#To keep him from destroying himself with godhood

[lesbianwyllravengard]

Okay I'll say it. Gale Dekarios is Caleb Widogast coded if Caleb hadn't developed past like episode 50.

[messiahzzz]

i have seen several posts around that addressed how discouraging gale from taking the crown of karsus is “keeping him from realizing his true potential.” that tara is merely upset at his choice, instead of being utterly devastated at the loss of her little love. that it’s not a bad ending per se because to get there he didn’t need to sacrifice 7000 innocent souls in the process. gale isn’t continuing the cycle of abuse either, he still appears to love tav and does come back for them to offer them ascension. he wants them to be equal, so it can’t possibly be an unhealthy dynamic, right?

but what of gale himself, his own convictions, values, and everything he holds dear? everything flawed and human that shaped him into the person he is?

player: are you saying you want to ascend? claim godhood?

gale: no, not like that. i don't want to join them. i want to better them. a god's powers, paired with a mortal conscience, a mortal heart.

gale’s motivation for acquiring godhood is that he will able to aid mortals in a way no other god has ever done before. he won’t hide behind pretense nor require blind devotion of his followers. he will understand and be able to empathize. he wholeheartedly believes that he will be different - he will act.

gale: [..] the gods could aid us if they wished, but instead they cower behind ao. so let us act ourselves.

gale believes that by becoming a god he will kill two birds with one stone: aid mortals and acquire enough power to quash any of his insecurities and enemies in the process. that by ridding himself of every perceived flaw he'll finally feel like he will have enough to offer - maybe, just maybe he'll even be content. his flaws are merely holding him back from becoming the best version of himself, and by ridding himself of everything fallible, he will be whole. maybe this is what all of his suffering has led up to. maybe the orb chose him. maybe the reason he had to endure all the pain, isolation, and excruciating loneliness was so that he could realize that he was meant for something even greater. after all, power feeds ambition. and what is more powerful than a god? his convictions were certainly naive, he possesses enough knowledge to know better. don't get me wrong, part of him definitely wants to spite mystra a lil. but his intentions at that time were mostly pure. a reflection of his self-hatred and feelings of inadequacy.

player: this is wrong, gale. that power will corrupt you, even if you can seize it.

gale: it won't, i swear to you. it's merely a tool - a means to an end.

once we meet gale at the party in his new godlike form, it is apparent that even with all the power at his fingertips, he has reached no greater knowledge about himself. his insecurities are still as present as before, he merely is less subtle in his compensation - repeatedly highlighting his grandeur and how dull life on faerun is compared to the wonders of elysium. it is also genuinely crushing to see how little he thinks of himself even now.

gale: i was nothing. a drifting dust mote of a wizard, abandoned by my goddess, my powers lost, my reputation destroyed. and look at me now. i'm their proof.

any perceived dismissal of his Greatness™ is met with immediate disdain.

gale: a bold decision to treat a divine being with such cold indifference.

nodecontext: aloof, annoyed you weren't impressed with him

gale: you mortals do love to live dangerously, don't you?

nodecontext: the slightest hint of a threat - you've probably made an enemy here today. or at least, you've lost a friend.

he is still desperate to impress. emphasizing what an honor it is that a new-born god chose to bless their little soiree with his presence. gaze upon all his divine glory! gale has now become the embodiment of everything he criticized about the gods. his original intentions and plans are discarded and long forgotten. he assuages his erstwhile companions by telling them to simply pray to him, in case they should ever require aid. if they're lucky and their ambition pleases him, he might even deliver.

player: what does the 'god of ambition' offer to his followers?

gale: i 'offer' them nothing. i inspire them to seize their destinies for themselves.

player: interesting, so you help mortals help themselves?

gale: precisely. though that isn't to say i'm averse to the odd bit of direct encouragement.

gale: [..] my aims are set a little higher than offering cursory blessings to just any half-decent spellcaster.

gale: regardless, ethical quandaries are more the remit of my mortal devotees. they do love to talk, and faerun is starting to listen.

aiding "any half-decent spellcaster" is unbefitting of his status. he isn't concerned with questions of ethics and morality either. deeming such matters beneath his divine capabilities.

once gale has ascended and established his domain, what remains of the gale we knew? what of his mortal heart?

minthara: your ambition is not cruel, but you fear that if you indulge it, you will lose yourself in the mysteries of the weave and unravel the world.

minthara: you are afraid of so many things, and it is that fear that keeps you true to yourself.

gale did lose himself and ultimately became one of his biggest fears. considering that his existence as a being of pure ambition leads him to constantly seek out greater heights, it isn't farfetched to believe that raphael's prediction will indeed come true.

player[astarion]: ambition? finally, a god i can get behind...

gale: i assure you, this is merely the prelude to a far grander vision. elysium's in for something of a shake-up.

all that remains of gale is a thin veneer of the person he used to be. what he presents is a hollow echo of the old gale. he does retain some of his mannerisms and quirks, but he is definitely a lot colder and more condescending. if his personality already changed that drastically after a duration of only 6 months, what will he inevitability turn into when he has eternity at his disposal?

essentially, you are aiding gale in the eradication of himself. eradicating everything about him that made him into the loveable, charismatic, awkward, kind, buoyant person he was. everything about him that he perceived as defective, flawed, and lesser-than. before, his hubris was merely an expression of his own discontentment and low self-worth, but now he is hubris incarnate. all of his worst qualities have been amplified.

gale: i am ambition incarnate. as indistinguishable from that most potent sensation as mystra herself is from the weave. and word is spreading.

nodecontext: palpable, almost unsettling excitement from him - hint of megalomania

he put his trust in tav, trusting their judgment and relying on them to nudge him in the right direction. after all, they had plenty of opportunities to show him that they are an ally worth following and confiding in. but in the end, the prospect of what he could be, the things he could give them, the enemies he could yet conquer, won over the desire to simply accept him and help him rebuild a life on solid ground. tav denied him the unconditional love he craves most out of their own selfish desires.

tara: you were looking out for him. i expected better of you.

as i've already mentioned, gale desires nothing more than to be seen, accepted, loved, and valued. having a partner who wholeheartedly supports and believes in him is enough to make him feel content. most importantly - he just wants to live. to enjoy life with everything it has to offer. his ambition can’t be quenched because he hungers still. believing that only by acquiring more power will he finally be enough and reach said acceptance.

we see in his good ending that his own contentment was even able to influence and (temporarily) sate the orb's ever-present hunger:

gale: [..] or perhaps the orb's hunger was fuelled by my own, and my contentment influences it in much the same way.

gale: that's how i feel with you - content. it's a rather unfamiliar feeling, i must say. not something gale of waterdeep ever craved.

it is devastating that he doesn't reach the same feeling of fulfillment if he chooses to pursue godhood, and is instead compelled to continuously surpass his own accomplishments. not being granted rest or reprieve.

gale: i achieved everything we hoped i would, and still i'm not good enough for you?

gale pursuing godhood isn't evidence that he "has been evil all along" or that he "just waited to be unleashed" either. we can't diminish tav's influence in this outcome, they are after all an extension of the player. able to steer every companion toward a path of redemption or to enable them in their worst traits. fandom has already established that by letting astarion ascend you are actively supporting him in becoming the very thing he despises most, putting your own ambitions and idea of what you want him to be above his healing, this is no different.

tara: the gale i knew wasn't like this. he recognised his mistakes. he was contrite. all he wanted to do was live.

tara: unfortunately, he fell into company that turned his gaze towards foolishness. yes, i mean you.

player: gale is his own man, tara.

tara: false. he was mine. though now he belongs only to his own pride.

yes, the epilogue cutscene is beautiful and there is something bittersweet and romantic about his love for tav being one of the few emotions that remained a constant throughout the past 6 months. he didn't need to come back for them, but he did cause he loves them still. no matter how warped his definition of love may be now. while it is abundantly clear that tav ranks lower on his priority list than they did before, his commitment remains.

gale fears isolation, hoping to never return to the time when he was hopeless and alone, stuck inside his tower. by heading in this direction he is once again creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.

tara: [..] if i pretended you hadn't turned tail on every lesson you set out to learn, i'd have no right to call myself your friend.

morena may as well have already resigned herself to her son’s death. elminster partly blames himself. for his lapse in judgment, as well as being the one who plucked him from obscurity in the first place. mourning the kind, bright-eyed boy who cried at the scorched roses in his neighbor's garden. tara won't be here anymore to care and look out for him either. he has lost his oldest and dearest friend, the one who witnessed his downfall from grace and never left his side. who believed him to be the finest mind AND the finest wizard she's ever had the pleasure to know. who was certain that he’d find a way out of any crisis no matter the circumstances. ...and if tav declines his offer to ascend with him? what does he have left?

gale: yes, i am rather radiant, aren't i?

tara: don't flatter yourself, gale. you've debased yourself in ways i could never have fathomed.

tara: goodbye gale, i hope the heavens are worth it.

gale’s godhood ending deals with the loss of humanity, the loss of oneself, and everything one holds dear. it is a devastating and bone-chilling narrative. it is a tragedy.

gale: i hope you don't think less of me. great ambition should not come at the expense of what you already hold dear. i see that now.

if gale could see himself, he would be horrified at the losses he deemed necessary to get here. he would be horrified at what he’s become.

[eeldritchblast]

Wyll Ravengard Deserves Healing Too

Every origin companion in Baldur’s Gate 3 is traumatized in some form or another, and they all deal with it in different ways. That is only realistic. But let’s take a deeper look at the inequality between how these stories of trauma are written and presented to the player. Because when we do that, it is extremely noticeable that there is one character who never receives the same level of catharsis bestowed upon everyone else: Wyll.

Shadowheart was abducted as a child to be raised in an abusive cult. When this is brought to light, the player is able to help her confront her abuser and find her parents again. Even if her parents die, Shadowheart is at least given closure; she has a whole scene in which we see her finally break down into tears, and the player can comfort her.

Gale ended up with an orb of Netherese magic inside him, ready to explode and destroy not just him but everything in his radius. He went into a deep depression and relied on Tara to keep him alive, pre-game. His goddess/ex-lover then tasked him with a suicidal mission. But Gale is able to confront Mystra and either regain her compassion or reject her and forge his own godhood. Either way, Gale is able to heal physically and emotionally.

Lae’zel, much like Shadowheart, was also raised in a torturous environment, only to realize that her Queen Vlaakith is nothing but an abuser and a user. She is able to ally herself with a rebellious faction rising against Vlaakith, not just freeing herself but potentially her entire People.

Karlach was betrayed by Gortash and sold to Zariel, who replaced her heart with an infernal engine, making it impossible for Karlach to keep living outside of the Hells. Even if she doesn’t end up with a cure, the player can at least help her confront Gortash, and like Shadowheart, she gets a whole special scene for her to finally work through her bottled up emotions.

Astarion was enslaved and tortured by Cazador for over two-hundred years, who would have used him in a ritual that resulted in his death. The player can help Astarion confront Cazador and potentially kill him, which leads to Astarion getting a small scene where he cries out in a mixture of emotions.

But what of Wyll? At just age seventeen he was given the choice of either selling his soul to Mizora, or see Baldur’s Gate fall to a dragon cult. The terms of his pact prevented him from telling the truth about the situation, resulting in his idolized father banishing him. Ever since, he was bound to Mizora, and we see how she treats him in game as if he’s a dog. Wyll is just as traumatized as his companions, and yet, where is the ability to comfort him? Where is his closure? It’s all disregarded, in favour of more content with Mizora.

Wyll’s personal quest at the start of Act Three has him forced to choose between giving up his soul to save his father, or freeing himself and seeing his father die. Now, it is possible – though difficult – for the player to rescue Duke Ravengard themselves even if Wyll breaks his pact with Mizora. But even if this is so, reading Mizora’s mind results in the player hearing her admit she will never stop trying to harm Wyll’s father.

The reason you can read Mizora’s mind is because she is just there, hanging out at your camp! There is even a sex scene between her and the player available! Just imagine for a second, if that was Cazador or Viconia in Mizora’s place. Mizora is nothing but Wyll’s tormentor, just like Cazador for Astarion and Viconia for Shadowheart, and yet she is permanently there, giving witty one-liners and trying to seduce the player. Attack her, and she only disappears to reappear again, unharmed. You cannot get rid of her, and it’s played for laughs.

Wyll deserves comfort. Wyll deserves a chance to show his emotions, too. Yes, I’m aware that part of his character is that he tries to downplay his concerns in order to maintain his heroic persona, but that just means it would have been even more powerful to finally gain his trust enough for him to share how he feels with the player, truly.

Wyll is the only Black companion – and only one of two visible characters of colour, period. (The other being Karlach, who while yes is a tiefling, based on her facial features in the full release of the game is East Asian.) It is hard to believe it is all just coincidence that it is the only Black companion was given no opportunity by the writers to receive any significant emotional support or show any significant relief from his trauma. Statistically, African Americans who need mental health treatments receive less than 50% of treatments that white Americans receive. This is despite African Americans having 20% more likeliness to undergo serious psychological distress than white Americans. [X]

No, Wyll Ravengard is not a real person, and I am not attempting to equate a fictional character to real life struggles. My point here, is that the way in which Wyll was written mirrors the way in which the mental health of Black men and boys in real life is systematically ignored and downplayed, with the belief that they can and must “tough it out”. My point here, is that I have a hard time believing the prejudices and stereotypes against Black people did not contribute to Wyll’s lack of content. Specifically, the lack of content related to his healing.

[legobiwan]

"What if Stanley somehow manages to destroy the portal just like he destroyed my perpetual motion machine?"

Holy shit, Stanford, you just spent the last few pages of your Journal outlining in horrifying detail how Bill took your body on a criminal joyride and forced you to forget your own name while pulling your bones from their very sockets in a hallucinatory nightmare void. You woke up weeping on your living room floor.

And yet, you have the absolute fucking gall to be concerned your brother, if you summon him to Gravity Falls, might destroy the Portal???? You mean the one piece of leverage you have over Bill? The main reason he's stalking you? The machine that will literally end the world if activated?

Between this, Ford refusing to burn his journals, and the fact he fully intends on continuing his work on the Portal once he's solved the Bill problem -

This is the picture of a man at the apex of both megalomania and a mental breakdown.

Could you imagine if Ford had found a way to beat back Bill and keep the Portal? Just how much would his ego have inflated even more? (Probably large enough that he wouldn't fit out the door). I feel like it's a timeline where Ford becomes the Big Bad, not because of Bill (well, a little bit because of Bill), but because he sees himself as transcending godhood and what little is left of his moral compass he casts into a black hole. ("He may be a god, but I am scientist.")

The juxtaposition between this and Stan's sacrifice during Weirdmageddon is insane. Ford, who steadfastly refused to give up his life's work to save world and Stan, who gave up everything he was to save the world. There's got to be a part of Stan that reads these pages and wonders just who his brother is, when he turned unto a supervillain, and if it would ever happen again. Stan may not want to acknowledge it, but deep down, I think he's legitimately pissed at Ford for being such narcissistic bonehead. I think it is something that haunts him in the odd hours of the night, his brother sleeping soundly in the bunk next to him on the Stan O'War II while Stan ponders if he's sharing quarters with Lex Luthor. You could have ended it, Poindexter. You could have ended so long ago.

The past is the past and as his mother would say, you can't unshit a turd. (Something Stan has more experience with than he'd like, regret trailing him his whole life like a vengeful shadow). Ford is here now, they're alive, the bastard triangle is gone. But God, does he want to sit his brother down, tie him to a chair, and scream at him, to shake him and demand to know just what hell he had been thinking, why he had allowed himself to become this kind of...this kind of monster.

Stan will never, ever do this. He has his brother, has his awkward affection, has almost everything he's ever wanted. The answers are not worth it. (In Stan's experience, the answers are almost never worth it.)

And as for Ford? Somewhere in his subconscious, a shrill, too-familiar voice likes to remind him of who he is and what he can still become. The same grating voice that tells him they're not so different, after all, that there's still time, there's always time to fix the past, to create the future. You're a scientist, after all. You're more than a god.

That's the voice Ford papers over with contrition, with guilt and self-abnegation and a near-manic dedication to the small boat bobbing along in the Arctic, not even holding a speck of relevance compared to the vast and might ocean, forget to the multiverse at large. That's the voice Ford drinks away in secret on the worst nights, the one that tells him a stone statue in the forest is as much him as it is the monster whose shape it embodies.

[shanieveh]

♪ ♡ ♫ — salut d'amour, op. 12 — ♫ ♡ ♪

— genshin men choosing you above everything and anything

KAEYA who always wanted to see where he came from, what he was, truly was. Choosing between mondstadt and his birth place conflicted his days, but you changed a lot of things. You made him believe in the future, not the past. You made him alive, like the past two decades were just him breathing. He no longer cared of some survivor, spies, or what he was, but what he is—what he will be. All he knew is that you were in his life and he can fight anything, even his lies.

SCARAMOUCHE's biggest longing in his life is a purpose for his existence, and in doing so he became a harbinger, a criminal and now a God. But when he first heard the way the akademiya treated you, he almost turned beserk— he left everything, his godhood, his dreams, his desires, because of you. No one will treat you like some mad scholar, a dog, and as he destroyed the entire building he knew who he did it for. Godhood is for fools, the feeling of passion and love that mortality was in his chest, and he accepted the feeling as it fueled his actions, as he destroyed Azar himself.

ZHONGLI wanted a peaceful life. And when he Osial came back to haunt Liyue he chose not to strike. But he was not planning to losing you. He lost everyone but not you. And as you struggle in ocean's grasp Morax once again came to be, once again saved Liyue, Zhongli once again saved the day. Returned to the same boring routine that tire his days. As the corrosion start wearing him out, atleast he can make you safe. Even if, this wasn't what he wanted, the rest he longed for, you were the person he needed.

DILUC would do anything for family. For his father's legacy. And when he went to snezhnaya to uncover the truth, he was so close, but news of your illness soon reached his ears. He gave up all he knew, all the plans and petty revenge. He went home. The fatui called him a coward, he really was. Diluc can't help but be with you through thick and thin. You recovered, you assured him. And in that he found peace, no longer to chase for the truth, but appreciate what he has now, and keep it in his heart. For that didn't require a delusion, it required only to love you.

ALHAITHAM proudly called him a feeble scholar who only cares about having a peaceful unnoticed life. But when you were deemed a failure by the akademiya and punished severly he was quick to make a revolution towards it. For the first time he showed no mercy. How dare they?! Alhaitham now a hero, now noticed, did not like a single compliment. But when you clapped for him, he smiled. For all that hardwork was for your happiness.

CHILDE likes to fight. He loves to win. And every argument he does so with you. He relishes in being right, and you being wrong. And then you crumble. You gave up. In that very moment he wished he lost, he was wrong, he wished he admitted it. He lost that smirk, that winning smile. He begged, he surrendered. Fighting with you was a tragedy he'll gladly lose over and over again. Even if he was right, even if you were wrong, he longs to lose when its with you.

[even-in-arcadia]

I was rereading "Lovers of the Human Flesh" by Caleb Crain as one does and I was very struck by two particular lines in relation to one Cornelius Hickey:

Incorporating what you love is a sure way to see that it never escapes from you.

and

Eating something is a way of keeping it with you forever, but it is also a way of destroying it.

I don't need to delve into the implications for Hickey's actual cannibalism - that's been done by those better (and more attached to Hickey) than I. What I want to talk about more is this concept in relationship to Hickey's ambitions to godhood.

Hickey has a plan always, at all times. It's a plan that shifts based on what seems best for him, what seems most convenient, and whatever he thinks his relationship to Crozier is at any given moment. They all essentially make sense in a scrappy, aggrieved, mutiny kind of way. Until: Solomon Tozer tells him, horrified, that he witnessed the Tuunbaq eat Mr. Collins' soul. Hickey says, specifically, that this merits a change in plan. He spends a long time by himself on a hill doing --we'll never know what.

EC/Cornelius Hickey, a man who clearly has never known a love that didn't turn on him or leave, has determined to be become melded to the Tuunbaq, an eater of souls. Gibson turned on him by falsely representing their relationship to Irving; Crozier turned on him by denying the "clear" bond they had and denying Hickey's gift of Lady Silence; he's been betrayed by this entire voyage that was supposed to take him to Oahu. Who knows what other loves have betrayed him.

If the Tuunbaq can eat souls, if Hickey can become connected with that power, then perhaps he too will be able to incorporate souls! Perhaps he will be able to finally ensure that something, someone will never turn on him. And if those souls must be destroyed in the process, what is it to him? Has the world not spent his entire time on earth trying to destroy him? (Conjecture: but given what we learn of him, the Nagaitis lore, and the cultural & economic context in which he exists, I think this is reasonable.) He yells into the Arctic air:

Bugger Victoria! Bugger Nelson! Bugger Jesus! Bugger Joseph, bugger Mary! Bugger the Archbishop of Canterbury! NONE EVER WANTED NOTHING FROM ME

He feels abandoned by every institution of society, and so he is going to create one in his own image. He offers a captain, an officer, a marine, and a ship's boy: the ship's hierarchy in miniature. If he feeds the Tuunbaq their souls and then melds with Tuunbaq himself, he can eat society and reconstitute it not just in his own image but in his own person, with only his chosen loyal followers, those who do want something from him. As Crain says, "In Freud's Totem and Taboo, the cannibal feast is the founding act of crime and sharing that binds society." That's the founding myth Hickey is not just counting on but trying to actively create.

And maybe, maybe! When he has access to Tuunbaq's power - will he have a line on those souls as well? Tuunbaq devours both body and soul in tandem, suggesting they are connected. As Hickey has already eaten of Gibson's flesh, maybe he can reconstitute and reingest that as Gibson's soul. Thus the destruction becomes the resurrection becomes the incorporation. Crain writes: "The body is a convenient boundary for the definition of the self. [...] in practice the peculiar act [cannibalism and homosexuality] violates that boundary. The act offers an ecstatic union." A cannibal rat wedding, if you will.

Crozier says to Hickey, "You must be a surpassingly lonely man." Hickey doesn't deny this. He merely says "Not for long." This is about power, but it is also about an end to loneliness, to his sense of betrayal at all levels and at every turn. Of course, it doesn't work out. In not caring about who suffered the consequences of his actions, he failed to take into account that incorporation & ingestion involve destruction. He thought himself the instrument of this, but by failing to see the Tuunbaq unto itself, as something other than a tool, as the independent Arctic that could never stomach Western society and live: he turned that back on himself and so was himself destroyed.

[geminialchemist]

I made this originally as a comment on a post on Reddit, but it seemed well liked, so I thought I’d expand on it a little and make it a post here on Tumblr.

Spoilers for Shadow of the Erdtree abound, don’t read any farther if you don’t want the ending spoiled.

I really loved a lot of the lore about Miquella up until the big reveal that he Miquellested Mohg, and was bringing back Radahn as his consort. I remember finding the crosses across the land, and then finding the one in the fissure, and seeing that he abandoned his love there, and man, that was so good, so chilling to see that Miquella, known for his compassion and kindness, had thrown that away. We were going from cross to cross, learning just how much he was willing to mutilate and change himself for godhood… only for him to cling to a childhood crush he had on his older brother. That’s lame. Like, really lame. And gross!

And Mohg. I know we joke about how he beat the allegations, but remember that he needed to wed an Empyrean for his plans to work out with the Formless Mother. These plans he already had in place before Miquella charmed him, since Sir Ansbach was already a Pureblood Knight working under Mohg before Mohg was charmed, meaning Mohg had already established the foundations of his dynasty. That means Mohg was going to go after either Miquella or Malenia, since they were the only Empyreans left, and tell me, which one sounds like the easier target, the small child, or the undefeated champion? Miquella was always going to be taken by Mohg, the retcon just exists to make Miquella look more morally questionable while stripping Mohg of a bit of his agency and villainous identity. The entire Mohg portion feels like a rewrite when the entire reason he was charmed by Miquella is because he had some unspecified way into the Shadow Lands, and it’s never really talked about ever again. Mohg’s entire purpose in this plan comes off as an afterthought, with no specifications as to why he was needed, other than a vague “he was needed.” Even the use of his body to resurrect Radahn is unexplained as far as I know, though I headcanon that it’s due to Radahn’s body being too rotted after the centuries of Scarlet Rot infecting it, and they needed a demigod’s body, so Mohg was the only one to use available, but it would have been nice if that had been explained.

Godwyn would have been better as a final boss, and it didn’t even need to be actually Godwyn to work, since I know some people don’t think that would work from a lore perspective since his souls is gone, and his full return would wreck the Duskborn ending. Of course, “gone” is weird way to put it, since his soul isn’t destroyed, it’s in whatever afterlife exists in Elden Ring and just not being reincarnated like everyone else who dies after the rune of Death was removed, so Miquella could maybe work a way to get him back. The DLC is in the Shadow Lands, where all things that die pass through, after all. Get rid of Mohg being brainwashed, but keep his body being used so that Sir Ansbach, one of the best NPCs, still has a quest to follow in putting Mohg’s body to a proper rest. It also makes sense, Godwyn’s body is really messed up, bloated, and multiplying all over the Lands Between like a cancer, and can’t be used for ressurection.

Still, I think a failed Godwyn would be better. Maybe we skip the whole Promised Consort part, and just have it be the first act of Godhood Miquella does, because ew, am I tired of the incest surrounding Miqella’s character. Godwyn The Golden starts the fight off back in his prime, doing loads of attacks infused with Holy damage, coming off as the perfect and powerful Demi-god he’s always stated as being in the lore. Then he starts falling apart at phase 2, his phase 1 attacks being switched to being ghostflame infused rather than holy, Miquella now on his back and any new attacks added to phase 2 take on the holy affinity due to his presence. Then phase 3 hits, no holy infinity at all, all attacks do ghostflame or deathblight buildup. Deathblight is already so underused, so it would be great here. Godwyn is falling apart faster the more we fight, and Miquella, holding on, is getting hurt by the ghostflame and deathblight while desperately trying to keep his beloved brother together.

Have the fight set during an eclipse, too, sorta like the final boss of Dark Souls 3, the Soul of Cinder. Really tie it into the lore of Miquella trying to bring Godwyn back, like we find out at Castle Sol, where he had hoped to use an eclispe. I’d even say to make the light from behind the eclipse change color as the fight rages on, starting off bright and holy, and change it to the horrid dark grey and sickly yellow that deathblight has by the third phase, so rather than the arena getting brighter than a flash bang like it is in canon, have it get darker and gloomier. And of course, after the fight, the eclipse has faded entirely.

Instead of a cutscene that is nothing but information we already know(Seriously, what was even the point of the cutscene we got? It gave us not a single piece of new information), Miquella is lying on the floor, mostly dead, much like Morgott after we beat him in Leyndell. He isn’t dying because of us(honestly, I don’t even know why he died in the DLC, he’s so high up on Radahn’s back we never really get a chance to hit him directly, but he dies when Radahn does for whatever reason), instead he’s dying from clinging so tightly to Godwyn and trying to hold him together, burned by ghostflame and deathblight. He laments that even as a god, he wasn’t able to fix anything. Not his sister, not his brother, not the Haligtree, none of his plans ever work. No matter the sacrifices, personal or otherwise. He’s a failure in every way, and the knowledge breaks him as he sobs and dies.

However, if you visited every cross before the boss fight, you can absorb the essence of Miquella’s discarded body, and if you beat him then, you’ll get the option to return his discarded flesh and emotions after the fight. Doing so heals him, and gives him back everything he discarded, like his love, his fears and doubts. He fades away into light particles, and if you sit at the grace in the arena, he’ll appear like Melina does, sitting across from you and with a healed character model. This gets a few bits more dialogue, some exposition, yadda yadda. He’s a god without a consort, you’re a lord without a throne. He’s unsure, and not confident it will work, but maybe if you work together, something good can come of this tragedy? Giving up now would just be spiting in the faces of everyone he’s hurt. You’re strong enough to stop him if he loses his way again. (I think the reason he chose Radahn in canon was because of his strength and kindness? He trusted Radahn to do what was right after he threw away his love and compassion, entrusting Radahn to lead him down the right path when he lacked those things, and to be strong enough to resist his charm. That’s again entirely headcanon due to our lack of knowledge about their vow, but I’m adding it here because this is MY fanfiction and I can do whatever I like!)

(This part is more of a personal bit I’d have liked added because I find it amusing, rather than because I think it would make it better. Remember when you go through all that trouble to find Fia, and she asks if you’ve come all this way to kill her, and you can just say “No, I want to be held,” and it’s the funniest chunk of text you get in game? I really wanted something like that with Miquella. He wants to know why you came all this way, entered the Shadow Lands, a sealed off region of the world where only death awaits, where you fought against insurmountable odds, all to get to Miquella, presumably to stop him, only to heal him at the last moment, in which you can straight up tell him to his face you want to be his consort, and he’s just as confused and amused as Fia was. He knows you aren’t under his charm, but still he questions if it’s possible you are if you went this far just for that.)

This unlocks a new ending for the base game, the Age of Compassion. You summon Miquella like you would Ranni after beating Elden Beast, and together you usher in a kinder world, this time without the brainwashing. Or maybe with the brainwashing. Or perhaps it’s vague about the brainwashing, and if this is a good or bad ending in classic Fromsoft fashion. I’d prefer no brainwashing, and Miquella still unsure if things will work out, with it ending ambiguous if the Age of Compassion lasts, or fumbles and falls to a world blind to it. All you and Miquella can do is hope it will be better.

That might be a lot to ask, but look, it’s the only way I’ll ever get to live out my fantasy of being fought over by a cold, goth witch gf and a soft femboy twink with hair longer than I am tall, okay?

[thewisaaaaad]

IM WORKING ON THE CLIFFHANGER I PROMISE anyway heres something completely unrelated about leshy :)

Leshy had lost the ability to morn. He had lost it LONG before the betrayal and sealing of Narinder, but he had never felt its loss as keenly as that day.

sitting against the wall, feeling the immense pain in his face where his eye once sat, he found that all he felt was a weak, flickering anger that struggled against an immense feeling of nothing.

he knew what he should be feeling: wrath against his brother for injuring them all, mad for him pushing into domains that did not belong to him, betrayed by his unstoppable search for knowledge he should not have, that Shamura told him not to seek.

but that wasn't true was it?

Leshy hung his head, remembering how narinder pleaded that he had destroyed the research as Shamura had asked. Besides, Leshy was still confused over why resurrection didn't fall in his brothers domain, no matter how much Shamura had insisted that death could not flow backwards. Chaos and Order were two sides of a coin that Leshy knew well, why would death not also control life? their brother being stronger should be a good thing, right?

The wounds the family had suffered were caused by a frantic struggle, not focused strikes aimed at wounding them. Narinder had not reached for his brothers eye, he had reached for his hand.

and yet Leshy had gone to bite his hand. the hand that had raised him with love and care. the hand that would ruffle his leaves in congratulation when Leshy mastered a spell. The hand that tucked him into bed, and fed him soup when he was sick and Kallamar was too busy.

the hand of the brother he loved

and yet Leshy felt no guilt. He felt...

nothing. a deep, sinking load of nothing. This, Chaos knew, was wrong. he had never been in a situation like this before, where someone he cared about was harmed in this way. but there was nothing.

for the first time in his godhood, he cursed the gift that it had given him. the one that had allowed him to embrace both his domains, causing chaos and enforcing order on his devotees without feeling guilt or remorse.

right now, Leshy wanted to grieve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A hundred years passed, and still he could not grieve.

his followers were thriving now that Leshy no longer had the energy or will to thrash about his domain or deliver judgement.

he supposed that this meant his rule had been poor up until this point. he added that to the growing list of things he should feel bad about.

but cant.

his brother never criticized his rule.

A disciple of his rushes to him, begging forgiveness that the god waves aside. He had plenty of mercy to go around, and it was the least he could do.

The message was from their sister and brother, requesting a meeting with him.

something to distract him from the melancholy, he supposed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What do you mean, 'All of them'?!"

Anger and shock were still familiar emotions to the worm. at least he still had them.

at least he was still worthy of them.

The meeting turned out to be quite important.

Shamura had another vision, which was about to have as disastrous an outcome as the last one did.

a sheep would come to free their brother. and Shamura wanted to put a stop to it.

The sheep had once been Narinders favorite. Perhaps this would prove to be another way to atone.

A plan was quickly made, far from the ears of their maddened sibling.

Heket and Kallamar would heard the sheep into Darkwood, making token sacrifices and examples along the way, to ease Shamuras fears.

All leshy had to do was pretend that the lambs died in his forest.

Shamura would never find the sheep in Darkwood. He prided himself on how the terrain warped and distorted, creating an impossible maze, where things like a scared population could easily be misplaced.

it should hold long enough to keep them safe until Shamura lost the prophecy to the depths of their shattered mind.

Leshy knew that he should feel bad about taking advantage of his eldest siblings condition.

Leshy found that he didn't care.

[bonefall]

What are the four seasonal gods like generally? Sol seems to just be A Little Bit Chaotic, Midnight is said to be benevolent, but what about Rock and One Eye? (I know One Eye requires sacrifices? But ig that wouldn't necessarily make him malicious? Idk fsgcghdfj)

I'd like to learn more in general! Gods and mythology go brrrrr

ALL of them can actually take sacrifices, it just so happens that only Sol and One Eye have actually done it in the timeframe of BB.

It doesn't HAVE to be blood either, it can be anything of value. Sol and One Eye are just like that.

SOL

He gets bored easily.

It's not that he's evil, he's just self-absorbed. Everything is about having fun.

He really was a pretty terrible god, though. Fallenleaf comes to learn his services are in high demand, and he was really needed.

You might think he's vengeful, but he's not. If you beat him according to the rules they agreed on, that's winning fair and square.

I feel like he feels kind of bad he abandoned Harry so quickly, like he knows it was a dick move and he kiiiiinda doesn't want to think about it.

Something about him is more mortal than anyone realizes, but even I'm not sure how. He's strange compared to other gods, as if he didn't lose himself in the ascension to godhood.

Ironic for a God of Change.

MIDNIGHT

Is lonely. So lonely.

She can give you eternal life, but no one ever takes it. Why does no one ever take it?

But she's too nice to overstay her welcome or defy a request. And too cowardly to explore the world and find more people who leave eventually.

So she just stays in her den by the ocean, hosting all who pass through.

Minds her own business and draws cats to her as visitors.

Fallenleaf liked her at first, but has actually grown a negative view of her. Midnight wants something and won't go get it, using her immense power to just stare at the ocean.

What a waste!

I feel like she keeps a distance from mortals because she feels like she has some kind of obligation to not interfere. Besides, what good is a god no one wants to visit?

Shouldn't people WANT to go out of their way to seek her wisdom??

(And then she drags them towards her anyway lmao. Actually a very funny character. I have thoughts about her)

ONE EYE

He likes to see what words people use for him.

He likes to see what people call upon him, too.

This entity is not one who forces himself upon the land. He simply comes when he is called and they call him evil. Another one of his many names, he says.

At leaaaast... that's what he says. He is a VERY vindictive being when he feels slighted. If you declare war upon him, he will finish it.

"Scorched Earth" translates directly.

He can be incredibly cordial though. Surprisingly so. I actually have been thinking of having him visit each Clan in Thunderstar's Justice, meeting with its leaders, testing who would be his greatest partner.

During Hollyleaf's Century, Lion's Roar summoned him with a certain number of sacrifices.

But once One Eye moved into his body as a vessel, he didn't let go.

He was still using Lion's Roar as a vessel in DOTC. Lion's Roar had lost all control of his body, practically hollowed out.

I have a really clear feeling of his personality but it's hard to put into words. He's charming. He's well-spoken. His words smell like roses and sound like trickling blood. He asks to be invited and refuses to leave. If you offend him he will destroy you. He is interested in you. He watches hungrily like a snake.

And he ate Tom, partially because he was delicious, but primarily because he was a disobedient and disrespectful rat who did not know his place.

Star Flower is expected to know her place, too. She serves him. He is kind to her, and she loves him, but if she has to give up her life for him-- he expects her service.

As a god of war, sun, and fire, he's every bit as dangerous as you think he is.

You don't kill Gods. You trick them. Sun Shadow tricked him, seeing his body was unstable, and challenged,

"You are not the sun. Behold the sun that shines above us! It is there and you are here!"

"Haa. Your taunt shall not work. I am the sun and I shine just as bright."

"You do not shine now. I see no shine."

"Then behold!"

And that's how Sun Shadow got the guy to explode himself inside his shitty battered vessel LMAO

I have this full story in my head I just need to write it out tbh.

AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST

ROCK

He wants to be left alone. He does not like you

He wasn't always this way. He is a god of measurement, archival, the night sky, memory. Quintessence and moonbeams, that which subsisteth, and what seems.

And once upon a time, he hosted a trial for those who wished to be his temporary vessels. Going down into the tunnels wasn't a trial for ALL warriors, just those who sought his ancient knowledge.

Once upon a time, he believed that the purpose of knowledge was to be shared, but only to those who would do right with it. He chose his vessels carefully and benevolently.

But what happened in Hollyleaf's Century changed him. It killed him. A selfish tyrant, the actions of her opposition, the senseless destruction of the victorians humans...

And then his vessel, Jay's Wing, was murdered. He felt him die and he couldn't save him; he's just a god of truth. Not of affecting it.

He's kinda got Sotha Sil vibes. His last big action was burying his vessel and casting a great spell upon a patch of Old Growth forest in what's now ThunderClan; the humans did not see it for many years, as if it simply wasn't important.

When the illusion faded, the humans simply believed they had not noticed it, or had underestimated its size.

Funfact: humans have big brains and lots of meat and are easy to disorient. That patch has a reputation for confusing people, hikers get lost there a lot.

Doesn't like people. Especially doesn't like Sol or Fallenleaf, refusing to distinguish that they are two different entities.

"You won't be, eventually. No I won't help you avoid that fate. Fuck you"

Has a softness for Jayfeather in particular and no one else. He would have let Hollypaw and those kits drown if he wasn't part of the group, that day.

But also Jay knows how to annoy him. If it wasn't for the fact he was the reincarnation of his beloved and tragically killed Final Vessel, he would have let him drown long ago.

Lightly malicious, in a way. Doesn't value mortal life. Mean.

Kinda ironic that Jay's reincarnation is more like Rock in this life than he is to Jay's Wing. Rock would lament that his influence has ruined him.

[wuxianxkexing]

This face. I'm going to talk about it. Spoilers below!

So my pathetic little meow meow looks kind of unhinged here. I've said that much already. But what exactly is he thinking in this moment?

From a storytelling perspective Heaven Official's Blessing doesn't really have a main villain by this point. Pei Ming is the closest thing to one since he caused and ignored the Bridegroom and he tried to sweep his deputy's crimes in Banyue under the rug. However while those things might make him a "bad" guy that isn't quite main villain of the story material since he hadn't really gone after our main character Xie Lian all that hard. Yeah, he tried to shift the focus onto Xie Lian hanging out with Crimson Rain, but it wasn't really personal. He wasn't trying to drag Xie Lian down since he also spoke in his defense and said that Xie Lian was probably just tricked. He just wanted to shift the focus off of his deputy but failed to. Still a dick move to Xie Lian, but at least it wasn't personal? 😅 Or at least it wasn't personal until the very end when he realized that he wasn't going to be able to save his deputy after all.

But from a storytelling perspective having Mu Qing make this expression puts him on the radar as potentially being the story's main villain. At this point all we know about Mu Qing is pretty negative? He used to be Xie Lian's servant but left/betrayed him to ascend to godhood. He clearly still remembered Xie Lian though Xie Lian didn't recognize him and he seemed miffed by that fact. In the books it is revealed that he hangs out in the communication array all day every day, supposedly because he is catty and loves gossip and he has no friends. He is shown to have beef with General Nan Yang, who forgave Xie Lian's absolutely massive debt out of the kindness of his heart and who in this very episode publicly sides himself with our main character when he is concerned about him getting hurt. The audience realizes that Feng Xin is actually a pretty good dude, and naturally we are suspicious of anyone who openly hates him as much as Mu Qing does. Then Mu Qing makes that face. At this point the audience can only assume that Mu Qing made that face because he is a huge asshole and hates Xie Lian. The main villain has to be either him or Pei Ming. Right? They both have personal beef with him, and figuring out which of them is going to be the main villain gives the audience something to think about. I think this is why MXTX decided to have him make this face. The story needs a main villain but she wasn't ready to reveal them just yet so she kind of pretended to throw us a bone to keep us interested.

Ignoring the overall story reasons and focusing on the in world reason that I think Mu Qing made this face: He is just vindictive. Not towards Xie Lian, but Yong'An. Xie Lian describes him as both petty and spiteful. Up until Mu Qing makes his friendship confession and tries to kill himself afterwards the audience doesn't really know any better of him. I've seen some people say that he made that face because he was glad that Xie Lian isn't as perfect as he thought, but I don't think that is the case at all. If you actually hated someone for being too perfect would you even /want/ to be their friend? Let alone be willing to throw yourself into a volcano for them? Nah. Most people try to avoid people that they hate, so Mu Qing wouldn't have even helped out during the Bridegroom arc, or if he did then he would've only done it to sabotage the mission (which he didn't).

But knowing how spiteful and petty Mu Qing is having him make this face upon hearing that the former crown prince of his kingdom massacred the royal family of their invaders? That makes perfect sense for his character. This scene reveals that deep in his heart he is glad that the Yong'an royal family "got what they deserved." They destroyed his home country and they set into motion the process of him losing his 2 best friends as well. Arguably they are the root cause of a lot of his suffering. As for the frown after he was done having his moment I think that the revelation of why/how Xie Lian did it kind of ruined his revenge fantasy. Xie Lian did kill the Yong'an king to protect the former people of Xianle, but he didn't go on the cool V for Vendetta campaign that Mu Qing had hoped for. Which maybe that is a problem too but at least you can see where he is coming from.

Ultimately I think Mu Qing had a very real and human reaction to the news, but it only makes sense with context. Otherwise he just seems like a crazy person. Like all I can think of when I see that face is that if Mu Qing was the one poisoned by the Land of the Tenders instead of Xie Lian he would've had the worst bloodlust ever known to mankind. He is still my little meow meow though.

[swordbisexual]

A short VisGale fic, a sketch of sorts, a concept born of yelling back and forth with @renn-the-rascal, and something I hope to expand on soon. But for now…

Armor

~750 words

“There, can I get you to—“

“Certainly.”

A small exchange, one they’ve repeated every day for at least two tendays, if not more. Sharing a bedroll became sharing a bed, and in that time, Vissenta has relented to let Gale help her with more than just an assuring word and a kiss before leaving. She lifts her arm slightly, relinquishing her grip on the strap of the pauldron to let him take over, securing the piece in place and giving him room to check those down her sides that hold the cuirass.

Like every day for two and a half tendays (because he has counted, every single precious one, if only to feel the shape of that number grow as steadily as his love), they dress to face whatever this quest might throw their way.

But today, it’s not her demons they face, or those of their companions.

It’s not a demon at all.

“With you, I forget my goddess.”

In the stillness of the outer planes, he could hear her every breath, and he heard it catch at his words. And he heard, too, the warmth in her voice, when she answered with words of her own that might have been too harsh otherwise.

“Then forget godhood.”

With her hands free, Vissenta takes the chance to ensure that her hair is pinned up securely; Gale takes the chance to map the small curls that grow askew at her nape, only just covering the jagged, puckered scar that starts at the base of her skull and disappears into a web he’s felt beneath his fingertips, when he cradles her head to melt into her more lingering, passionate kisses.

“I’ll have you as you are.”

He couldn’t quite believe those words; he tried to protest. “Have the best possible version of me.”

She leaned over to kiss him, briefly, and the warmth in her voice turned to fire that burned bright behind her eyes. “I already do.”

“What divine calculus plucked us from the ether,�� Gale muses as Vissenta seizes his hands, insistent on helping check that his bracers are secure, “and thrust us together?”

“I’d rather keep the gods out of it,” she says mildly, but her hands tighten around his wrists as she lifts her chin, eyes flicking down to his neck before she raises them to meet his. “After we pay one more a visit, anyway.”

Scars, on the both of them. Scars that, if opened without care, could destroy everything around them.

“You… you’re everything.”

He meant it. He truly meant it. He’d seen her, bloodless, lifeless, as she made the choice to reject a great and terrible thing, a darkly divine right that she foreswore in the face of death.

He could foreswear the same. He owed her as much.

“Is this what being nervous feels like?”

Tucked into an alcove in Stormshore, Gale can hardly look over his shoulder at Mystra’s likeness. He can feel the Weave, pure and perfect, the way open to him at last, and no matter how ready he’s believed himself to be, how long he’s prepared to see her again, he feels woefully vulnerable.

Vissenta reaches up to brush his hair back behind his ear, her fingertips brushing the silver star of the goddess as she does so. “Nervous is good.”

He knows his scowl is unbecomingly petulant. “I hate it.”

All Vissenta does is smile, lifting herself up on her toes to give him a kiss. He feels the slip of her tongue against his lips - always so daring, even sequestered in a temple, and his heart swells with her boldness - before they part, all too soon. “It suits you.”

“Does it?” Gale doesn’t want to let go of her just yet, his knight in all her glorious armor.

She nods, suddenly solemn. “It suits Gale Dekarios.”

“Him again.” Searching her face for the telltale signs of teasing, he comes up short, left only with the sight of heart-aching sincerity. “You’re rather taken with him, aren’t you?”

Nodding again, she cups his cheek in her palm. “What would he want, right now?”

The answer is startlingly quick, shockingly certain. “Forgiveness.”

Vissenta’s smile returns. “I can’t give him that, but…” She tugs at the gold-edged purple kerchief around her neck, pulling it loose, and takes his hand to turn it palm up. There’s just room enough for her to tuck the slip of cloth beneath the bracer around his wrist. “He can have my favor, while he goes to ask.”

[semidecentpoet]

I keep thinking about Peter Sqloint (spoilers for JRWI Apotheosis)

(This is expanding a wee bit on this post I made a while ago lol)

Apotheosis: "the perfect form or example of something;" "elevation to divine status"

Rumi and Thanatos were destined for great things—or "destined," depending on how you look at things given that the whole thing was just Zuen and Exandroth deciding to Fuck Shit Up because Zuen was just fuckin bored. The whole shtick was a divine ploy from the very beginning. Zuen gave Rumi visions, setting them on the path to ascend to godhood. Exandroth helped to create Thanatos, forging his path to end godhood.

From the start, it's all divine intervention. Rumi is supposed to become a god. Thanatos is supposed to kill all the gods. This is how it's supposed to go.

Really, from the standpoint of Zuen, it's meant to be Rumi, Thanatos, and Exandroth, not Rumi, Thanatos, and Peter. Peter isn't supposed to be anything. He's just some loser nobody Exandroth found, a throwaway vessel. There are no divine plans for Peter except to be an archangel's meat puppet. Peter's purpose is to be a vessel for Exandroth's purpose. Peter is just some human.

But there's the kicker: Peter is human. Part of what makes Apotheosis such a beautiful campaign is this juxtaposition of godhood and humanity and the powers of both: the grand versus the humble, the mighty versus the meek. Zuen and Exandroth don't think twice about Peter because he's human and what could a human do? As far as they know, they have set Rumi and Thanatos' paths in stone.

They didn't account for the one stone that upset everything.

To be clear, all three of them helped to change each other. Another part of what makes Apotheosis a beautiful campaign is the character dynamics and the way they influence each other's development; they all change each other so intrinsically. But it's Peter in particular who changes everything.

Rumi is obsessed with their visions and their notion of perfection, their goal of becoming a god. But it's Peter, just by being Peter, who reminds them of what the gods' hubris has blinded them to, of what traits are truly powerful and most important.

Thanatos is tunnelvisioned on destroying all the gods, a bloodthirsty machine. But it's Peter, just by being Peter, who shows him how to live, who shows him there's more to life than his purpose; through Peter, Thanatos finds there's more to himself.

Rumi and Thanatos are naturally destined—or "destined"—to be at each other's throats with their conflicting goals, and we see them debate and even full-on argue multiple times throughout the campaign. But it's Peter who keeps them together. It's Peter who asks questions and who makes them question their own beliefs. It's Peter's humanity that irreversibly transforms them.

It starts as an apotheosis of godhood. It becomes an apotheosis of humanity.

Zuen's plan, by all means, should have been foolproof. He's got a killing machine and a person driven by vision-fueled vanity, plus an archangel to make sure things stay on track. But he failed to consider all the variables. He underestimated humanity.

Peter's humanity defied Zuen's divine intervention. Humanity defied the divine.

I just find it fascinating that in the middle of all the action and the speeches, the magic and the power, the mission and the visions, and the overall grandeur of godhood, the thing that changed everything—the catalyst of this transformation from what they were supposed to be to who they became—was what and who everyone least expected.

In the words of Rumi: "It is because you are just Peter Sqloint. That is what makes you more, and you need not be anything else."

What's more, the stone that the builders rejected ultimately becomes the cornerstone of a new and godless world. A world by and for humanity. A world that isn't perfect, but it is theirs.

I wanna hear others' thoughts on this bc I am just so fucking in love with this campaign, you have no idea ;PPPPPP

(Also, if you want to respond with moments from the campaign that have to do with this discussion, by all means do so bc I wrote this all from my not-exact recollection of the campaign and the perfectionist writer in me is a little irked by the lack of evidence to my claims lol)

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 25

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Sometimes, the session goes smoothly and the characters complete their mission without setbacks. This is not one of those sessions. ***

As he would one day tell an unlikely group of adventurers in the equally unlikely setting of a high-end brothel - not the most fitting backdrop for a dramatic tale, perhaps, but why say no to some luxuries? - Raphael was indeed there when Netheril fell. 

Eileanar had been floating over the High Forest at the time, and it was not someplace Raphael had visited often while carrying out his duties as the Steward of Avernus. Unlike most archdevils, Bel did not have a cult of his own in the Material Plane. With all his efforts directed to the Blood War, he was not interested in creating and growing one either,

“The other layers owe us souls to support a war which protects them,” Bel had said with a shrug, one time Raphael had brought up the matter. “We have no need to go seek them out the way they do.”

Still, a few extra souls were never unwelcomed. Raphael had taken to using his spare time to return to the Material Plane; it was not that he had in any way missed that plane, but he had always taken pride in a job well done, something he had a talent for. So whenever he had the chance he returned among mortals, making contracts as he used to do when he lived at his father’s court. 

Some souls would go to Avernus, others he’d keep for himself; Bel did not mind. Perhaps, he’d mused, he may make a few deals for a warlock or two of his own, if a good chance presented itself. That day, however, he was not in Eileanar to win a soul, or take on his first warlock - although he was talking to someone who was very interested in becoming one. He was there because he’d been told by his sources that something was about to happen.

Karsus has created something special, they whispered. A crown, to become more powerful yet, as a god. He wishes to do something extraordinary.

It seemed a ridiculous notion, but Karsus was the most powerful archmage to ever have lived - not something anybody in Cania would say before the archmage of the Hells - and it had piqued his curiosity. There was some merit to the claims, he felt it in his very bones. So he was there on that fateful day, listening to the bleating of a woman eager to have him as her patron with only half a mind but mostly gazing around, waiting to see what that something would be. 

It was safe to say that an archwizard attempting to wrestle godhood over all magic from Mystryl herself - and destroying the Weave as a result, for a handful of deadly moments that brought to the abrupt end of a mighty empire - was not quite the something he had expected to happen. 

As a half-fiend, Raphael was born a spellcaster. A sorcerer, his father would say with all the disdain only a wizard could possibly put into that word, and Raphael had been careful not to wonder too hard if that disdain had played a role in his decision to lean more into his bardic tendencies than on the sorcery which was his to wield from birth. But with all magic gone, neither came to his aid when something gave way beneath him - the entire city. Unable to plane shift, he plummeted towards the ground alongside it. 

Dying in the Material Plane would be no great tragedy, as he’d return unharmed to Avernus as all fiends did, but the notion of shattering to the ground, his body exploding into a fine mist along with every other screaming creature around him, was unpleasant enough to fill him with a sort of terror that he’d have struggled to put into words later, if he ever bothered to. 

Had he been in his human form, unable to switch back, he’d have experienced his first death that day. But he’d been wearing his cambion form, showing the aspiring warlock he was precisely what he claimed to be, and he’d hand wings. 

Even with his magic gone, he required no arcane power to become airborne: only sheer muscle power, using all his strength to escape the powerful winds caused by the entire floating city’s fall. But escape he did and when he turned in mid-air, screams still ringing in his ears, the sight of what Karsus had brought upon his own empire left him breathless. Eileanar was not the only city to fall. In the distance he saw more floating cities plummeting to the ground, every creature upon them fated to die screaming. 

Above, there was a sound like the crack of thunder. Raphael looked up, away from the mortals whose screams were so abruptly silenced, and for a moment he saw him: Karsus the archmage suspended in mid-air, something glinting on his head. 

He felt it, a new godhood taken by force for one blinding instant before it was ripped away once more. He saw Karsus move, saw him reach up and then go still. He saw him turn to stone, and fall the same way his cities had. And most of all, he saw the glinting something which had made a man into a deity for one single, shining instant fall to the ground with him. 

A simple human, wielding godly power if only for a moment. What could a devil do with that? What could I do with that?

Karsus had seen himself a benign new god of magic, bent to ensure the Netherese empire would never fall. Raphael saw himself on the throne of Avernus and on the throne of Cania, on the throne of every layer in-between, on the throne of Nessus itself. He saw Asmodeus broken at his feet, he saw his father forced to bend the knee and bow his head to swear fealty to him. He saw every fiend at court who’d ever mocked him cower in terror, and he saw himself forcing them to keep living in fear while holding all their lives in his hands.

He saw himself ruling the Hells, he saw himself ruling the Material Plane and Celestia and everything in-between. He saw himself as a god, never to be looked down on again .

Few devils are ever satisfied with their station, those with my blood least of all. It's what we're meant to endure, this hunger for more, Mephistopeles had told him not long ago. You wish to reach out and take, because what you're handed can never be enough.

But perhaps this would be enough after all, a crown to make him as a god - if that did not end his hunger, then nothing ever would. Worth a try, was it not?

As Mystra came into being and magic hummed back into existence, too late to save any but a few cities of a once mighty empire, Raphael beat his wings and dove to the ground, after what would remain his greatest desire and obsession for centuries to come.

***

“I still maintain they could have saved us a lot of time, if they’d brought us to the scab directly instead of forcing us on the worst ever road trip.”

“We have grown more powerful in the journey. I suppose there is that. Learning to fight devils may yet serve us well.”

“Do you always have to think up a bright side, love? I’d like to complain, if you don’t min--”

“Well then, complain under your breath. This is not the time to let ourselves be caught,” Raphael snapped, cutting him off. Or at least, Astarion could guess that was Raphael, under the guise of a tiefling with storm-gray skin. One annoying bit of these illusion spells was that he was never sure who he was talking to. 

Was the half-orc Karlach, or was it Wyll and Karlach was the elf? It had taken him an embarrassing amount of time to work out the halfling was Halsin, and Durge was the drow. It all seemed a bit useless, since the plan was not to get spotted and Zariel herself surely would not be fooled by a simple illusion… but in case someone did spot them before they got to her, it didn’t hurt to be careful - especially with Karlach and Wyll’s faces likely well known around there. At least, Astarion couldn’t complain too much about his own guise. 

He looked devastatingly handsome as a human too. Or at least so Durge had told him, ever the flatterer. Astarion opened his mouth to inform Probably Raphael that he was going to complain how he pleased, only to trail off when yells, curses, and the creaks of massive chains reached his ears. They peered from behind the boulder they were all crouched by to see that gigantic chains were being pulled, and the Flying Fortress was being lowered to the docks. Droves of low-level devils were preparing to secure it in place, and send souls directly from the Styx into the engines keeping the entire, immense structure afloat. 

According to Karlach, it would take several hours for the Fortress’ refill.  “It’s the only time you can be sure to find her in, too, instead of mowing down demons in the middle of a battlefield,” Karlach had said. Above them the fortress was massive enough to make the House of Hope look like a fisherman’s cabin in terms of size, but it exuded none of its elegance. It was a brutal construction carved out of black stone and infernal iron, with turrets and cannons on every side - more war machine than residence. “The docking is when the Fortress is at its most vulnerable, and she knows it, so she always remains in it to defend it,” Karlach had added, like that monstrosity could ever be called vulnerable . “It makes her restless, though-- well, more restless. There were times I could swear she was hoping for an attack.”

Well then, Astarion supposed it was time to make her happy and give her just that. “This is her lucky day, then,” he commented. Fluttering above his shoulder, Lulu - no changing her appearance until they were in, or else the ring wouldn't fit - let out a noise that somehow sounded scared and excited at the same time. 

“It will be lucky, I just know it! It has to be!”

“... Are hollyphants always so unbearably optimistic?”

“Most of us. I mean, I knew one who wasn't. Always the odd one out, so cynical all the time. She kept telling us that the Ride was a bad idea, and I think I was really rude when I told her to shut up.” A sigh. “Ah, that really wasn't nice of me, was it? She was only trying to warn me. And she was right too, even if she was always half in her cups.”

The drow - Durge - tilted their head. “... Are you speaking of Valeria, by any chance?”

A quicker flutter of Lulu's wings. “Oh, yes! You met her? Where is she? I should apologize for not listening. How is she?”

“In Baldur's Gate, last we checked. She did help us with the Netherbrain, and then… well, I'm not sure. She worked with the Flaming Fists, I suppose she went back to that.”

“Oh. Is she still, er…?”

“Entirely in her cups.”

“... Does sound like her.”

A sudden, whooshing sound covered whatever else Lulu may have tried to add. At the Stygian docks, a huge contraption had been lowered to the water, sucking up souls. It was the signal they had agreed upon, and they each dug into their pockets for their rings. 

Time to find out if Bel's agents have fucked it up, Astarion thought. He looked up, met the others’ gazes for a single, long instant - and then, finally, he put the ring to his finger.

***

“Oh, you're finally here, pup. Took you long enough. But what fine company you've brought with you! Raphael, is it you? What an honor, even if it's only half of you who deigned to come - I imagine daddy dearest still holds the rest, yes? Could have done without the hollyphant…”

“You! You're the one who killed me!”

While half his companions threw themselves between Mizora and a rather furious hollyphant to prevent a most counterproductive fight, Raphael took the time to look around. The dungeons of the Flying Fortress, or at least that section of it, was empty of prisoners. It was easy to guess that whoever had occupied those cells until moments earlier had likely been on the receiving end of some peculiar rings. Not a bad idea, he had to admit. They would not have turned down a chance to escape any more than Raphael did, back when-- mother -- a mortal soul had been sent to give him the ring, in the bowels of Mephistar’s dungeons. 

“Don’t lie, fiend! You put a dagger through my heart!” Lulu was yelling somewhere on Raphael’s right, entirely too loud for a covert mission, and caused him to turn back.

“And I loved it, don’t get me wrong,” Mizora replied, sounding rather bored and just a touch amused by the sight of several people holding onto one furious hollyphant to keep her back. “But it was not for my pleasure alone, I assure you. I was told you’d return to life within the Citadel, and that blasted place’s doors can only ever be opened in your presence. If you didn’t return to the Citadel one way or another, all of my pup’s pure heart would not have been enough to open its doors and reach the Sword. Which… you do have with you, do you not?”

As the hollyphant finally calmed down, if grudgingly, Durge reached into their bag of holding to pull out the sword, grasping it by the hilt rather than by the handle just to be on the safe side.

The sword glowed, and it caused Mizora to narrow her eyes, instinctively on edge before the celestial artifact. “As unbearably holy as I imagined,” she hissed, not coming any closer to it. “No wonder it may end her. Yet, none of you has turned angelic.” She clicked her tongue, and turned to Wyll. It was rather obvious that she could see easily through the illusion, and tell who was who at a glance. “No wings on you, pup. Not that I am not glad you’re keeping those devilish good looks I gave you, but… who plans to wield the sword, precisely?”

“Why, is it not obvious?” Raphael spoke, crossing his arms. “Zariel herself shall. Once she attunes to it, the archdevil Zariel is no more - thus meeting your demand.”

For a few moments, standing in the middle of the dungeon, Mizora said nothing and only stared at him as though she suspected he’d entirely lost his mind. Then she laughed, loud, mocking… but first, there had been that hesitation, that twitch of her mouth. “Oh! Oh dear. Daddy must have taken all your good sense, if you had any, alongside the half of you that was worth anything,” she muttered, the cold disdain in her voice just a touch too forced. “What makes you think Zariel would willingly attune to her old sword to become a celestial again? She can destroy that thing at will, and if she’s allowed to grasp it, she will--”

“What makes you so certain that she would not attune to it?”

That barest hint of hesitation, again. She was not, he could tell, all that certain. “It is everything she left behind--”

“Yet when you brought her old friend to her, she did not kill her.” 

“Right, see!” Lulu shrilled, much too close to his ear. “ The power of friendship will save her!”

Raphael sighed. “Please refrain from destroying my argument as I'm making it,” he muttered, and allowed the illusion to dispel, leaving behind his human form. He and Mizora were never much of anything other than aware of one another’s existence, but they had met a couple of times in the Material Plane. She knew that face of his, and it would not hurt to remind her who she was speaking with. He’d lived far longer than she had, and was older than nearly any cambion ever got to be. She knew that much, and he knew she respected it. 

When he stepped forward, she did not step back… but she did not laugh again, either. “No, she did not,” Mizora conceded, ignoring everyone else’s gaze on her to look back at Raphael. “But it does not mean she would want to go back.”

“When I decided to leave behind what I’d been in the Material Plane, I killed the woman who raised me. It did not work as I thought it would, but that is beside the point. I killed her. I had it in me and I did it. Whereas Zariel, mighty ruler of Avernus, couldn’t bring herself to harm what is frankly the most annoying hollyphant who ever came into existence. A fatal weakness, some would say.”

“Hey now--” Lulu began, only for several pairs of hands to reach out and cover her mouth, and for Raphael to entirely ignore her as he spoke again. 

“When Zariel found her dead, did she know she would spawn again at the Citadel?”

“... No. No one here did. I was given that information by a different source.” 

She did not name Bel, but she may as well have. “And did she mourn?” he asked. 

Mizora pressed her lips together, and did not answer. As far as Raphael was concerned, it was a good enough answer in itself. He shrugged, and spread his arms as though to rest his case. “As I imagined. There is more of the old Zariel there than you’d like to admit. I suspect that is the reason why the conspiracy to dispose of her was put in motion - with, I am certain now, the knowledge and agreement of Asmoseus himself. She is cracking, and we are to take her out before those cracks lead to the fall of Avernus in the hands of demonic hordes.”

“... Couldn’t Asmodeus depose her himself?” Durge asked, and Raphael sighed. There he was again, he thought, having to explain the obvious. 

“Of course he could. If so he wished he could depose any and all archdukes of the Hells - but this does not mean that he would, when he can get others to carry out his will. Replacing Bel with Zariel as the archduke of Avernus was a move that raised more than a few eyebrows at the time. It is not for me to say whether there was indeed a good reason for it, but the fact remains that if Asmodeus demotes her now to reinstate Bel, some may see it as an admission that he made the wrong decision then.”

“So he’d rather pretend he had no hand in it,” Wyll muttered, and Raphael nodded.

“Precisely. If Zariel is taken out by a force outside the Hells, and Bel seizes his chance… then the Lord Below will have obtained precisely what he wanted, with no direct intervention.”

Karlach made a face. “Ugh, hellish politics. They give me a worse headache than infernal wine the morning after a party.”

Mizora scoffed. “A lot of things more complex than the swinging of an axe give you headaches,” she muttered, but her words lacked bite. She looked back at Raphael, frowning. “A lot of clever words from Mephisto’s least favorite bastard,” she added, as though she too was not the result of a  fiend’s dalliance in the Material Plane. A spurt of seed willed to quicken a mortal’s womb, as his father had so charmingly put it once. “But there is no guarantee your plan will work.”

Raphael tilted his head. “Zariel is powerful, and a warrior down to her bones. An attack may not work, either. If our plan works, we may yet take her out with no need to fight and risk defeat. Would you not say it is worth a shot?”

For a few moments, Mizora said nothing. In the end, she sighed. “... She was perfect,” she spoke in the end, frustration and something a lot like fury barely in check. “The only being fit to rule this layer, and I curse the day that thing was brought here. You ruined her.” She cast a look at the hollyphant which may very well have caused a mortal to drop dead.

From her part, the hollyphant in question glowered back. Honestly, it seemed as though Halsin’s outstretched arm in front of her was the only thing keeping her from trying to charge again. “You are the ones who brought her low. I’m going to bring her back. ”

“Why, you little--”

“We will present the sword to her,” Durge spoke up, putting the sword in question back in their bag of holding. “Whether or not she takes it is ultimately her choice, and we’ll act accordingly when the moment comes.”

“Mph.” Mizora scoffed, and glanced over at Karlach. “I am surprised, I must say. I thought you’d jump at the chance to end her, instead of trying to… what? Save her?”

Karlach scowled. “None of your business. We promised to get rid of the archduke of Avernus, and we’ll do that. How we do it is up to us.”

“Rude as always,” Mizora sighed, but she waved a hand. “Very well. If that is how you wish to go about it, I have no reason to stop you. As long as she is no longer an archdevil by the time you’re done, I do not necessarily oppose the idea of doing this without killing her.”

She doesn’t oppose it at all, Raphael thought, but did not say as much aloud.

“Well then,” Astarion spoke, glancing around the dungeon. “Where is Zariel, and most importantly how do we get to her without having to fight half or all the fiends in this fortress?”

Raphael smiled. “Why is it not obvious?” he asked. He picked something from the ground - a pair of manacles made of infernal iron. He held them up. “By bringing her some prisoners. ”

***

On the day an empire fell from the sky, Raphael came only minutes, perhaps moments away from being the phoenix which would rise from its ashes. He almost did get to the Crown of Karus, amidst the smoking ruins that had been Eileanar. Even in the midst of that devastation, the hum of its power called to him… but not to him alone. 

Mephistopheles, archmage of the Hells, must too have known that something may happen that day - and for a moment, when he saw the dark blue skin and the wings of a fiend amidst what had once been a city, Raphael almost thought he had come face to face with his sire. 

Then the fiend turned, and the fear and surprise fizzled out into anger. Standing above him, a black crown with three shimmering stones in his hands, was the Steward of Cania. 

For the briefest moment, Raphael considered trying to attack, to wrestle the Crown from him; for that same brief moment, Adonides seemed startled to see him there. They stared at one another, the Steward of Avernus and the Steward of Cania, the exiled son and the dutiful servant of Mephistopheles. Then Adonides’ handsome features twisted in a mocking smile that did not reach his jet-black eyes. Dust and smoke covered the sun, yet those eyes shone.

“Steward of Avernus. This is an unexpected meeting indeed, but a fortuitous one. You came on time to witness me taking possession of the Crown of Karsus on behalf of the Lord of the Eighth,” he spoke, mockery in every word, before he tilted back his head and called. 

Summoned by his cry, four gelugons appeared around him in a burst of cold, cold light - to act as witnesses, no doubt, as well as to act as a deterrent in case Raphael was truly foolish enough to try and attack. But of course, there was nothing he could do. Even if he could best all of them - and perhaps he could, in his Ascended form - the simple truth was that by Infernal law, the Crown now belonged to Mephistopheles, the master of the one who’d claimed it in his name. As a fiend himself, Raphael was beholden to that law. 

As long as the Crown was in Mephistopheles’ possession, he could not touch it.

“Behold - this I claim for my master Mephistopheles, Lord of the Eighth, ruler of Cania, master of Hellfire, Archmage of the Hells!”

This too he claims as his, and he needed not lift a finger.

Fury clouded Raphael’s vision, threatened to choke him; he did not voice it but it had to show on his face, for Adonides chuckled, lowering the Crown. 

“Do not look so sour, Raphael,” he said, still smiling in that way that told him clearly he would tell everybody in Mephistar about this, how he’d taken the Crown from under his nose. “Believe me, this trinket is in good hands. If anyone may uncover its secrets, it is your lord father. Lord Bel wouldn’t have known what to do with it,” he added, not knowing - or pretending not to suspect - that it was for himself and not for the Lord of the First that Raphael had come there, to try and claim the Crown. 

He did not tell Adonides that, of course. He wasn’t that much of a fool. He only watched, in silence, as his father’s steward left with the Crown and headed to Mephistar - where the most powerful artifact created in thousands of years would collect dust in a vault alongside all of Mephistopheles’ novelties, trophies and projects, which inevitably failed to hold his interest. 

But he would not give Adonides the satisfaction of seeing more of his fury. He did not move, said nothing, until he knew for a fact he was alone, the only living thing standing in the midst of utter ruin.

And then he raged.

***

The roar which rose from the bowels of the palace was faint, yet audible enough to make the entire hall - the upper crust of Mephistar enjoying a lavish banquet, nearly all pit fiends with the notable exception of a rather sour-faced steward Adonides - freeze, as though the glacial winds of Cania had somehow found their way into the heart of the citadel.

The silence that followed was brief, but it felt like hours to Dalah, who clutched the pitcher she had been carrying in silence. Another distant roar, and all eyes in the room shifted to Chamberlain Barbas. The one, everybody knew, who had been put in charge of the vaults’ new guardian.

There was a tittering laugh from one end of the table, where Justiciar Bele sat. “It seems to me, Barbas, that your charge is once again misbehaving. I heard he destroyed several servants and killed two guards only last week. Shall you bring it to heel permanently, as you said you did last time, or should you perhaps inform Lord Mephistopheles that the beast needs… correcting?”

The mere thought of Mephistopheles approaching Israfel, doing anything to him, made Dalah want to scream. Part of her wanted to plead to be sent back to work in the vaults instead of serving at those hideous banquets, where she’d been put to work on a whim, picked at random after some sort of incident befell the souls who’d been put to work there before. 

It was lighter work, yet she’d despaired. How could she keep watch over him, how could she protect him, so far from the vaults where he dwelled? She could not, and each time she heard him roar in the distance she felt as powerless as she had on the day he’d been born. 

She’d been helpless then too, feeling her life slip away alongside the blood, too exhausted to deliver the burnt lining of her womb. She’d seen Rahirek’s stunned face when he found her, the horror, the grief; she had seen him raise his sword to kill what must have been a vision of horror indeed, that creature nursing at her breast like a leech taking its fill of blood from a dying body. Yet he had stilled when she’d cradled it tight and raised a hand to protect it, when she’d spent her last moments pleading for her husband to let her offspring live so that he too could keep drawing breath, to not let her death be for nothing. 

Now, it was worse. She couldn’t even plead, not without eliciting questions she could not answer.

I can make it stop, it’s me he wants, can’t you see? Are you all so blind you cannot see this only started when you took me from the vaults? Take me to him, let me soothe him, let him know that I am well.

At the end of the table, Barbas was standing with a scoff. “Bothering our lord is unnecessary. He is on the cusp of a breakthrough in his studies, and should not be disturbed for minor inconveniences. The creature can be brought under control quite easily, as long as the guards have enough nerve,” he added. 

A lie, that: no guard in the vault was a match to Israfel’s perpetually ascended state. But the chamberlain did not want Mephistopheles to think he may have lost control of the new guardian to his treasures, plainly enough, and so lie he did. As transparent as that lie was, every devil at the long table pretended to believe it, only letting their lips curl in mocking smiles when Barbas left the hall with hurried steps.

In truth, everyone knew that Lord Mephistopheles was on the cusp of no breakthrough at all. He was rather in one of those dark moods of his, when he was alone in his quarters with none allowed even in the vicinity but ever faithful Duke Hutijin, guarding the doors to keep everybody else out. 

Even so, it was not unusual to hear the horrifying noises coming from that closed off wing of the palace, the shrieks like those of the damned, the devastating onslaught of unleashed, uncontrolled arcane magic. Some murmured of horrifying experiments on souls, causing them to cry out so; others murmured, their voices even lower, that Mephistopheles’ fury and hatred would turn inward when alone and in such a dark mood - that once he destroyed walls and furniture he’d tear at his own robes, gouge deep lines across his own skin in his wrath, drawing black blood thick with rot and arcane magic.

“My consort may enjoy company upon occasion,” Duchess Baalphegor had once said, in a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject. “But there is company which he cannot bear when in a particularly foul mood, and unfortunately enough it happens to be his own.”

Whatever the truth was, the screeching would eventually cease and the Lord of the Eighth would emerge from his quarters dignified and even courteous as ever, no trace of destruction in his rooms, no marks on his face nor tears on his robes. Everyone would pretend to have heard nothing, just as everyone pretended not to know of the hellfire burning away beneath Cania’s ice… and so it would go on until the next crisis. 

As of now, pit fiends were clearly happy to turn their gossip to an easier target - the chamberlain, and Israfel. “I heard he had to get the High Cantor in the vault to sing for it, last time, to soothe it,” someone said, and the comment brought laughter around the table. 

“A voice so lovely, it can even tame that beast.”

“Rumor has it that Raphael was sweet on her, when he was young. And, well, whole.”

“Well, of course. A halfbreed she may be, but Lady Antilia is as beautiful as they come.”

“Rumor has it she was sweet on him, too.”

“Oh, that I do not buy for a second.”

More laughter, but Dalah was not truly listening, her gaze fixed on the door which had closed behind Barbas’ back, trying not to think how the chamberlain planned to bring Israfel back under his control. Worried as she was, she failed to notice another servant who was no servant at all leaning towards the only guest at the table who’d not laughed, and whispering something. 

She could not, however, not notice the consequences of that quick, whispered sentence. Dalah turned just on time to see Adonides, steward of Cania, standing from his seat and saying something about work to be done as he took his leave. She went to move out of his way as he headed to the door, still clutching the pitcher, but a look from him was enough to make her still. He looked at her rather than through her, those pitch black eyes terrible to behold against the dark blue of his skin which so set him apart amidst pit fiends. Out of place, even, he who was native to Cania.

“You,” he said, his voice somewhat bored. “I’ll require your services.”

Dalah found herself staring, terrified as always when directly addressed by a devil who could destroy her with a gesture and hardly a thought. She bowed her head. “Duke Adonides, I am to serve here until further--”

“This is your further notice. It is an order, and I shan’t be questioned. Come,” he added, and went to step past her. Only then did he speak again, his voice only a whisper, meant for her ears alone. “Come, and you may yet help your son.”

He knows.

The realization sank in her stomach like a stone, and part of her wondered if it was a trap, but she forced herself to ignore it. You may yet help your son, he had said, and it was that sentence which got her to follow Adonides out of the room, her fingers still clenched on the pitcher. Behind her, the servant who was not a servant at all kept staring, quietly, before fading back  into the coming and goings of servants and then disappearing entirely without anybody taking notice. Months since her banishment from Cania, not one fiend in court had taken notice of her presence but those she chose to turn to.

Lady Baalphegor had always known how to go unnoticed, when she had to.

***

Looking back later, Karlach would have to admit that thinking they could really make it all the way to the topmost floor of the Flying Fortress unchallenged had been maybe a touch optimistic on their part. Sometimes you’ve just got to hope something is going to go your way, even in the Hells - especially in the Hells - so that you don’t go completely insane. 

And to be fair, they made it remarkably close to that top floor before it all went wrong. 

Soul refills were always a busy time in the fortress. Actually, all times were busy times in the fortress, but refills would be busier. That meant that any devil they came across - some new faces, some fuckers Karlach remembered well - could do little more than spare a passing glance and a sneer when they saw her walking by, hands held behind her back by manacles which were actually not locked shut, with Wyll holding the end of the chain as he walked by Mizora’s side. “Got her in the end, Mizora?” some asked, gaining themselves a sharp smile.

“One of my warlocks turned out to be useful, for once.”

They laughed, then, half satisfied to see Karlach brought to heel - who did she think she was, thinking she could escape what they could not? - and mostly envious that they were not the ones to succeed in the task and earn Zariel’s favor… as if her favor was ever anything but bad news. The sneers did tend to die down when they noticed what came after them - a hollyphant, that hollyphant, seemingly back from the dead, with a manacle around each limb. 

They plainly did not recognize the others - Raphael’s human form was not so widely known in the Hells, he’d assured them, and it seemed he’d been right - but they could very easily guess they were headed to Zariel. A few words from Mizora sent anybody in the mood to ask more questions scurrying away. 

Soon enough they were as far up as the mechanical elevator allowed, not quite to the top but almost; close enough that Karlach could almost sense the dread that came with Zariel’s mere presence, overpowering, worse than the smell of iron and the constant, constant humming noise in the background. That noise had almost driven her insane several times, to the point she’d even been relieved to hear it drowned out by the thunderous bangs of infernal weaponry a few decks below or above, by the roar as engines were pushed to their limit. 

Even being ordered to go on the ground and fight had been a relief, sometimes. Better than being in the fortress, which felt so much like a gigantic coffin waiting to claim her for good, all stone and infernal iron, glowing runes spelling some bullshit she could never read on the walls. And now there she was again, by her own choice. 

“How big is this place?” Astarion whispered when they stepped out the elevator, when he realized there were yet more flights of stairs to go up before they reached the top. 

“Fucking big, but we’re almost there,” Karlach whispered back, and looked over at Mizora. “You sure Zariel is going to be alone? Flo was always around her, like a very ugly lap dog.”

A light scoff. “Of course I made sure that wouldn't happen. I ensured she took her barking somewhere else.”

“Good. That's a face I'd rather never see again,” Karlach muttered, and of course - of fucking course - she didn't get her wish. Speak of the devil and all that.

“We only have one chance to talk her into reverting to her old self,” Raphael said, and glanced sideways at Lulu. “I certainly hope that speech of yours--”

Whatever he was about to say next, they never got to hear it. The ring at Raphael's finger glowed suddenly - stupid stupid they should have all taken them off - and before any of them had the time to react, there was a burst of light. It was bright enough to force Karlach to close her eyes against it but even, so knew precisely who she'd see standing in Raphael's place before she even opened them. The laugh alone was a dead giveaway, loud and obnoxious and almost like she meant it. Somewhere on her left, she heard Mizora mutter a curse that had something to do with Graz'zt cock for some reason.

“Hey, Karlach,” Florenta the Garroter spoke with a wide grin, the ring still glowing at her finger. “Long time no see.”

***

“Obey, damn you! I command you , obey!”

It was rare for a devil of the chamberlain’s ilk to give away what they were truly feeling, but even Dalah could sense the not-too-subtle panic beneath Barbas’ imperious orders. He was standing several paces away from Israfel, one hand lifted, struggling to gain a hold of him through… whatever magic he’d been granted to do so, she supposed. 

It kept the burning ascended fiend at bay, but that was it; Israfel still stood over the charred remains of what may have been either guards or servants. Rather than retreating, he roared. 

“Duke Barbas, perhaps we should--”

“Be quiet, is what you should do, while I bring it to heel!”

Barbas’ fist clenched, lifted up in the air, some sort of dark magic shimmering around his fingers; it made Israel’s roar turn into a strangled noise of pain and he staggered back, making clicking noises in the back of his skulls. He was hurting, and still he raged. 

“Whatever it is you do that calms him, do it,” Adonides had hissed when he brought her to the vault, putting her in place of another soul cowering by the door and taking her away to serve at the banquet hall instead, to her utter relief. “Bring him under control before Barbas is forced to turn to Mephisto, and he decides his volatile new guardian is too much hassle to keep alive. He is not in a merciful mood as of late.”

Is he ever, Dalah had wanted to ask, but she had enough sense to keep quiet and pushed her way through the cowering servants, to the doorway from which the roars came. There was nothing Dalah ever did to calm him; not the way the High Cantor could soothe him with her voice. She did nothing, other than being there… and she could only hope it would be enough now, too, that he wasn’t too far gone. 

Heart hammering somewhere in her throat - how curious that she’d still feel such sensations when she truly was nothing but soul and ether, her actual heart dust somewhere on another plane - Dalah pushed her way to the front of the cowering mass, as close as she could get without angering one of the guards, and tried to catch Israfel’s eyes. If she could no longer calm him-- she didn’t even want to think of it. 

“We need all of him to be safe,” Haarlep had said. “I’d rather find you both still here when I return.”

To her relief, it only took moments for Israel to see her. Those unnatural yellow eyes paused on her, and he went very still, the roar that had been building in his chest toned down to a growl, more questioning than furious.

Unaware of the fact it was not him the creature was looking at, Baras let out an unpleasant, barking laugh. 

“Yes! Know your place, you wretched thing, and obey me, in Lord Mephistopheles’ name!”

Oh gods, please shut up, Dalah thought. If the way one of Israfel’s eyes shifted to him and he growl in the back of his throats ratcheting up were of any indication, her son-- what is left of him -- was thinking precisely the same thing. If probably without the ‘please’, and with a ‘or else’ tacked at the end.

Dalah shook her head, as subtle as she could, and to her relief all eyes shifted back to her. Obey, she mouthed, and Israfel let out a huffing sound… but the fury was gone, and he was no longer beyond reason. To her utter relief, he finally backed down with a shake of his heads. She let out a long breath and glanced around to make sure no one had noticed her, but it seemed no one had. 

Hard to pay attention to a measly human soul, she supposed, with an ascended fiend and the chamberlain of Mephistar facing off just a few paces away.

“... Mph. See, it can be brought under control. You only need to be assertive, you imbeciles,” Barbas spoke, as though his voice hadn't almost cracked when Israfel had roared. He said more, the usual mix of bragging and assurances that now the creature would certainly behave, no need to bother the Lord of the Eighth over it. 

Orders were given to clear the corpses and call in more guards, more souls to resume the work. Dalah kept her gaze low, lest she be recognized as someone who was serving him wine in the banquet hall not half an hour ago, but it was a useless precaution. No one bothered to remember a debtor's face, and the chamberlain made no exception. 

It was a relief when he left, a relief to be once again in the vaults. The other souls and the guards were on edge, moving slowly and as far from Israfel as they could, but she felt lighter than she'd had in days. As long as she was there, he'd behave. As long as she was there, he was safe… just as she'd promised Haarlep, before they left to try and assist her son’s other half, all the way up to the first layer of the Hells.

“Be careful up there. I’d rather see both come back.”

As she took on her usual work, acutely aware of the fact her presence alone made all the difference when it came to Israfel's survival, she wondered how the other half of him - that human half she barely had a chance to look at, the one which looked like her but whom she could only think of as Raphael, the name Mephistopheles had chosen - was faring all the way up in Avernus.

***

Raphael was not easily surprised. 

Part of the reason why he'd lived as long as he did was that he could always predict several outcomes for his every move, and made contingency plans for each. In most cases, he had contingency plans for the contingency plans. Granted, it was not infallible - for example, he had not accounted for the sheer insanity of a gang of mortals choosing to infiltrate his House of Hope and steal for him. He was not impossible to surprise but still, it was no easy feat.

When he was transported back outside the Fortress in the blink of an eye, finding himself back under the red sky of Avernus and surrounded by a couple dozen armed barbazus as well as a few hamatulas, he would have had to admit he was very surprised indeed, if anyone bothered to ask him. However, none of the devils around him was in a conversational mood. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” a broken, bleeding thing that may have once been a tiefling was choking out, curled up on the ground. It didn't take a lot of guesswork to tell she had to be the prisoner Mizora had swapped for Raphael… and there were no rings at any of her fingers now.

Of course. Seven prisoners swapped for seven intruders, and the one to get caught simply had to be my replacement.

“They caught me while I tried to get away, they made me tell them, she made me tell her--”

With a guttural roar, one of the barbazus brought down his glaive into the tiefling’s throat, silencing her for good. As she gargled, drowning in her own blood, every guard's eyes turned back to Raphael. Lips were pulled back on gleaming fangs, weapons were raised, and they growled. It was clear that there would be battle, and a very unbalanced one to boot. His companions were nowhere to be seen; they were still in the Fortress, dealing with whomever had taken his place there. He was on his own.

Raphael closed his eyes, drew in a long breath, and muttered a single word that, however crude, summed up his predicament quite accurately. Concisely, too.

“Shit.”

***

[Back to Chapter 24]

[On to Chapter 26]

[Back to Start]

[al-hekima-madara-blog]

Madara & hindu cosmology

It's a thought I had following this post here

It's interesting that Madara never wished to resurrect his loved ones contrary to Obito. It seems that Izuna's death but more precisely the valley of the end’s defeat marked for him a definitive rupture with "this world". He was not interested anymore about his own desires. If you think about it, he was not supposed to be part of this collective dream that could have longed an eternity from the perception of those inside the dream. If everything had gone according to his plan, he would be just there alone watching people slowly dying in their cocoons.

Actually, I’ve realized recently that from my western perspective, I didn't pay attention to the Buddhist cultural aspect and in some instances the hindu cosmology. There is between both religions cultural bridges that we can't really see in the West shaped in judeo-christian background but from an asian/japanese audience it's implicit. In hinduism there is this idea that the material world is but a creative dream from the imagination of a god. He manifests himself in a sort of trinity:

Brahma the creator

Vishnu the protector

Shiva the destroyer (in order to recreate a new world) and note that Shiva is also associated as the Lord of dance. Shiva Nataraja destroys the cosmos, each steps is creating movement in the dissolution of the universe. It's a doomsdays to end a cycle and allow a new one to be born.

Shiva Nataraja, Lord of dance and destruction

Madara's plan is a way to attain this godhood state, to annihilate the world and recreate it again. We first met him during the apex of the 4th shinobi war, impersonating in a way Shiva, he destroyed the current shinobi world. From his perspective it's a failed world, or should I say a dream who turned into a nightmare, created by another god Hagoromo and perpetuated by his spiritual heirs Hashirama/Naruto. Obito in creating the Akatsuki and collecting the Bijuus, was incarnating one of Shiva's steps. He was preparing the dissolution of the world by perverting the shinobi system and hastening the apparition of the true "Shiva".

Madara’s Brahma phase can be paralleled with him being the second Sage Rikudou and having access to all the chakra on Earth and opening his third eye which represents in hinduism and buddhism the invisible one who brings mystical illumination and visions in the realm of high consciousness. If his plan would have succeeded he would have been a type of Vishnu protecting the new world. Alone, but keeping safe humanity inside his dream.

And as odditiesinnaruto said, time in a dream can be infinite. If Izumi was able to have a whole life with Itachi and "dying old", Madara must have been capable of putting someone in a dream where they exist and continue their life through their imaginary descendants for generations and generations, for centuries and millions of years which represents few seconds in real life. He would have literally created a Madaraverse inside the zombified Narutoverse (it sounds really like the movie Inception). And in his dream, somewhere the Uchiha clan and the whole world will "exist" in peace forever. It gives me vertigo!

[umbran6]

What if... Leo got a Cult?

For those of you who have seen some of my previous posts, this one is based on the What if… Leo Became a God? For those of you who know liked, reblogged, or both, thank you very much. For those of you who may not know, please click on the underline. But for those who just want a quick TLDR about that: Leo burns away his mortality while fighting Gaea, which led to him becoming a god. 

Now, I know I’m jumping into possibly ridiculous territory. Leo just became a god. How the hell does he get a cult so quickly? However, I argue that this is one of the most vital components when considering any headcanon that involves one character becoming a god. Gods need domains, belief, memories to maintain their form in the real world. We see an active example of what happens when gods don’t have this through Pan — his domain had been defiled and belief in him had dwindled to the point he ceased to exist. You can't just have demigods like Percy reach godhood without explaining what's going to keep them around afterwards, so this is my attempt to explain as such.

Hera teaches this to Leo when she informs him of his newfound godhood. To truly become a god beyond the few years after his ascension, he needs to give people reason to believe in him. Hercules had his Twelve Labors which are still told to this day. Dionysus had his cult which actively praised him as the God of Wine, and his memory is associated with the twelve Olympians. More minor gods such as Triptolemus lean on a divine patron for their domains, becoming their lieutenants to help make up for a lack of belief. 

Leo needs something to latch him into the real world, because once his friends die and people start forgetting about him if he doesn’t do anything about it, he will cease to exist unless he decides to piggyback off Hephaestus or Hera. Yeah, that course of action is not going to fly - Leo still has a grudge against Hephaestus for ‘going out to get milk’ for nearly all his life, and while Hera is starting to make up for the Nanny-From-Hell Incidents, he still doesn’t trust her. 

Leo understands that but does not know how to achieve it. Nor does he know if he wants to achieve it. Aside from his own feat of destroying Gaea, he doesn’t see why someone would want to worship him. He hasn’t given anyone reason to. So, he decides to avoid doing so - if he was to be glorified, it would only be through ways he thought were right. Little did he forget a good portion of genre-savviness - A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.

Instead, he focuses on the benefits of becoming a minor god. Not the supreme power, but more on the practical benefits. Practical, as in, Leo has everything he needs to live. He easily erases records of his past from the public eye, allowing him to be among mortals without any issue, though he does slightly gaslight his mortal family by popping up in front of them when they least expect it, slowly driving them to insanity. He doesn’t have to worry about money because he can easily conjure it. Our boy got himself the upgrade and glow-up in ways that he could never imagine and doesn’t have to experience the hardship he went through in the streets anymore.

To put it bluntly, Leo knows the negatives of immortality, that everyone he loves will die eventually. But now he can, ironically enough, live. Being able to pop into a country with a snap of his fingers, be free of searching for food every day, having the time to study whatever he pleases and indulge when he never could. All of those are miracles he never takes for granted. Leo loves being a god because there are just so many benefits and so little loss to him on a personal level in the short term.

So, he travels the world, enjoying what he could never appreciate in his voyage in the Argo II, bringing his mom with him for the ride while Calypso adjusts to the modern world. They backpack or rest in luxury, but Leo is not blind as he travels the world — regardless of his newfound godhood, he still sees the poor, the hungry, the sick. The people they used to be before he was aware of his status as a demigod, and before he gave his mom a second chance at life. 

So, Leo helps. Out of empathy, he conjures food and builds shelters for those in need. He teaches what he can and offers resources that help people learn when he can’t teach while he quickly studies the subjects necessary to make their lives better. When violence breaks out, he is the first one to intervene, bringing order to bloody chaos. and crushing threats with the snap of his fingers. Normally the Mist hides the divine, but the world has become more open-minded as fantasy and the supernatural become more entrenched in popular culture. Mortals don’t recognize what he is, but they can understand that there was something more powerful hiding behind the face of a young boy. Children who are more open to the concept of the supernatural know his true nature.

The mortal world formally recognizes him when the media sees Leo put down a war between gangs with steel, fire, and blood, sparing the civilians caught in the crossfire and clutching the leaders by their neck in front of the press. Articles spring up and the rumors and videos lurking in the internet are given legitimacy by the public. They don’t know how to name Leo at first - and they initially draw on pop culture as a reference. Some call him The Boy on Fire, others more familiar with his philanthropy dub him The Architect. In the end, they settle for one title: The Ashborn, for his arrival was heralded by the ashes of those burnt by his flames.  Debates regarding what exactly Leo is are furious - some claim he’s a spirit, others claim he is the reincarnation of whichever spiritual figure they pray to. Some think he’s a devil, but even they can’t deny the good he does. The people he saved praise the god hidden among humans, and the Cult of Ash is formed, though Leo keeps a strict eye so that it does not cause harm, physical or mental, to anyone.

Inspired by his travels when he comes back home while keeping a laser focus on his growing cult, Leo builds. A lot. He makes the first demigod cellphones and starts distributing them around the world to demigods in need, allowing them to communicate with both their mortal and supernatural loved ones, though he partners with Iris so that it has more support among the gods. When he comes across the Waystation, he is inspired to create similar locations around the world so demigods can have temporary shelter. He builds smaller versions of the Argo II so that demigods can travel between camps with ease. He becomes practically a one-man industrial revolution for the demigods, and that resonates through most of the world. 

The demigods don’t know how to react to this. They’ve never had a god actively be interested in improving their lives before, much less so directly. To them, the gods have always been distant - important, of course, but not omnipresent and certainly never aiding them unless it was quid pro quo. But Leo is there. He’s talking to them, handing his inventions without charge. He’s helping, and they don’t know what to do because some of them feel they can do more than just say thank you. 

The demigods, in their confusion, go back to the ancient ways of their predecessors when treating the gods to show respect and praise. Sometimes it’s a simple ‘Thanks Leo’ when a demigod uses their phone to call their mortal friends and family. Sometimes it is food burnt in his honor. Some decide to take a more modern approach and make things in his image. Yes, that means the demigods make Leo merch, including a Mythomagic card and figurine that makes Nico choke on air.

But what stands out are the prayers. Demigods start praying to him for safety, for his intelligence and strength when facing the challenges they face in life. When an attempt to transport three demigods to Camp Half-Blood goes horribly wrong, the satyr prays to Leo for protection. Leo appears and slays the horde in a single motion while he guides the demigods to Camp. The demigods he saves sing his praises while getting a more positive outlook of the gods, for now they know there is someone among the divine that advocates for them. 

Much like the mortals, the demigods give him his own epithets, but they recognize the truth about his ascension. Those who focus on his work in improving the lives of the demigods call him Léon o Efevrétis - Leo the Inventor. For those who focus on the true power he wields, they call him as thus: Apocalypsis Leo. Leo of the Apocalypse, for he was the one that struck down the world when it dared to rise against the gods. 

Leo can sense these prayers. He doesn’t know how to react to them because he’s never had people… believe in him. He’s used to hiding his powers, hiding who he is. Now people are idolizing him (literally - someone’s already made an idol figurine of him, and it makes him look too hot than he really should be) for who he really is. It feels good, but he doesn’t know how to react towards them. He doesn’t know if he is doing the right thing by allowing them to worship him, or that he should encourage them to focus elsewhere. 

So, with a bit of advice from Hera, Leo turns towards the closest god to experience what he went through, Mr. D. Only he would be the one to understand the dilemma that Leo is going through, at least in passing for he himself was also idolized. Leo, with a bit of time, confides in him - mainly because he knows he can’t exactly go about spilling everything to the Olympian. But with time, he does bring up the problem - by allowing people to venerate him, was he doing the right thing? 

Mr. D. can’t answer that. Because Leo’s cult is still growing in numbers, and the results of their actions were yet to be seen. But he does give a nugget of wisdom. That how he treats his followers defines him as a god, but if he cares about the independence of his followers, or how they act, then he should lead by example. Do not encourage them to glorify him but guide them. Whether he was worth being treated as a deity, and if that was the right thing, was a decision the mortals would make among themselves. Thus, outside of Hera and Apollo, Leo makes his first friend among the gods. With this, Dionysus also begins his path as the Camp’s official psychiatric counselor. 

The Olympians' (and the other Pantheons) reactions are mixed. Zeus of course thinks that it should be put down, seeing it as possible threat against the gods. Those more reluctant to accept Leo think that if his cult keeps growing, Leo may gun for a throne among the council. His friends among the divine (his demigod friends are a mixed bag, but I'll get back to that later) see it as Leo getting the reverence he deserves as a god, the same reverence they went through during the times of Ancient Greece, Macedon, and Rome. Some just think the cult will devolve over time. The other Pantheons keep a close eye on both him and his cult, seeing him as a new and powerful player on the international stage of the gods.

However, Leo’s mortal friends are a mixed bag of responses. Reasonable, of course - they’re witnesses, and in some cases, unwitting conspirators to Leo’s ascension. They see their friend unknowingly shaping the world around him through his travels, the news articles and shrines being created in his name, and the legend that grows. And of course, each one has a different take on the cult that grows.

Annabeth is not worried about it. She is somewhat wary of the pace Leo is bringing innovation, for demigods never had to deal with modernization in the ways most mortals dream of. Oh, she loves all the new phones and the fact that she doesn’t have to constantly rely on more impractical methods for communicating with her friends. But she wants Leo to allow other inventors to grow, and for the cult not to persecute those who want to create and stand on their own two feet. 

 Percy sees Leo as his ‘what if’ — what could’ve happened if he chose godhood. He sees all the inventions that Leo makes and how he is making life so much easier for everyone, and he can’t help but compare himself to him, wondering if he could do more. Whenever some of Leo’s worshipers see their subject of worship, they radiate gratitude. He doesn’t know what to make of the cult, but he feels a bit envious when he sees the smiles on everyone’s faces whenever Leo shows up. 

Frank, Hazel, and Reyna, while trying to be friends with him, don’t know how to handle the cult. The cult is gaining influence in New Rome, and its slowly starting to show as more statuettes of Leo appear and more prayers are sung. It speaks volumes of the cult’s growth when New Rome's Senate officially pardons Leo about the Eidolon incident without any prompting. The best they can do is that Leo keeps his cult in check, which he is more than happy to do so. 

Unfortunately, and ironically enough, its Jason and Piper that cannot accept, or at least overcome the cult, but for two separate reasons. Regardless, it has a very devastating effect on their relationship because these two reasons are heavily linked to them as characters. 

For Jason, Leo has unknowingly made his job as Pontifex Maximus extremely more difficult. Leo has indirectly set a higher standard for the minor gods - minor gods aren’t just allowed to exist anymore. They should have influence on their lives, or they should somehow benefit the demigods. Gods such as Tyche/Fortuna and Nemesis still have their own domains that are seen day-to-day, but the more minor gods are heavily criticized for their inaction, with Jason bearing the brunt of said criticism. It’s a slap on the face for Jason when he has spent weeks trying to get a single minor god’s temple approved by the Senate and now must beg and grovel for funding, while the only reason Leo’s worshippers haven’t built him a temple is because they want the guy’s approval of it. 

Leo, although doing his best to maintain neutrality, knows the truth behind Jason’s oath — that he had done it to save his and Percy’s skin when they were at Kymopoleia’s mercy. When the minor gods try to blame Leo for the lack of the oath’s success, he argues in his own defense - the people chose to worship him out of their own free will and Jason was still doing his best to uphold the bargain. But when they ask Kymopoleia about the deal, they get a lot more context and see Jason as unwilling and selfish, seeing his lack of success as more him trying to find a loophole in the oath he swore. 

Jason doesn’t see the bigger picture. All he sees is that everyone is more than happy to sing Leo’s praises for being the hottest god on the block, while everyone is hating him for making sure that the minor gods get their moment in the sun. This slowly starts to build more resentment as the monopoly-board with all the minor gods' shrines seems to be just a dream. In an ironic twist, Jason is now resentful about Leo being the golden boy in the eyes of everyone while he’s the one being overlooked, which was the exact opposite situation when Leo was a demigod. 

Piper, in the meantime, is more resentful of Leo as a whole. Mainly because she sees Leo growing more famous, and more people are asking her about trying to speak with Leo rather than her. She’s reminded of a similar situation with her and her father - that she was seen more as a link to him rather than as a person overall. 

Furthermore, much like Jason, she is also feeling overshadowed. When people speak of their quests, they don't give her the respect that she deserves. They don't discuss Piper giving Festus sentience to fight Khione, because nobody else on the Argo II can’t really accept it —Piper’s charmspeak never showed such a degree of power before. Her role in defeating Gaea? She claims that she ‘put Gaea to sleep’ with her charmspeak, but the thing about an auditory power is that… you can’t exactly hear it from several stories high up, and Jason’s supporting claim is looked upon with suspicion because he is her boyfriend, of course he’ll speak on her behalf. Only Leo can testify otherwise, but outside of that she is given the ‘Princess Peach treatment’ (and no, not like the new Mario Movie), with most of her role being downplayed. 

It doesn’t help that her cognition of Leo is very much against the view his followers have of him. She and Jason always viewed Leo as… more of a jester than the inventor he always was. Good for jokes and getting along with, not exactly one she could see as engineering a plot to kill a goddess. She treats the cult’s viewpoint of Leo as a joke. In the meantime, the cult views him as the leader of innovation, the one who killed Gaea and brought an age of information to the demigods. This ends up in her getting involved in several arguments which leads to a nearly borderline fight with Leo’s followers. Either way, she’s convinced the cult needs to be shut down and Leo is ridiculous for allowing it to flourish. 

 It’s tragic, because they were the ones that cared the most about Leo, and they cannot accept the ways everything close to him changed. They, who should’ve accepted him unconditionally, are the least tolerant of him changing. They cannot accept the new status quo and want a return to normality that can never come back. 

When they confront Leo, it's not pretty. They never really argued, for Leo always held his tongue whenever he was frustrated, always willing to talk less and smile more when he wanted to lash out. It always was like that, him shutting up when he wanted to make a comment that would sting. Not anymore. 

Leo doesn’t have a good reason to shut down the cult, and neither does he want to. They haven't hurt anybody in his name, nor has he encouraged them to do so (and he’s been keeping a tight grip on that). He would advocate for Jason and Piper, but shutting down his entire group of worshipers just because his friends didn’t like them? Especially from Jason, who was supposed to honor all the gods, Leo himself now in that category? No.  

What occurs is an between friends that have completely different views of the future. Leo recognizes that there’s no returning back to ‘the good old days’ — in his point of view, there weren’t any. Jason and Piper believe they’ve lost their friend to his newfound godhood… but they never had him in the first place. They had the façade, the mask of jokes he put in front of the world, so they didn’t have to see his true reaction. Now that people seem to be appreciating him for his abilities, for what he has done and how he treats everybody, he finally decides to take it off and verbally starts swinging. It’s the first and last time they fight before we get into the Trials of Apollo. 

This cult doesn’t initially have any impact… until Trials of Apollo. And Leo’s presence, though subtle, is practically everywhere throughout most of the book. Rather than Apollo landing in a dumpster, Leo tweaks things slightly so that he ends up landing at a close mattress. When Apollo gets to the Jackson residence, there’s a small shrine Sally put up - not out of worship for Leo, but out of respect for what work he has done to protect demigods. Apollo stumbles upon a newspaper rambling about the Ash Cult.

Here’s the thing where things get ridiculously funny for those in the know. Apollo doesn’t remember that past six months, and therefore thinks Leo is dead. He unknowingly mutters a prayer to Leo, thinking Sally’s shrine is to honor his memory and not the god. When he gets to Camp Half-Blood, he’s shocked to see demigods using phones and thanking Leo. He sees the smaller versions of the Argo II, which just transported a bunch of demigods from Camp Jupiter.  He sees a temple with a statue of Leo which Apollo mistakes for a monument. The Triumvirate’s attempt to silence demigod communications through Harpocrates is shattered because Leo is several times stronger than the fading god with his vibrant worship in a world where the gods’ power remains in the memories they laid upon the human consciousness. 

Most interactions whenever Leo is name-dropped can be summarized as such: 

Apollo: I’m sorry for your loss. He was the greatest hero I’ve ever known.

The Campers: Eh, its ok. We’re sure he’s going to show up soon. 

It comes to a head when we get to the part of where Apollo is being forced to open the gates to the Grove of Dodona. During his attempts at stopping himself, he does his best to resist the command. He starts praying for somebody to stop him, because there was no way in Tartarus he would willingly cooperate with Nero. He prays to his sister, to his father no matter how much Apollo may hate him. He hopes that anybody will appear - Will and Nico, preferably with backup of a hundred demigods and Percy Jackson. He latches into a small hope the prayers the campers utter. He hopes that Leo shows up soon. 

It seems nothing happens. The gates still open. In the distance, Apollo sees the Colossus Neronis lumber towards Camp, showing up several minutes ahead of schedule. Nero still tosses that lighter and ignites the Greek fire, which spreads towards the hostages at the stake. And for the sake of drama, I’m going to switch it to Apollo’s first-person point of view.

For a second, everything’s falling apart. Nero starts to lug his guard like an oversized potato sack. The fire is starting to roar in its toxic green, burning through everything that it can touch with its bare hands. There’s no stopping it - unless magic’s used, Greek Fire will burn through everything it can consume. If I already felt enraged when Nero tossed the cigarette lighter to the ground, my heart is now sinking as I look into the distance, feeling the ground tremble at my feet. 

The Colossus Neronis. How did forget about it? The statue’s already marching forward, the hundred-foot-tall masterpiece hitting the magic barriers of Camp Half-Blood with a blade the size of a ship rudder. Though my legs are getting me to Austin, I don't know how the heck we were going to beat this thing and put out the fire in time. 

Then… I see something. For a second I think I'm going mad due to the smoke, but then my eyes focus, getting a picture that was crystal clear for just a few precious seconds. A figure soars across the sky, glowing gold that is tinged with red as it carves through the blue sky. It collides with the Colossus, and the statue staggers back at the sheer amount of force for a few seconds. 

I heard of Deus Ex Machina. I appreciated it, derided it, criticized it, and loved the trope when it occurred on mortal media. I loved being one when I really wanted a chance to shine. But I was never on the other side, witnessing it in action until now. I can’t help but freeze in awe as the figure stopped the enemy with a single motion. 

The Colossus stares at the figure for a few seconds, but that was all the figure needed. They unsheathe a sword which glows with the same aura that enshrouds its wielder and slices towards the machine. The blast it unleashed was thin, yet shined with the intensity of a laser, and the figure sheathes the blade.

Then the Colossus is split straight down the middle as soon as I blink, one half superheated to the point it was a mirror of the horizon before both sides fell towards the distant hill. A threat that would’ve stomped Camp Half-Blood is defeated in just a few seconds. Numbly I could hear someone shouting in frustration, but who it was, I didn’t pay attention. 

The figure turns, and it takes me a second to realize - somehow, they were facing me. Then in a second they fly where I’m at with the speed of a fighter jet, landing next to the flames. The figure’s still covered by that blinding light, but the shadow of their palm is visible, and it sucked in the Greek fire like a vacuum until there was nothing left. 

Loud clapping resonated across the grove, and it takes me a moment to register who its coming from - Nero. Nero’s clapping at the figure with a rare expression on his face - one of respect. 

“So, the rumors are true. A new Ascendant has reached the ranks of Olympus.” 

“And I heard rumors that the supposed dead are walking. Guess it’s time to confirm that they’re going to stay rumors.”

I don’t have a chance to react at the implications, and neither does Nero. The figure grasps the emperor by the collar and tosses him to the air in one smooth swing of their arm, too fast for Nero to defend himself. The figure unsheathes their sword once again and this time the motion is too fast for me to keep track of. When its done, only the blessing of immortality prevents a pink and red puree of organs and blood from spilling out out when the figure kicks Nero in the chest as a final coup de grace. Instead, Nero is shattered into a pile of golden blood and dust.

Meg screams. The hostages start to wake at the sound, shaking off their varying degrees of unconsciousness at the peal of the alarm. Austin’s the first to register his surroundings, and there’s a smile on my son’s face. “I knew you’d come. You’re always looking out for us.” 

Part of me wants to take the win. But I know Austin’s eyes aren’t focused on me. No, they’re focused on the figure, whose aura is slowly dimming with each passing second. Reverence. Respect. Worship. Emotions seen so rarely in demigods these days are plain to see in my son’s gaze. 

“Thank your father. His prayer wouldn’t have allowed me to pinpoint your location.” The figure’s aura vanishes completely, and suddenly everything makes sense in the most horribly right way. 

Austin did something that was akin to a chuckle. "But you are. Your temple wouldn't have been raised at Camp if you weren't."

My mind was still looking at him. Curly hair that was black like ashes. Light brown skin that sometimes reminded me of copper. A smile that radiated mischief in a way that would rival Hermes. All of those are staring right back at me, and now part of me wants to slap myself for being an utter idiot.

My mind flashes to Sally Jackson’s shrine, the picture and statuette surrounded by food. Then it moves towards the monument at Camp Half-Blood. The gratitude people showed whenever they made a call with the cellphone they used. Nico giving a weird look at the deck of Mythomagic cards that featured Leo. Harley’s confidence when I expressed my condolences at losing his half sibling. “It’s okay. He’ll be here soon.”

Leo never died. Or at least, he didn't die in the traditional sense of the word. Because the person in front of me isn't the same nervous boy who traded an impromptu masterpiece of an instrument for the Curse of Delos. He also very much isn't the demigod who slayed Gaea.

Leo Valdez is a god. The third Ascendant of Olympus. The thought passes through my brain like one of my father’s lightning bolts. My legs turn to jelly, and I barely see Leo catching me with a look of worry on his face before everything turns black. 

[athenasdragon]

Lemon Meringue

Pairing: Gale/m!Tav (Oran is a half-orc oath of the ancients paladin)

Rating: G

Canon compliant, established relationship, angst(ish) with a happy ending

Read on AO3

After departing Moonrise Tower, Oran (Tav) is torn between his love for Gale and his reservations about the wizard's ambitions. After all, his paladin oath charges him with protecting natural order. Could Gale's aspirations of godhood--or Oran's concerns--drive them apart?

A few scenes between the end of Act 2 and the middle of Act 3 exploring a complicated romance. Partially inspired by conversations with @blasphemyenjoyer.

Oran was having trouble focusing on what Gale was saying. They had just dragged themselves back upstairs from the Absolute’s lair; Oran could feel splatters of blood drying on his face, could smell the funk of the mindflayer lair and the dusty-sweet incense of Myrkul on his clothing. He and Shadowheart were exhausted beyond healing, leaving all four members of their party limping, bleeding, and bruised. He never felt more like a stupid hulking beast than in the wake of a hard battle. Too tired for the words in Common that were already difficult to enunciate around his tusks, he had slouched away from Jahiera seeking quiet and a hot meal. Even Astarion was uncharacteristically silent.

Gale, despite a black eye and the viscera clinging to his own hair, was speaking to him—or trying to, as it took some effort to match Oran’s long stride. “We must visit Sorcerous Sundries when we reach Baldur’s Gate,” he was saying when Oran pulled his attention to his words. “They will have the texts on Karsus to help us understand that crown. That is the key to controlling the Elder Brain.”

The idea of Gale eagerly seeking out another Netherese artifact so soon after nearly losing his life to the consequences of a first was even more difficult for Oran to understand than his apparent energy. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he responded simply, feeling a prickle of anger that it even needed to be said.

Gale forged ahead regardless. “Just think of the power we would have. The good we could do! In any case, we must arm ourselves with information about the enemy we face. It’s clear Orin and Gortash are using those crystals to control the crown. If we don’t understand how it works, what hope do we have of defeating them?”

“Fine,” Oran agreed tersely. He stopped for a moment and brought his hand to rest against the side of Gale’s face where the deepest bruising was blooming down over his cheekbone. “Why don’t you find a cleric to take a look at you? I can’t heal any more until I rest.”

Some emotion passed briefly over Gale’s face, as enigmatic as everything else about the wizard, then faded to an understanding smile. “Of course. You’re tired. We can discuss this more another time.”

Oran had to stifle a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He grazed his thumb over Gale’s cheek once, conscious that the skin must be tender, then dropped his hand. “I love you. I’ll see you at camp.”

He watched as Gale turned and left through a doorway to seek healing from one of the Harpers. A large burn had bitten out the corner of his cloak. It looked fixable, but probably not until they reached the city. Only once the charred edge of the fabric had disappeared did Oran turn and keep walking towards the out-of-the-way room where they had pitched camp.

It felt wretched to think, but his romance with Gale had been leading for some time towards a set conclusion. Whatever Oran’s protests, they both knew the wizard would have to sacrifice himself to destroy the Absolute.

Then he didn’t.

When Oran had asked—begged—Gale had chosen him. In the moment it felt incredible. Who had ever chosen him in that way? Who had ever looked at him with such fondness?

But the doubts were growing louder every second. He hadn’t been motivated by thoughts of the many innocents still near Moonrise who would be destroyed in the explosion. Not one thought for their other companions nor the Harpers above nor the refugees still at the Last Light Inn. It was a moment of pure desperation, such selfish impulse he almost expected to feel the stomach-dropping emptiness of his powers guttering out for breaking his oath.

And now here they both were. Battered and bruised, exhausted, still infected with tadpoles and Gale still host to a power he could barely manage, they were nonetheless alive. And together.

So what now? How to pursue the Absolute? How to take on the other two powers holding its leash when a confrontation with one had nearly ended them? How to make up for their missed opportunity to stop the invasion once and for all?

And another slew of questions tugged still more urgently at him. Oran could see now that he had fallen prey to the charming melancholy of the dying ember—the safety of the love that could never last. He truly cared for Gale, but it had almost felt easier to fall headlong into the relationship knowing it was doomed. What if Gale’s search for power led him somewhere Oran couldn’t follow? More likely, what if Gale took new stock and found the hero he had likened to a god was no more than an ugly jaded half-orc with a few divine magic tricks?

His thoughts thus swirling ever lower, Oran was relieved to see that Astarion and Shadowheart had beaten him back to the group and were already regaling their companions with tales of what they had seen below. He forced a weary smile at those who turned when he entered and slunk off to a quick meal and his bedroll, sleep taking him the moment his head touched the ground.

-------------

The circus was a welcome diversion after the darkness and hardships of the last weeks. Though desperation was thick in the air in Rivington, the sun shone bright and Oran felt he could relax a fraction.

Perhaps he had been overthinking things with Gale. Everyone in their group was facing existential threats, both personal and civilizational. Of course the wizard wanted to learn more about the Elder Brain; if they could disrupt the crown somehow, perhaps Gortash and Orin would be unable to execute their invasion plans.

Anyway, Gale had dropped the subject since Moonrise. The second night after the battle they slept curled up together as they had grown accustomed. Oran could barely sleep, nearly giddy with the feeling of Gale’s heartbeat against him. Alive. Alive because Gale had trusted him, had wanted to be with him. To both be here in the sun once more was a great gift. He intended to make the most of whatever moments of levity they might encounter.

And thus they were playing the dryad’s love game.

“If the wizard were given the choice, what food would he be?”

Oran thought a moment. Nothing heavy, nothing common or plain. Something… luxurious, but you would have it every day if you could. He thought of the feeling in his chest when Gale had first made him laugh, and Gale’s sly little satisfied smile. There was a sharpness to his humor that surprised him at times. And there was the smell of his hair when he curled against Oran’s chest: lavender and citrus.

“A lemon merengue!” Oran blurted, remembering the treat he had savored once at a confectionary in Baldur’s Gate—a bright, cheerful memory. “Tart, and…” He hesitated over his words, thinking of the soaring feeling he had felt when they first kissed. “…light.”

To his surprise, Gale’s face twisted in disapproval. “Is that all you think of me?”

Oran’s heart sank. He didn’t know what was so wrong with lemon merengue, but clearly he had offended.

Before he could untangle his faux pas and explain himself, the dryad tutted disapprovingly and continued. “When is Gale happiest?”

This one at least was easy. Though Oran had declined Gale’s offer of whatever weave-touched lovemaking he had been envisioning, he did enjoy a tour of the wizard’s rooms in Waterdeep. Gale hadn’t needed to tell him the balcony was his favorite; he could have guessed by how vivid the illusion became as soon as they stepped out the door. He remembered the fresh sea smell and the sunset painted across the sky.

“When on his—his balcony in Waterdeep,” Oran said, tripping on his words halfway through as he doubted himself. What if he had missed something else obvious? He had offended Gale once already.

But his fears were quickly assuaged by Gale’s smile. So far so good.

“Finally,” the druid asked in her unplaceable accent, “what is the wizard’s greatest flaw?”

Perfect, Oran thought wryly. No room for offense there. Just look into the eyes of a man you confessed your love to less than two weeks ago and tell him what you think is his worst quality.

Gale raised one eyebrow as Oran hesitated over his answer.

He could name any number of petty annoyances. The interrupting, the blank stare over your shoulder when he had an idea while you were speaking, the endless practicing of cantrips at camp. And there were the more serious issues, like his obvious lingering need for Mystra’s approval and his obsession with using magic to ascend above mortality in some way. All things that had given Oran pause throughout their acquaintance.

But if the question was greatest flaw, Oran had an answer.

“He thinks he, and the world, might be better off if he were dead.”

Gale smiled with a sadness that gripped Oran’s heart. “Hearing it said out loud—yes, I fear it is true. Fate seems determined to make a sacrifice of me. But, perhaps fate can yet be defied.” He strode across the log to meet Oran, one soft hand cupping his face as he kissed his cheek. “Well done, my love. It seems we are well-suited indeed. Although there is always room for improvement.”

Oran sighed with relief as he wrapped an arm around Gale. Of course there would always be room for improvement; someone like him could never measure up to the handsome, witty archmage. He wondered privately how he would have fared without the band of intellect which had rested on his brow almost since they first met. But for now, he had passed.

-------------

Everyone was tense by the time they arrived back at camp. Their pleasant circus diversion had turned upsetting fast. Oran was still reeling from being attacked by, and subsequently killing, the facsimile of a beloved local entertainer.

Luckily it was Halsin’s turn with the cook pot and he had outdone himself with their newfound access to fresh ingredients. It seemed like the heartiest, most delicious food Oran had ever eaten. After supper he was more than happy to lean against a log by the fire and let his mind wander as he stared into the flames. They were just far enough from Rivington that the woods were quiet and peaceful as dusk fell.

To his pleasant surprise, Gale joined him. He wordlessly eased himself down onto the grass and leaned against Oran, tipping his head back to rest on his shoulder.

Oran wrapped an arm around his waist. Gale was no short man, but he didn’t need to slouch much for Oran to comfortably rest his chin on his head. There was that familiar lemon and lavender over a comforting library-ish scent. It made him wonder when Gale found the time to wash and dry his hair. Perhaps it was done with magic.

Oran’s limbs relaxed as he felt Gale’s warmth against him. Something about his presence always made Oran feel safe. Although he was frequently the one shielding the wizard in battle and picking him up off the ground afterwards, it was almost as common for Oran to find himself surrounded by foes in a poor tactical position and be suddenly rescued by a well-placed fireball or lightning bolt. More than that, Gale always seemed to know what to do next, or have something insightful to say, and wanted to be along for the adventure. Even when he stayed behind at camp Oran knew things were in good hands.

Even the thought that Gale had purposely sought him out in this moment was comforting after the tensions of the past few days. Suddenly, nodding off right here beside the fire seemed like the most appealing thing in the world.

“I’m sorry the circus was a wash,” Gale murmured, bringing Oran back from the edge of sleep. “I know you were excited about it.”

“Mmm… it’s all right. It was still nice to get some sun. Speak to some people who weren’t undead. You know, clown murder aside.”

Gale chuckled. “I wasn’t expecting to run into Orin so soon. Did you notice anything odd about that druid before she revealed herself?”

“Not especially. I was a little focused on answering her questions.”

“Ah yes… you know, I was thinking that I never got to answer any questions about you.”

The thought had not occurred to Oran at all. The fire popped loudly while he fumbled with his words for a moment. “What is there to say? You know me. I’m just… me.”

“Well, if I were asked to tell your biggest flaw, I think it would be how you undersell yourself,” Gale said with firm affection. “You’re incredible. I still have so much to learn about you.”

Oran blushed. No one had ever complimented him the way Gale did. It was nice, but sometimes his effusiveness reminded Oran of the way he talked about Mystra. Like Oran was just some heroic symbol instead of a person.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, rather than addressing the rest of Gale’s statement.

“When are you happiest?”

A log in the fire crumbled to embers, sending up a flurry of sparks to mingle with the stars. Around camp, Lae’zel and Shadowheart were arguing with no real claws and Karlach and Wyll laughed together on dishwashing duty. Someone was snoring loudly. Yenna, the child who had joined them that morning, was feeding her cat scraps over in the old barn. The air smelled like food and pine and smoke and sweet hay. Oran was ever-aware of the parasite, but for the moment it merely picked up on the web of contentment and companionship which stretched between the minds of those at the camp.

Gale had placed his hand—warm and soft—over Oran’s where it rested against his stomach and was tracing absentminded circles with his thumb. Light seemed to bloom in Oran’s chest. It was truly unbelievable that someone so beautiful and intelligent could choose him like this. And yet here they were, together, and it seemed Gale was enjoying it too. Maybe things could go on like this. Maybe this was what un-doomed romance could look like someday, occasional discomfort and all.

“This isn’t so bad,” Oran said, indicating their surroundings with a movement of his chin he knew Gale could feel. “It’s not jumping for joy happy I suppose, but it’s nice. The company is good,” he added with a light squeeze of his arm.

Gale chuckled. “I’m glad you’re happy, though maybe when this is all over we can set your standards a little higher.”

They rested together in silence. Oran wondered if Gale could feel the pure contentment rippling off him.

“Well, what about the third question?” Gale asked after a while. “If you were a food, what would you be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Oran mused, pulling himself back from the edge of dozing. “Stew or something.”

“Because I was thinking,” Gale continued as if he hadn’t heard him, “If I were a dessert, which I’m still not sure I agree with, I might be something… heartier?”

Oran suppressed a groan. “Are you still upset I said lemon merengue?”

“Well, of course I’m not upset, but I don’t know how accurate a representation—I mean, tart and light? That hardly feels…” The wizard shifted slightly. “Unless that’s what you really think. I don’t know.”

Oran realized too late he was backed into a conversational corner. “I had never considered what food you would be, my love. I just thought of something I liked.”

That answer seemed to assuage Gale for the moment and he fell silent once more. Oran tipped his head back against the log, stewing over his lover’s dissatisfaction.

-------------

After a long and trying day sneaking around Sorcerous Sundries, Oran was eager to discuss what Gale had learned of Karsus. Fortunately the wizard was waiting for him in their room at the Elfsong; he beckoned Oran over and kissed his cheek.

Gale smiled self-consciously when Oran grinned at him. “I don’t think I deserve you at times. I’ve told you of my ambitions—the likes many would baulk at—and yet you remain by my side.”

Guilt twisted in Oran’s chest. It was precisely his doubts about Gale’s ambitions that had led to the distance between them of late. He worried Gale’s search for power was taking him someplace Oran couldn’t follow. “I want to support you. But some further explanation of what you intend wouldn’t be amiss.”

“Let me show you exactly what ascension will mean to me. To us.” Gale leaned in and gestured between them to emphasize. “Words alone are not enough. Permit me to show you. Please, close your eyes a moment.” He held out his hands, palms up—inviting.

Oran placed his hands in Gale’s. As always, they felt rough and unwieldy compared to the wizard’s soft touch. He noticed a bruise on Gale’s forearm and sent a small pulse of divine energy through his fingers to heal it, just catching Gale’s half-smile before he closed his eyes.

Gale spoke a short phrase and Oran felt the gentle lurch of their surroundings changing. He was seated now, hands gripping Gale tighter as his head spun for a moment.

“Few mortals ever glimpse what you’re about to see. But don’t be alarmed—I’m here with you.” Gale’s voice was soothing as he squeezed Oran’s hands. “Now… open your eyes.”

Oran obeyed. They were on a small rowboat which rocked gently in an expanse of sunset-colored energy. Stars peeked through ribboned veils of aurora. He lifted one hand and drew it through the space next to them, leaving a bluish ripple. It was beautiful; it reminded him of the sky Gale had conjured for their first night together. And Gale looked at home here in his purple and silver brocade. His earring twinkled like another star. He looked pleased with the vision and a little nervous to see Oran’s reaction.

Returning both hands to Gale’s grasp, Oran smiled. Their surroundings were beautiful, but only Gale was real—his eyes a little tired, his smile a little strained, his hair not quite perfect, his pulse quick and strong where their skin touched. Precious and tangible and impermanent. Oran had never quite figured out how to tell him that was better than any magic in the world. He opened his mouth to try, but Gale spoke first.

“The Outer Planes,” he explained, turning his head to gesture at their environment. “This is where gods dwell. Where they observe us from afar. Where they make playthings of us. They would keep all of this from us. Power. The possibilities.” He was growing heated now. “They only want us to serve them, pray to them… and ultimately, die for them.” He gripped Oran’s hands tight and pulled himself closer. “But what if we didn’t need them? What if we wielded their power instead, and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen. I could make this illusion a reality, with you by my side.”

Grimacing, Oran watched the reflection of the aurora overhead dance in Gale’s wide eyes. His oath didn’t come up often, but surely Gale understood that this was precisely the type of upset to the natural order he had sworn to prevent. “Are you saying you want to ascend? To claim godhood?”

“No, not like that.” Gale shook his head. “I don’t want to join them. I want to better them. A god’s powers, paired with a mortal conscience, a mortal heart. The tadpoles, the orb—these threats to our existence—the gods could aid us if they wished, but instead they cower behind Ao. So let us act ourselves.” Now he pulled both hands free, leaving Oran’s to close on nothing. He gestured widely. “With the power of the crown, any foe would be rendered impotent. Any obstacle would be dwarfed by our might.”

Oran was speechless. There was an eerie pause as their surroundings twinkled in complete silence.

Gale’s face fell as Oran continued to look skeptical. “I used to believe Mystra’s forgiveness was worth dying for. But I was wrong. You showed me just how much I have to live for. With you, I forget my goddess.” He took a shaky breath, leaning forward still further to rest his hands on Oran’s knees. “I love you,” he pled. “Tell me you feel the same way. Tell me you want what I want. Please.”

The idea that Gale had any question of Oran’s love was like a dagger to his side. Here he thought Gale knew Oran was so devoted it frightened him—that his love for Gale was the only thing that could rival his oath. He thought Gale was reaching for power with the implicit assumption that Oran would follow like a pup on a leash.

But no—the picture was suddenly clear as the tremble of Gale’s lip. His subordinate devotion to Mystra, his clawing and scraping to get on even footing with her only to be cast away, his lofty compliments for Oran. The rich illusions whenever he wanted to impress. The embarrassment when he’d had to explain the orb and his dutiful resignation to Mystra’s command. His off-handed self-consciousness. Gale must have thought so little of himself. And anytime Oran pulled away it must have driven him harder towards this plan.

“I think I’ve been a fool,” Oran whispered.

There was only half a second to see how Gale’s expression crumbled before he ducked his head and sighed. “I understand. I’m… sorry.”

“No Gale, no. No, no.” Oran fell to his knees between them, clutching at Gale’s hands. The wizard looked startled. “I’ve been a fool about this whole thing. I haven’t truly understood what you desired. But it’s your mortal heart that makes you great! I love you, but for the man that you are. Not the god you’d pretend to be.”

Gale furrowed his brow. “But think what I offer. The vastness of eternity to explore, the Weave at our fingertips...” He shook his head as if he was at a loss for words. “You would really prefer me as I am?”

Oran raised a hand to Gale’s cheek. “Of course. You don’t need the power of a god to make a difference. Think of all we’ve accomplished already—the lives we’ve saved, the people we’ve helped. We can’t fix it all. We’re not meant to. But you’re good, and you’re brave, and you’ve taught me so much, and somehow you love me. You’re already everything I could ask.”

Gale smiled for the first time since they had entered the illusion. “I hope you’re right. I truly do. Godly power, perhaps I can live without, but you? You’re everything.”

For the first time, Oran was the one who had to lean up into the kiss. This too was warm, and real, and imperfect. As everything was. As they would go on. And as Oran wrapped his arms around Gale to pull him closer, the enormity of his relief seemed echoed in the lights which danced around them.