a contented sigh, one elbow bent behind his head. Rhyanon shifted with him, nestling into his side. Above, the Coruscant night glittered through the skylights, an endless stream of traffic punctuated by distant flares of planetary shields resetting, a universe away from their haven. She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath lean muscle.

His breath caught at her fingers, prodding along the ridges of his abdomen, mapping the vast scar spanning his right side, where a percussive incendiary had ripped into the viscera. Rhyanon allowed herself a passing gratification. A vague concavity in the blue-tinted epidermis was all that remained from the collagenic layering, testifying to her training, enhanced by her innate biopsionics—talents exploited by Palpatine, who deployed her as a populist foil of Imperial charity, and privately hoped she was an antidote against the ravaging decay of the Dark Side.

”Acquiring you proved one of the Emperor’s wiser gambits,” Thrawn said, watching her fingers along his scar, his words deliberate, gauging adversaries’ reactions.

She glanced up at him, seething. Baste him! Was it the action of an adversary that saved his life? The words unspoken, but clear in the firm pinch she gave to delicate, newly healed skin.

He grimaced, jaw tightening at the discomfort. No, the word floated into her thoughts, flavored by his particular solemnity. But it is the action of a courtesan in service to Palpatine.

That stung, as he meant it.

“You know full well,” she admonished, “the Emperor never takes random chances on anything. Or anyone. Especially you. I imagine you didn’t tumble into his service by mere chance. Whatever that backstory involved,” she huffed, dropping back against his shoulder, eyes fastened on Coruscant’s river of lights blinking across the ceiling.

Her hands remained on his stomach. She felt his breath falter, how he stiffened. "I was exiled." His bald declaration, an old wound rising from a void of melancholy he shuttered away. Black brows skewed in a brief scowl, dulling his glowing irises. "I never conformed,” he continued, “to the strictures of Chiss hierarchies. Even in the Defense Fleet." A sigh. "The Patriarchs, the Aristocras...they saw me as a threat. Too unpredictable. Always contradicting the rules.”

Vexation or remorse, she’d pierced something more fragile than he would admit, leaving them both fuming in aggravation, even twined in each other's arms. She hated what she read of him through this novel intimacy, how he’d hurt, humiliated her, how he believed this toxic alchemy between them absolved him of responsibility, entitled him to her affections, fully cognizant her position lent little choice.

Ultimately, the sylvan ambience faded the remnants of their anger. The fountain bubbled, the trickling waters, a balm mingling with the Orga tree's soft glow. An illumination of spectral avians and twinkling insects, dancing amid the shadows, soothed their prickled tempers. Thrawn seemed enticed by the way the alpine breeze caught at the loosened strands of her hair. He stroked the luxuriant tresses spilling over her shoulders. The braid had come undone in their coupling, the jewels scattered about the grass.

Breaking the quiet, she murmured, "You should return to your people, Thrawn."

For a moment, she thought the only response would be the hum of insects and the splash of falling waters. Then— “There's no returning. Only leaving it in the past,” his utterance edged in steel. Or, he hesitated, before pushing the rest of the thought into her sense, reconquering it.

Startled by the menace in the words, Rhyanon turned, rising onto his chest, peering from beneath lowered lashes into his scarlet gaze. "Huh," she exhaled, her head cocked. "A tyrant.” His brow creased, and she smoothed away the lines. "And still an outsider. Envisioning a new confederation, joined by other outsiders." Her fingers played along his scalp, into the thick blue-black tousle, combing lightly through the flecks of white dusting his temples. "Willing, I wonder? Exiles amongst exiles."

His lids closed as her touch trailed beneath the hollows of his eyes, over the sharp hook of his nose. His thin lips, in repose, relaxed at the corners. Most sentients, unfamiliar with Chiss infrared vision, misread him as cold. Rhyanon understood that emotions, read through temperature changes invisible to the human eye, lacked the usual markers.

A sad smile quirked her mouth. "That's what we are," she said. "Exiles. From home. From love."

She leaned down, brushing Thrawn's lips in a tender caress. A hushed gasp, a flicker of scarlet as his lids fluttered open. He didn't expect spontaneous displays of affection from her. Truth be told, she was equally unused to giving them. She tasted the warmth of his surprise, the sweet liqueur of his yielding, as the kiss deepened, folding both of them into a dizzying breathlessness.

His gaze followed her as she drew back, desire burning through her veins. Marred, of course, by his fleeting smirk. "As I said, you'd find pleasure in anger." Oh, that familiar smugness.

"Anger?” A short, smoky laugh. “That wasn’t anger that happened, just now.” The levity too quickly receding before the disquiet haunting Thrawn's eyes, his awakening to the complex tangle of her emotions inundating his mind. Her hand drifted up, the backs of her fingers sliding along his cheek. You'll never ask my forgiveness, will you? Her question weighted by resignation of reparation he owed her.

Thrawn’s gaze narrowed, concentrating on this rediscovered Third Sight. Bewilderment cracked his composure. His hand rose to cup hers, savoring her touch. You're not likely to grant it, are you? Not yet, anyway? Palpatine's manipulation smarted at his ego, even if acknowledging how long he'd coveted Rhyanon.

"No," she admitted softly. "Maybe, in time, forgiveness. But...it's bigger than just you, Vurawn." The name wielded like a key, claiming a hidden part of him.

His fingers traced her face, drifted down, pausing between her breasts. He brushed her nipples, eliciting a sharp inhale. Pleasure stirred, unwanted yet undeniable.

In his eyes, she saw herself transformed into a constellation of light, her nanoplexus a network of shimmering energy.

"You are... Oeth and anoeth ," he murmured, his fingers moving over her lips, her native words a strange delicacy on his tongue.

But not so unique, amongst my own people . A confidence she quickly sublimated, feeling the predatory glare from Thrawn's gaze. This, she realized, was how he ensnared others, coaxing secrets through art and word, a subtle brilliance, manipulation aided, she now understood, by a dormant, preternatural insight.

Instead, softly against his finger, she replied in carefully enunciated Cheunh, "We are all creations of wonder. At least, that's how I perceive this marvelous travesty of a universe." <Nah cart sea vsaecim bah ch'er. Mah ch'itt'tam, csei cart veah Ch'ah ran'cah csei s ch'esen'bo ch'irvim'i bah ch'a in'ezasr>. And I'll be damned, she vowed, directly into the calculating tangents of his mind, if I'm ever enticed into revealing my people's home sector to you, Mitth'raw'nuruodo.

Across a distant wormhole lay shining Celtica, independent and proud, a Fringe system, defying the Core Parliament of the Terran Federacy. Her sister's dying words returned to her. Cofiwch pwy ydych chi , <Remember who you are> .* Eurein yn euryll . <A Golden Gem in a Golden Jewel> . Thrawn's prophecy, pitched to adoration, threaded throughout. *Of a girl, who sacrificed herself to flame...< Cofiwch pwy ydych chi ,>...And left behind an eternal ember...< Eurein yn euryll >...hidden away in time and space...< Cofiwch pwy ydych chi >...before fleeing into a distant sun...< Eurein yn euryll >.

Beneath her hand, his laughter thrummed through his chest. A single word, returned. "Perhaps."

[chicagosavant]

yeah...this man as my concept basis for a revised Nuru Kungurama--Kivu'rama'nuruodo...I mean, with red sclera/irisis/blue skin/black hair...

...the cousin of Thrawn/Thrass/Borika, by their father's brother...

-Persona/based off Original Nuru/now known as Rama (with a tie-in to the Hindu Rama, or the Ramayana...), and a mesh of young, James T Kirk brilliance/rebelliousness, preStar-Fleet days (2009 Trek movie), and Will Hunting, from Good Will Hunting (the genius talent/orphan/displaced/humble-origins/anti-establishment/rebel in the underclass-sort)-who, crossing paths with THrawn as JodoKast in my AU (combining events from SideTrip and TatooineGhost), gives the FcuckYou to Thrawn about joing the Mith Household Phalanx, hates everything about Chiss society which sent him off as an exile-hates that his older cousin, now the Supreme Commander of the Empire of the Hand/and Imperial Remnant, served the jackASS, Palpatine, who authorized the massacre of the only family Rama had when he'd been discovered in the stasis-pod by the Jedi, and left to make his own way after Order66. Contra the est lore of Nuru/Rama, finds employment as the procurer of a biomodification shop in MOs Vespa (reformed MosEspa, w/ a tie-in of Princess Vespa as a business investor reshaping MosEspa into an ecoTourism resort for transwormerhole vacationers from the TerranQuadrant)--and having encountered AU, Kaltoi OFC in her pursuit of biohacked gene sequences which led her, temporarily to Tatooine, gets some RobinWilliams style/patient Father-figure advice from BobaFett one evening after OFC has left Tatooine on her wild goose chase w/ Luke (post RotJ years/)-and Fett senses Rama's awakened ideslism/restlessness as thoughts keep wondering back to a certain biokinetically gifted, advanced practice medic who touched the lives of MosVespa w/ her charity clinic/and community initiatives in the few months she'd set up shop on Tatooine. Where Rama asks Fett what led him to eventually bury the warrior ethos of his culture, and settle down. And Fett, w/ glance to Fennec Shand, offers wryly, "Isn't it obvious, lad--[lad is like, mid 30s, but whatever]--I went chasing off after a girl..."--

Also, PeterEggers is just hot...and I don't think Nuru'Kungurama gets enough love...Now, Kivu'Rama'nuruodo...(my blurring of EU and canon revised Chiss naming conventions...)

[longsightmyth]

It's possible I am old man yelling at kids to get off my lawn-ing but like.

(It's never The Keltiad)

[rosheendubh]

We all gots our Thrawn-faves. Having just started the Ascendency series (working from Thrawn’s youth to the Thrawn/Treason series. Full confession—I’m old enough to have read the original TTT back when they were first released, and just revisited them last year…). I’m about 1/3 of the way into GreaterGood, and despite Zahn’s lack-luster writing style (I’m also reading ‘Shadows of Mindor’—love the tone-tops Zahn’s writing like hot, spicy homemade salsa vs the stuff outta the jaw—that LUKE IS MY KIND’A LUKE!! Oh, the characterization is so not neutered—and—as in my own AU tale/crossover with the Keltiad/and Firefly, he’s a General…commissioned military Jedi Knight vs anti-hero Thrawn both competing for the same woman who’s trying to save the Galaxy from Ultimate Evil threat…BOOM!)…anyway, despite Zahn’s monochromatic writing style, Ivecreally come around the Chiss. They’re sort of mix of Vulcan/Romulan with a sense of Feudal Japan mythos and formality in their ruling classes/social structure/autocratic bureaucracy/etc. I think what frustrates me is, Thrawn has been so well in certain fanfics (Draculard/ImperialGrrl/MissKitsunae/—Recent fave’ discoveries—‘Thrawn, Actually’ and ‘Luminous Transient Events’—), over the years, Zahn’s pet-boy creation just seems diluted in comparison. And Zahn rarely ever writes from Thrawn’s POV, which I can see the intrigue for tension-building’s sake, but at some point, the narrative suffers for lack of well..Thrawn’s inner-monologue. We’re treated to impressions where he expresses moments of emotional duress/tension/concern/even temper, but we never know what’s actually working within the Thrawn programming. And it’s frustrating (less so in the original TTT since he wasn’t really a main focus POV character, other than *Imperial Villain*, perhaps less vile, but no less black and white at the end of the day). Frustrating, bc getting glimpses of the inner emotion state, along with his analytic ability, would flesh out the character, and and a level of drama that would sizzle up Zahn’s takes a bit. Also, while I enjoy the younger Thrawn we see in Ascendency, and the transition to the cultures/ruthless pragmatist of his Imperial transition, I don’t buy the whole ‘political naïveté’ thing for a hot-second. Reconciled in my own canon as just one more way Thrawn plays everyone else around him (which is also one of the key strains of tension between Thrawn and my OC—who points out, no one wants every interaction to be defined by a need to strategize or second guess/clash at wits/tactics—whether an ally, a friend, or a lover. It gets exhausting never being able to trust someone fully, which is a lesson for Thrawn to reconcile past his own ego.). Meh’, anyway—for me, new canon compliments old—ar’Alani best embodies that transition in Treason, where she basically rakes her old friend (er, lover as well, in the subtext, there…), ripping him a new A$$Hole, when she accuses him of have abandoned his commitment to the Chiss by allowing his convictions to soften with the excuse of serving some greater good, no matter the price of principle, to Palpatine’s interests. I feel, she suspects Palps was using Thrawn like a tool, so subtly even Thrawn doesn’t see the deception till she punches the first crack in the mirror of reflection. And reflection, self-reflection especially, isn’t something it seems, at which Thrawn particularly excels…anyway, jus’mydeu’cents…just visualize your happy Thrawn’s, just paint them with his happy trees…

I get that this is an unpopular opinion, but I’m really not a fan of how the Chiss were retconned from being formal and professional, cool, and a bit stuck up in legends to being #relatable and essentially human (read: American) in canon. For one thing, I liked that they were alien and “other” and lived according to their own mysterious moral code outside the light/dark binary. The other issue is that now Thrawn’s personality, mannerisms, fears, and motives make no sense.

For years, Zahn said that Thrawn is the way he is because he “has an alien mind with alien morals.” Now we have the Chiss doing the pearl clutching over Thrawn’s “colder” actions, actions they wouldn’t have batted an eyelash over in legends (with the exception of his over-involving himself in the affairs of non-Chiss). Rereading Outbound Flight it’s clear how very typical his manner was among his people. His entire demeanor of formality, solemnity, hyper-pragmatism, and capacity for cool ruthlessness was due to his Chiss biology and cultural upbringing. His attitude toward preemptive strikes, his open-mindedness, and his incredible tactical skill were the only things that separated him from the rest of his kind.

I understand that they were trying to make sure that the reader would relate to the POV Chiss characters (as per a Q&A with the editor of the Ascendency novels), but what they’ve done is basically the equivalent of taking Spock, whose behavior is largely due to his (half) Vulcan biology and cultural background, and then decided “you know what? Let’s make every Vulcan but Spock Midwestern Americans in space.”

[wishesofeternity]

I FOUND THEM

I FOUND THEM

I FUCKING FOUND THEM

[marblesarelost]

I just went through my book wish list and put it on Bookshop.

(I'm not buying anything TODAY because I have to move in ....FML SEVEN WEEKS?... and I am not stupid enough to buy MORE BOOKS just to have to pack them up and move them. Not to mention some of them are on backorder or preorder and I don't want them going to the wrong address because I am moving in seven weeks.)

BEFORE adding a bunch more?

Um

It was over $300.

AFTER adding a bunch more?

I don't know how much it is, and I'm honestly afraid to add it all up.

WELP

Just added all to my cart.

YEAH

It's under a grand!

.....barely....

But a lot of these books are REALLY IMPORTANT -- Jared Sexton, Heather Cox Richardson, stuff about how we really are facing a civil war coming, stuff about how shitty it is to be poor in America (not that I don't KNOW that shit),and then there's the books I just fucking WANT: the Wolf Hall books by Hilary Mantel, the Shigeru Mizuki Japanese history mangas, new copies of the Paks original trilogy and the expansion of the world as well (I didn't like those as much as the original Paks books, but I liked them well enough, and also Sergeant Stammel -- gods bless him), Gaiman's Norse Mythology and American Gods and Stardust and a new copy of the Graveyard Book, and the Chronicles of Prydain which I really do need to read, and then there's the James Clavell** books that I legit HAVE to have and the Tolkien, again, I have to have them because somehow I do not have copies of the big Four and the Silmarillion and yes I AM getting the illustrated Hobbit and the illustrated Silmarillion separately because ILLUSTRATIONS BY TOLKIEN, DAMMIT

(** Yes, I'm aware that Clavell's work is very problematic. That being said, my mother once told me, when learning that at the time I was reading Shogun and really liking it, that Shogun was the only book she ever saw my father, my actual father, read.

Now I know for a fact, solid and cold, that Daddy liked Stephen King. He read a lot of King after he and my mom divorced. He's who turned me into a Constant Reader -- okay given that I read Pet Sematary when I was eight at my grandma's house -- by giving me The Eyes of the Dragon when I was young; by handing me IT and Christine and The Shining and The Stand when I was older.

All that being said, there is something very special to me about reading and enjoying and loving books that my father read and loved. It makes me feel that we are still sharing, still reaching out to one another, beyond the Boundaries of Death's Country.

Not to mention, King Rat is....horribly problematic. Horribly so. Yet there is something in it that reaches to me. Here is greed, here is horror, here is the worst that man can be to man. Yet here is generosity, here is quiet stoic heroism, here is mercy, here is hope.

Clavell's work is problematic, yes. Lots of work is. But there is something to be learned from it. Do I think every work has something to be learned from? Not really. Some is just shit, and that's the honest truth. But some, we can learn something from.)

and FML I still need to find the complete Keltiad -- the Aeron books and the Arthur books, Blackmantle was a horrible revenge fantasy -- (And just for the record, I KNEW her, I KNEW Patricia, she invited me to her HOUSE if I were ever in NYC, she named me her War-Badger, I counted her as a FRIEND, I MOURNED her when she passed, and I STILL think Blackmantle was a HORRIBLE revenge fantasy) and the complete Belgariad along with Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress --

....FUCK.

(If you're wondering why I didn't mention the Malloreon, it's because I read the first book and hated it)

...I'd love to have the complete Foxfire series...

...guess I'm gonna have to hit up AbeBooks or something too...

RIP the cash I was gonna set aside just for me I guess....

[chicagosavant]

—

I particularly love this quote. Zahn, a somewhat lackluster writer in certain respects, still manages to be a bit cheeky, I swear:

“Sounds like you’re feeling more charitable against the Rebellion these days.” “Not at all,” Thrawn said, his tone going grim. “Their military abilities are undeniable, but their chances for long-term stability are nonexistent. Multiple species, with multiple viewpoints and racial philosophies, simply cannot hold power together for long. The dominant voice must certainly be wise enough to adopt ideas and methods from its allies and member peoples. But there must be a dominant voice, or there is only chaos. In this part of the galaxy, that voice is the Empire.” “And in your part of space?” Car’das asked [Presumably alluding to Thrawn’s emergent parallel confederacy of planets coined as the Empire of the Hand, he’s obliquely consolidating while in the Unknown Regions not entirely to Palpatine’s classifications, as Thrawn intends himself as the central authority…in some form…]. Thrawn shrugged slightly. “A work in progress.” (p. 494)—

…this quote is getting deployed in my crack SpaceRockOpera crossover of StarWars/Firefly-Serenity/the Keltiad. Wherein, my OFC medic/advocate of civilian underserved and something of a sentient rights organizer (and possessing biokinetic abilities), calls Thrawn out on his last comment there, essentially pointing ‘a work in progress’, is the kernel of any nascent representative governance…Thrawn, of course, raises that wicked brow, a ghost of a smile quirking the corner of his mouth, admiting after a moment’s consideration, “Perhaps.”

Some of my favourite Thrawn lines / quotes from the book “Choices of One”

Not my favourite Thrawn book, but still there are some good lines.

“I would recommend burning off the forest for a hundred kilometers around the generator and putting a small mechanized force of AT-ATs and juggernaut heavy assault vehicles under the umbrella shield.” (p. 25)

“The Rebellion is a threat, but hardly the most serious one facing the Empire.” (p. 26)

“Yet the need to create is a drive that lies deep within each of us. We all strive to build empires, whether of stone or people or words. Empires we hope will survive us. In the end, though, each of us must necessarily leave our creations behind. All we can hope for is to also leave behind a worthy successor to continue our work. Or who can at least maintain it for a season.” (P. 133)

“There are two ways to destroy a person (….). Kill him, or ruin his reputation.” (P. 349)

Pellaeon took a deep breath, gazing down at the crumpled figure. Thrawn had assured him that an air embolism would kill his target quickly. He hadn’t said whether it would be painful. (p. 412)

“Information always matters. Bad information leads to bad tactics. Incomplete information leads to flawed strategy. Both can lead to defeat.” (p. 489)

“Sounds like you’re feeling more charitable against the Rebellion these days.” “Not at all,” Thrawn said, his tone going grim. “Their military abilities are undeniable, but their chances for long-term stability are nonexistent. Multiple species, with multiple viewpoints and racial philosophies, simply cannot hold power together for long. The dominant voice must certainly be wise enough to adopt ideas and methods from its allies and member peoples. But there must be a dominant voice, or there is only chaos. In this part of the galaxy, that voice is the Empire.” “And in your part of space?” Car’das asked. Thrawn shrugged slightly. “A work in progress.” (p. 494)

[rj-anderson]

What was the first urban fantasy book you ever read? For me it was this one — Emma Bull’s weird, haunting, Minneapolis rock-and-roll-with-faeries novel WAR FOR THE OAKS. . As a child and teen I’d read plenty of portal fantasy and epic high fantasy, and even a bit of space fantasy (Patricia Kennealy’s KELTIAD). But the idea of combining fantastical creatures and faery folk with a modern American cityscape, not in a humorous fish-out-of-water way but as beings who’ve already learned to live and thrive in the human world, was new to me. So new, in fact, that I wasn’t sure at first whether I liked it. . What I definitely did like, though, was Emma Bull’s vivid, evocative writing style, as well as the charming and mischievous character of the Phouka (even though physically he’s a dead ringer for Prince, right down to the paisley-print jeans — it was written in 1987, after all). And I certainly found the idea of an epic battle between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts taking place in downtown Minneapolis, without most humans even being aware of it, fascinating. I devoured the book in a matter of hours, and have re-read it a couple of times since. . I’m still hit-and-miss on the idea of urban fantasy in general. I’ve read a fair number that were just *too* focused on the urban, gritty element for my taste — fey folk wearing leather jackets and hanging about in nightclubs isn’t what I really crave when I’m reading fantasy, and part of me always wants to get out of the city and back to fairyland (or at least a land that seems more suited to fairies) as soon as possible. Still, there’s no question that WAR FOR THE OAKS featured a number of ideas and elements that have since become staples of modern fairy fantasy, and had a powerful influence on later authors including Holly Black, Melissa Marr, and myself. And that’s why it’s one of the #booksthatmademe. https://www.instagram.com/p/CAJpg2gAi6B/?igshid=14x53meipah8h