#a moonlit spring river

[cnovelartreblogs]

Official art from the A Moonlit Spring River manhua on the Bilibili app.

[khaeda]

my arts based on one beautiful manhua 春江花月 🥰

[prythianpages]

Beautiful Stranger | Azriel

Azriel x Reader | Azriel gets injured while on a mission and meets someone he never thought he would. aka you finding an injured Az and the mating bond snapping.

warnings: mentions injuries and blood; other than that, this is light & fluff

word count: 4,342

a/n: I love Halsey's Finally//Beautiful Stranger & when it came on my shuffle while driving, this fic played out in my mind.

Humming quietly to yourself to keep your thoughts occupied, you allow the glow of the moon and fireflies to guide you back to the village. Dawn Court was your home, but after the fall of Spring, you had volunteered to help its fae, creatures, and land heal from the devastation left by Hybern’s attacks.

Though the damage to Spring was immense, its beauty still endured. The air still held a lingering heaviness but the flowers had begun to bloom once more with promise and hope of a better future. Your task today had been to gather healing herbs, yet when you stumbled upon a field of dandelions in full bloom, you couldn’t resist the urge to stop and admire the scenery. It was why you were returning late at night, long past the sunset you had promised to return by.

As you made your way along the path, the gentle breeze grew colder and sharper. It rustled the leaves on the trees and made the branches creak, its eerie sound halting your steps and silencing your humming. A chill of unease prickled your skin and your muscles tensed in alarm. 

Then you saw them. 

Shadows, darker than the night itself, swirling around you.

These were not the shadows you were used to seeing at night. No, these shadows felt alive and with purpose. 

You should’ve turned back. But there was something in the way they moved, fluid and insistent, that made you follow. With every step, they guided you away from the familiar moonlit path and deeper into the forest, pulling you toward the river that ran through the heart of the woods.

A flicker of blue light was coming from just beyond the tree line, catching your eye. Curiosity tugged at you, drawing you closer. The shadows slithered toward the faint glow, vanishing into the darkness by the water’s edge.

When you finally reached the riverbank, your breath hitched at the sight before you.

A male lay sprawled on the shore, half-submerged in the water, his blood mingling with the river’s water. Blinking your eyes, you saw the shadows that led you to him, clinging to his battered form and limp wings. They pulsed in a protective manner. It’s then that you recognized the source of the blue light. It was coming from the gems attached to the leathers he wore. 

Siphons. He must be Illyrian…but what was an Illyrian from the Night Court doing in Spring? Alone?

It didn’t matter. You immediately rushed and knelt beside him, your healer’s instincts snapping into action. Your finger’s pressed against his neck, mind racing with worry and dread as his skin felt cold against yours. He must’ve been out for awhile now. The nerves eased slightly when you felt a pulse. 

Weak but present. 

You slipped your arms beneath him, the shadows aiding you as they wrapped around his arms, helping you turn him over to his side. His dark hair clung to his face, your hand reaching up to brush it back.

Your eyes finally met the face of the fallen warrior and something snapped. 

So piercing and electrifying, it had your heart fluttering from the intensity. All at once, the golden threads of the bond you’d only heard stories about unraveled in your chest. They weaved between your rib cage, pulling you tight toward him. A pull so strong it left you breathless and in shock.

Fate and shadows had brought him to you. Your mate.

But the exhilaration of it all was soon smothered by panic, the golden threads beginning to quiver. His blood, too much of it, stained the riverbank. His body was limp in your arms, his breathing shallow.

You had found your mate and already, you were on the verge of losing him before you could even learn his name.

**

Azriel wakes to the sound of singing, a nice and sweet sound, and he catches faintly to the words. He’s never felt so warm, so relaxed. His senses are dulled by grogginess, his body sluggish, but something feels… different. Lighter, somehow. 

Beside him, his shadows stir, the familiar weight of their presence grounding him. But there's also something else— different from the cool and light caresses of his shadows. Firmer. Warmer. The pressure is foreign but comforting.

As his senses slowly return, the scent of herbs and incense reach him before his eyes flutter open. Where am I? He thinks, finally blinking his eyes to clear his vision.

The first thing he sees is you, the source of the beautiful singing.

Light streams into the room, casting a golden halo around you. It strikes him hard, stealing his breath and sending a shock through his chest. He doesn’t know who you are, what you are. But you’re beautiful, so beautiful that his brows furrow in bewildered awe. There’s no way, he thinks. I don’t belong here…

He wills his dry lips to part, his voice is rough and barely audible. “Am I…dead?”

Your eyes widen and your singing comes to a sudden stop, startled by his sudden words. The warmth he felt vanishes as you pull your hand back, and only then does he realize it had been your touch on his face earlier. Your hand hovers between you, glowing faintly with a bronze light, like the first rays of dawn, before you settle it into your lap.

“No,” you finally answer. “You’re not dead.”

Azriel tears his gaze from your face, even though some part of him protests. His eyes wander around the small room, taking in the sparse furniture, the wooden desk cluttered with jars and vials. The sunlight continues to stream through the single window, the curtain hanging doing little to dull the brightness thanks to the Spring breeze. It blinds him when it catches his eyes and he winces, looking away. 

His attention is inevitably drawn back to you. You’re seated beside him, perched on a small stool that does not look comfortable by the bed. His shadows, the loyal dark tendrils that always remain by his side, are dancing around you. Their movement is playful, loving almost and you don’t seem bothered by it. As if they’ve done this before. 

The sight stirs an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

The flutter is cut short when one of his wings, too big for the bed he’s in, twitches and knocks into the bedside table. A vial tumbles to the floor, the sound of shattering glass jerking his body forward, and in an instant, the memories come rushing back.

He remembers the mission. Rhysand had sent him to the wall separating the mortal lands from Prythian. He had met with Jurian, the encounter brief, and then he was on his way back—flying over the Spring Court when he was ambushed. His mind aches as he tries to remember more but all he remembers is being struck by poisoned arrows and falling through trees. Multiple trees.

Hot, searing pain stabs through him at the sudden movement and your hands fly to his bandaged chest, gently urging him to sit back. “You’re safe,” you reassure him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Azriel shouldn’t feel comforted by your words, not when he barely knows you. However, he finds your voice soothing. He listens, allowing himself to slowly lean back against the pillows, despite his mind screaming at him that you’re a stranger. Your hands remain on his chest, glowing again with that soft bronze light, and the sharp pain in his body begins to ebb away, fading into a dull ache. Much more bearable.

His shadows return to him, sighing with relief as they nestle close. Azriel watches you, keen hazel eyes taking in more of your features. The curve of your lips, the softness of your eyes. They draw him in, and he finds himself unable to look away. Had it not been for the pain that shot through him moments ago, he would’ve thought you lied to him about not being dead. Because surely you weren’t from this world to have him in a daze like this…

“Who are you?”

“I’m…,” you hesitate, uncertainty crossing your features. He watches with bated breath, waiting but the words seem to catch in your throat. You swallow, clearing your throat before speaking again. “I’m just a healer.”

“And here I thought you were an angel from above.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, and the tension in your posture melts away. The corner of your lips tug up into a faint smile, one that Azriel surprisingly finds himself mirroring. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t think. The words spill from him before he can stop them. “I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

The flush that dawns across your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed. You turn your head, trying to hide the reaction. It’s too late. Azriel already saw it and even if he hadn’t, his shadows are happily gushing over it. Some, the ones not distracted by your beauty, curled around his ear and whispered about the emotion lingering on your face, in your eyes.

There was more you meant to say. Words left unsaid and he wants to know, the curiosity and yearning bordering on desperate. His gaze assesses you again, searching for an answer. For a hint. His shadows continue to whisper. Good, they say reassuringly, sensing no danger or malintent in you. We found her for you!

She saved master's life. Master was out for three days and she stayed by master’s side. She’s–

“What’s your name?” You ask, pulling him from the silent conversation with his shadows.

Azriel is not one to give his name so easily, often going by what he was–a Shadowsinger– rather than who he was. He’s also not one to dwell in places he’s unfamiliar with longer than necessary. But you saved his life and for some strange reason, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you. They seem to trust you and therefore, so does he.

“Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeat and his shadows shudder in response, as though they, too, are captivated by the sound of it on your lips. His stomach flutters in time with their movement.

“What about yours?”

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he says, repeating your name the same way you had his. His shadows dance in the air around you both.

**

It’s late morning, as you pick up the empty plate from him, that he feels the familiar sensation of talons scraping against his mind. Azriel?? Rhysand’s voice is urgent, the frantic panic of it making him wince. Your head immediately turns in concern and Azriel brushes it off with a small shake of his head.

I’m alive. Azriel responds, his answer curt as he’s once again distracted by your presence.

Thank The Mother, Rhysand breathes a sigh of relief. Where are you? Are you somewhere safe? Do you need me to–

I’m fine. I was attacked while flying through Spring. 

Who? Rhysand demands.

Given the fact that whoever ambushed me has made no move to find me and finish the job, I’d say no one of importance. Azriel replies, lips curving into a small frown at the thought of being caught off guard and attacked. It rarely happened, his shadows always keeping him one step ahead of anyone and anything. Had they been distracted…?

He turns his head, searching for the shadows in question. Some remained with him, choosing to burrow under the blankets. The others, however, were hovering at your side and helping you clean up from breakfast. One even opens the door for you and he hears you murmur a small thanks as you leave the room.

Azriel had spent most of the afternoon sleeping. He didn’t want to, not liking the idea of being in such a vulnerable state with someone he barely knew. It’s not that he suspected you’d harm him or had bad intentions–you literally saved his life for Cauldron’s sake! It was just a feeling he was not used to. To be able to sleep safe and sound.

When he woke up again, it was a brand new day. He realized the bandages on his chest and arm had been changed. He was slowly gathering his strength back. One of his shadows must’ve given him away because shortly after he woke, you had walked in with a friend. 

“Wow,” the dark haired fae murmured, her steps faltering. Her eyes had widened in wonder, taking in the large expanse of his wings that made the bed look ridiculously small. “The Cauldron truly favors you.”

Azriel’s gaze couldn’t help but narrow. Those words had been directed at you, not him. 

You’d introduced her as Poppy, explaining she was your friend, another healer whose family had taken you in. Poppy had left shortly after setting a steaming bowl of stew on the table right next to the bed. She had been adamant on letting him know her mother had made it and not you, which he found odd.

Azriel was surprised to learn this was your room and you’d given it up for him. He tried to protest, offering to sleep on the couch or floor. Of course, you had refused and he was even more surprised to learn you were more stubborn than he was. 

Where are you in Spring? Rhysand’s presence in his mind pulls him back to the present. He hopes he hadn’t accidentally projected his memory to his friend, wanting to keep it to himself for now. I can send Cassian, if you’re unable to fly. 

No. Azriel responds immediately and he can feel Rhysand’s confusion. I’m alive and safe. I just need more time to recover. 

And without waiting for a response, Azriel brings up his mental shields again, shutting Rhysand out. He can only hope he doesn’t send Feyre knocking on his mind next. Or worse, actually send Cassian to Spring, despite him saying not to.

He should’ve said yes, and accepted the help. The Spring Court was among the least favorite of his courts, in tie with the Autumn Court. He had a strong distaste for the High Lord, who remained wandering through his forests like a beast. 

As you return to the room, Azriel catches sight of a faint glow wrapped around your wrist. He hadn’t seen it before, the glow of your magic outshining the gold ink etched there. A sun, cradled by a crescent moon, and below the moon, a fine lined star glimmers, connecting the two celestial bodies with its ray of starshine. 

“You’re far from home.” Azriel comments, nodding toward the tattoo.

“So are you,” you answer, lips turning up at the slight flush that takes over Azriel. You then glance down at the tattoo on your wrist. The insignia of your Court with the added touch of your healing gift. The tattoo was an honor, a testimony of the oath you had taken after mastering your magic. “I came to Spring to help after the war.”

“Will you go back home after?” He asks, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. His shadows snicker beside him in a knowing manner. “Or will you stay here?”

“I’ll stay here as long as I’m needed.”

He doesn’t understand why but a part of him feels relieved that you’re not attached to this court. 

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” you then add. 

He feels an odd sense of relief, and his shadows give a little wiggle in excitement. He sends them a glare, and they sheepishly return to hiding under the covers. Though one brave shadow lingers by his side long enough to whisper, you'll find out soon Master.

“They’re cute," your voice pulls him from questioning his teasing shadow.

Azriel lets out a snort, the effort making his chest and stomach ache. Cute. His shadows had been called many things—strange, unnerving, even unsettling—but never cute. They typically clung to him, weaving around his form quietly, careful not to disturb anyone. Unless he sent them on a mission of their own or they had a mission of their own.

Occasionally, they’d make an exception for Cassian, creeping up behind him just to tap his shoulder and bask in his exasperation when he turned to find nothing there. They’d even tried their luck with Rhysand once, though he was never fooled. Yet, for reasons Azriel couldn’t fathom, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you, drifting toward you whenever they could.

The said shadows peek out from under the covers, almost shyly. If they could blush, he’s sure they would be at this moment. They're never going to forget this moment.

“I wouldn’t call them cute,” Azriel replies, ignoring their indignant hisses.

Conversation flows easily between you two from there, Azriel giving into his curiosity to know and learn more about you. Much to his surprise, Azriel indulged you in your questions, telling you about his shadows and things about himself he rarely told others. They were small, trivial things such as his exact favorite shade of blue and his biggest pet peeve. Yet you held onto every word, every detail and it felt strangely comforting.

Two more days passed, Azriel’s body still healing. Slowly but surely. You had been able to recover one of the arrows that had shot him. Not that it mattered. Azriel was now, unfortunately, familiar with the effects of faebane. It hindered his healing and though it was frustrating, there was one upside to it all–the friendship blossoming between you and Azriel.

There’s a knock on the door as you mix Azriel’s concoction for pain. “Yes?” You call out.

Poppy peeks her head in. “I was just checking to see if I had given you enough spearmint for the pain tonic and also to let you know that we’ll be out most of the day. If you wanted to take out your ma—male for a walk or something without being bothered by the little ones.”

You freeze and a sheepish look takes over your features, tainting your cheeks. “Poppy,” you say her name again in what sounds like a warning. “He has a name, you know. And he doesn’t need to be taken on a walk.”

“Oh, right, Azriel,” she says, giving him a cheery wave. “Hello again!”

“Hello,” Azriel replies, shifting in the bed, despite the protests of his muscles. He’s not at all offended by Poppy, her aura too bright and cheery to be bothered. He flashes you a grin that has your grasp on the mixer faltering. “I think a walk would be nice actually.”

“Told you!” Poppy replies. “Anyway, we’ll see you for dinner. Send a butterfly if you need me.”

When the door closes, you let out a small sigh, shaking your head with a small, sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry about her.”

Azriel brushes off your concern, his eyes shining bright when he looks back at you. “How about that walk?”

**

Azriel grunts as he pushes to stand, his wings trembling as he shifts his weight, unused to bearing himself after days of bedrest. He stumbles right into your arms, his usually steady form swaying. You quickly catch him, your arms coming around one of his sides. His shadows dart toward his other side, helping you hold him upright. 

“I’ve got you,” you say softly, your hold surprisingly firm. 

He can't help it. He lets out a low, amused breath. 

“What?” You ask.

“Usually, I’m the one saying that.”

Your lips quirk into a smile, a gleam in your eye, as you help him find his balance. “Well, even the best need someone to lean on sometimes, right?”

Azriel stares at you. Something in his chest tightens–a weird but comforting sensation. It’s similar, if not the same, to what he had felt when he first saw you. Warm and painfully sweet. The feeling reassures him that, though you were strangers mere days ago, you’re someone he can lean on.

“Come on,” you murmur, nodding toward the door. 

Azriel lets you guide him through the house and out onto the porch. You settle there together, cutting the walk very short. You're mindful not to push him too far when he's still recovering. Azriel doesn't mind, the fresh air enough for him. He knows he isn’t at full strength to protect you should anything arise. Even though you most likely know these forests better than himself.

His hands drift to the porch railing as he leans forward for support, fingers curling around the edge. The sunlight glances off his scarred hands, each ridge and mark stark against his skin. He’d kept them hidden beneath the covers and out of your view while bedridden, hiding them instinctively, unable to forget the pitying glances they’d drawn in the past. Though he’s sure you must've seen them when you rescued him.

Now, as he feels your gaze slide toward them, a familiar discomfort tugs at him. He starts to withdraw his hands, wanting to tuck them closer to himself.

But you reach out. Your hand hovers, brushing slightly over his. There’s a slight hesitation—an uncertainty in whether to bridge the space or leave it. In the end, you let your hand rest gently beside his.

Azriel hesitates, unused to this vulnerability, yet unable to move away. He glances up to meet your eyes and his guarded expression softens slightly. “They’re… not easy to look at,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know they’re not.”

“I’m familiar with scars, you know. They don’t make you less of who you are.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping where your hands are barely brushing against one another. His throat feels tight, an ache he’s kept buried resurfacing.

“Not to me,” you continue. “I don’t see you any differently because of them.” 

He searches your face and he sees something in your eyes that helps him slowly relax. His gaze returns to your hand, fingers hovering now over his. This time, there’s no hesitation as you gently lay your hand over his, holding it as if the scars didn’t exist at all.

It’s such a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes. 

His shadows slither down his arm and toward where your hands connect. For the first time, Azriel feels no urge to hide, no shame from the past that has long haunted him.

A silence drifts down between the two of you, settling like a blanket over the conversation. There’s no need to fill it, no awkwardness there. Just a gentle, shared peace, stretching softly around you both. He turns his head, shifting his gaze forward and takes a deep breath. 

He closes his eyes and a breeze rolls in, brushing against his skin and stirring his hair. His shadows begin to whisper excitedly. He basks in the sun’s warmth, and lets the scent of spring fill his senses from the fresh earth to the blooming flowers and the faint sweetness of pollen. It brings forth a tickle in his nose, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. His body groans in response, wings shuddering.

“Bless you,” you say, but he notices the way your mouth quirks as if you’re holding back a laugh.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, your free hand rising to stifle it. “It’s just… you have such a fatherly sneeze.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a rare, amused smile creeping onto his face. “Fatherly sneeze?” He echoes. He has never heard the expression before yet he somehow understands it. If you thought his sneeze was “fatherly,” he’s curious to see your reaction to one of Cassian’s sneezes. That thought is enough to make him laugh outright.

It's so silly but the sound is so contagious that you laugh too. His shadows began to flutter around you, as if joining in on the laughter. Azriel’s gaze then drifts down, watching the way your lips curve in laughter, how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how effortlessly you draw light into his heart.

And there it is again—that rush of warmth. It’s mixed in with joy, so pure and intense it has to be coming from you. His heart stirs, his pulse quickens, his mind clears, and in a single, life-altering instant, he knows.

“You’re my mate.”

Your smile falters, replaced by a moment of hesitation. Some shadows travel to you, brushing softly against your arms as if in a reassuring manner. He can't help but watch them, realization dawning on him.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit quietly.

“How—when…” His voice catches, unable to form the words.

“I was walking through the forest when your shadows came to me. They led me to you, by the river. You were unconscious and bleeding. And then… the bond snapped for me the moment I saw your face. You were so cold and--and…,” your face tightens, eyes glistening at the memory and Azriel can feel the panic you must’ve felt then. “I’d just found what so many only dream of and you were already slipping away...I thought I’d never get to know your name…”

Azriel feels a pang deep in his chest as he absorbs every word. His chest feels tight again and he swallows thickly. “And when I woke up, why didn’t you tell me?”

Your gaze falls, fingers twisting together. “I wanted you to heal, to feel better. That’s all that mattered.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I would’ve saved you, mate or not.”

Azriel searches your face, touched beyond words at the sincerity in your tone. It made sense why he felt so drawn to you since the moment he saw you, why his shadows took a sudden liking to you and kept whispering "we found her, we found her!" They had known all this time, been able to sense it before he even could.

Looking back, Poppy being the one to bring him food and water and not you was not as strange as he originally thought. You were being mindful, not wanting to accidentally accept the bond without his knowledge. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for how gentle and considerate you've been with him all along. He couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky to be bound to someone like you.

“And would you have sung to me, mate or not?” Azriel asks, his mind drifting back to the exact moment he'd first woken up.

Your cheeks flush, and you glance away toward the gardens, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “What?” You let out a small huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 “What did I hear?” Azriel’s tone borders on teasing, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated contemplation. “Something like… ‘Beautiful stranger, here you are…’”

“That’s enough!” You interrupt, your face turning into an even deeper shade of pink, caught somewhere between mortification and laughter. 

This time, it’s Azriel holding back a chuckle. His lips curl into a small smirk, seeing the blush that lights up your face. He quite likes that shade on you—likes being the one to bring it out even more. “So…”

You keep your gaze straight ahead. “So…?”

Azriel leans in, his voice low and warm, making your stomach flutter. “Do you sing that song for just anyone too?”

“No,” you let out a laugh, your hands cup your face but there’s no hiding the blush there.  “I’m afraid that song was just for you.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn to look at him, realizing his gaze had never left you. Your hands drop back to the porch railing.  “Yeah?” you whisper, your own heart pounding, not sure what it was you were asking.

But Azriel seems to understand anyway. He can feel what you’re feeling, now fully aware and attentive to the bond humming between you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his smirk softening into a genuine smile, his heart finally at ease. 

A gentle warmth surges through the bond, reaching every shadowed corner of his heart and wrapping around his soul. It’s a feeling he could get used to, one he’s spent centuries longing and yearning for. It’s a feeling he’s searched for in all the wrong places, enduring the heavy weight of heartbreak after heartbreak.

But now, with you, he feels the weight begin to lift. After all the empty falls and broken promises, it’s finally, finally safe for him to fall.

a/n: you can't tell me Az & Cas don't have dad sneezes lol. Anyway, I really wanted to write a fic where Az finally feels safe with someone because he deserves to. I hope you enjoyed this <3

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

[zaynes-nieve]

Zayne Confirmed Lore

Anything confirmed by the developers, including any accounts or information within the game! (I will update you as the game continues, and I appreciate any info I can get from you all as well!!!!)

Tender Moments | Memoria | Bond | Devs/Offical/Messages/Calls | Main Story | Annecdotes

Basic Info:

Zayne's Birthday is September 5th | About Him

Other Names: Rei (JP), Lee See-Oen (KR) and Li Shen (CN)

Zayne's Constellation sign is a Virgo (like me)| About Him

Zayne is 6'1 | About Him

Zayne's age is 27 | About Him

Zayne is the Chief Cardiac Surgeon at Akso Hospital | About Him

Zayne's evol is Ice | About Him

Daily Life and a good chunk of the lore

Zayne is a workaholic, and he likes it | Gentle Twilight/About Him

He is good at snowboarding! | Everlasting Snowdrop/About Him

He knows how to peel an apple in one go | Spring Remnants/About Him

He is good at drawing (those anatomical diagrams, ftw!!!) | Suprise Encounter/About Him

He has a sweet tooth (like me) | Nostalgic Sweetness/About Him

He gets toothaches (unlike me) | Nostalgic Sweetness/About Him

He is a terrible patient (Strict against others, indulgent to his own whims) | Nostalgic Sweetness/About Him

Zayne is a teetotaler (a person who never drinks alcohol) | Drunken Intimacy/About Him

He is good at pool but is a strict teacher | Exclusive Tutorial/About Him

His Parents are also Doctors and work with Doctors without Borders overseas | Eternal Attachment/About Him

He sends them a message on his birthday each year, telling them he is just fine! | Eternal Attachment/About Him

Zayne has a hard time controlling his Evol | Main Story 4-10/Never Ending Winter ch.4

Starcatcher Awardee (2046) | Main Story 4-5

Linde Award Winner (Year 2046) | Main Story 4-5 / Never Ending Winter ch.10? Last chapter mention

His patients all are obedient (terrified) of him | A Pure White Heart ch. 3

Dr. Zayne and Dawnbreaker see each other in their dreams | Gonna be pulling from a lot of things, so give me a moment for this one 😭 (Never Ending Winter Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.4) (Ngl Dawnbreaker Might Need his own section....or Page)

He has a pet squirrel named after the medication, Clopidogrel! | Feed the Squirrel/Message

It appears Zayne also frequently volunteers to assist in medical relief for disasters or joins the medical teams assisting hunters fighting wanders in high-frequency zones | Dawn's Shadows, Foreign Aid/Video Call, Hidden Motive, Medical Rescue

He is quick to forgo his well-being to save others in dangerous situations. He truly puts his own duty as a doctor above everything else.| Medical Rescue, Neon Night

His Past:

Zayne was one smart cookie and skipped several years! But because he was so young and his classmates were not. He had a hard time making friends | Delicacy/About Him

When he was in medical school, he visited a barbeque stall a lot | Delicacy/About Him

He has a good tolerance for pain😭and he gets injured a lot, leaving many scars | Medical Rescue/About Him

Dr. Zayne was in the 35th Cohort of the Skyhaven Medical School in a PhD Program | Never Ending Winter ch.1

He was an intern under Dr. William (took him under his wing) | Never Ending Winter ch.1

It's implied he had to kill William after those black crystals seemed to be turning Dr.William into a Wanderer (Do we consider this confirmed enough?) | Never Ending Winter ch. 6

He Plays Tennis (and won a prize!) | Tennis Game/Messages

Due to the time travel shenanigans and our boy being the best at everything, Zayne is now an expert Jade carver! | Moonlit Dream

He briefly studied keyboards as a child. But quit after a month. | Heartstring Notes

All he knows how to play is Little Lamb | Heartstring Notes

His Likes:

He really hates carrots!!! | A Frozen Promise/About Him

He visits medical museums to relax, or he will go look out at the river | Heart Within Reach/About Him

Our Story 💙❄️☃️

He gave us a little snow seal when we were children (we thought it was a snowball) | A Frozen Promise/About Him

After seeing our name on the volunteer list for the Frontlines, he follows us. Hidden Motive/Insta Acc.

He is our Primary Doctor!!! (we're not gonna talk about the ethics of this LMFAO) | Main Story 1-8/About Him

Zayne said he melted an "old" popsicle (our popsicles at this time) for us when we were kids | Nostalgic Sweetness/About Him

Our Grandmother left us a letter with Zayne, and he seems to know more than he is letting on | Main Story 4-7 (I'll double check this one)

We voted for him in the Patient's Favorite Doctor poll on Asko's official account (He also won) | A Vote/Message

HE USES US AS HIS WALLPAPER | Screen Saver/Message

Zayne is not above bribery (whether it is us or his patients) | I Miss You/Message

We gave daffodils to Zayne! (they're garlic) | Gardening/Message

Dawnbreaker

Anything talked about in this section is written as if you have already had the knowledge before hand.

Never Ending Winter: Zayne Anecdote #2

First mention of Dawnbreaker and also where we get the info of Zayne's Nightmare into Dawnbreaker's world.

Zayne mentions the nightmares again and talks about how his current reality is more bloody than his nightmares (Dawn Breaker World)

We get Dr.Zayne's perspective as he is "in that world of ice and snow" Zayne attacks himself from his perspective with dark crystals (which we know from The third ancedote is the color of Dawnbreaker's ice

Dr.Zayne refers to this black coated version of him as the Grim Reaper.

Zayne almost accidentally killed someone important to him when he was 12. He was 12 when he first started getting dreams of Dawnbreaker

Crystals begin to grow off of William (though, they mention the color of said crystals being black, they dont mention if they're ice)

The people Dawnbreaker killed appear in front of him after he kills William

Still in the Dark: Zayne Anecdote #3

Georgie's first description of Dawnbreaker Zayne is that of a Grim Reaper (hence the connection to all mentions of him in Never Ending Winter)

Georige is a young boy who hires Zayne to help him find the person who killed his mom

Dawnbreaker is the in canon title for the serial killer who leaves no bodys only dark blue crystals

There is footage of Dawnbreaker killing these people, so it isn't speculation

Detective Ivan, the police working on the Dawnbreaker case, gives distrubing insight into the situation, giving his point of view that the people who Dawnbreaker is killing leave behind shards like Wanderer protocores

When he catches Dawnbreaker in the act, he finds the victim with tentacles and attacking Dawnbreaker.

Georgie's mother was a worker at an ungergound protocore factory

Zayne, after running out of chocolate, takes some from Georgie, and so begins the Georige & Zayne duo.

DB!Zayne watches Old Doctor Television Shows

He also only lives off of Nutrient Solutions

DB! Zayne also has a Jasmine Plant

He also oftens visits a decayed plaza with a jasmine field

In their universe, Linkon City is a city from a distant past.

DB!Zayne confirms that he also dreans and that it is of Linkon City

Chapter 4 is where we get the most intermigle between Zayne & DB! Zayne.

Zayne dreams of MC and the snacks we share with Zayne in particular a popsicle which could be a refrence to [ill pull it later]

He dreams of being a suregon. He started getting these dreams also at the age twelve

He knew at 12 that MC and Zayne would meet at 27

Dawnbreaker lives vicariously though these dreams and the remnants of Linkon he can find in his world.

Zayne calls the Humans who leave behind Protocore fragments "Abominations"

He plays soem recording about Zhuangzi and the Butterfly essentially not knowing if he was the dream or if they are. (Butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi or Zhuangzi dreaming of being a Butterfly) Dr.Zayne and Dawnbreaker to a T.

Georgie dreams of being a monster (Foreshadowing yall). Zayne notices a bump under Georgies eyes 😭

Georgie, on the day he turns 12, begins to show more obvious symptoms of being an Abomination

IK this has been more of a recount, but we got little to work with Dawn Breaker lore yall

Dawn Breakers first kill was when he was 12, after he killed his adopted father, who became an Abomination

It is also here that we learn that if not killed, these beings turn into Wanderers.

Zayne is the one who murdered Georgie's mother

We find out that Georgie's mother requested that Zayne kills her half a month before she turned.

Her Coworkers having turned into Wanderers (She believes it was due to their long exposure to the protocores)

Zayne kills Georgie after he becomes an Abomination

Detective Ivan gives us the run down that the government and those in power are hiding the fact that some of those wanderers were once human. He also intends to stop and destory the investigation against Dawnbreaker, likely so Zayne can continue doing his job.

(At least two more sections on its way)

Pls hit me up with any more information and where it's from!!

[alexandravakimova]

What each of the Companions smells like to Taash:

Pure headcanon but it's been rattling around in my brain for a bit so wanted to share.

Lucanis: Coffee (duh). Moonlit nights in autumn. Distantly of a river or water, and something otherworldly that can't be placed.

Emmrich: Dead and dying flowers. Old stone that has stood for hundreds of years. Early morning mist.

Harding: Sunshine. Distantly of the wood her bow is made of, and of thin, mountain air. There's something joyous about her smell, just like there is something joyous about her.

Neve: A million scents in one like a city, where everyone touches everyone else: Hal's fish, the smell of perfume Maevaris uses, the salt of the ocean at the docks. Ice, powerful, cold, biting, and enduring. A bit like ink and parchment from old notes.

Bellara: Forests under the spring sky, with buds in the trees and birds singing. Distantly of metal, and distantly of old magic. A flower that is blooming despite the environment it finds itself in. There's a certain sorrow to her scent that she's trying to hide.

Davrin: Leather and metal first, then wood. Lots of different types of wood - pine, oak, ash - anything he uses to craft. Smells like Assan too, like the warmth of his feathers when you wrap your arms around him, and the feeling of his purrs. There's something determined and unyielding about his scent - he's built to endure.

Bonus, my Rook, cause I said so: Incense. Like Emmrich, the scent of mist is there. There's something that doesn't seem quite lively about it, like it should belong to a dead person. Despite this, the scent is inviting and welcoming, and Taash has taken comfort in it.

[llondonfog]

MILK & HONEY. + dazzling fic art by @suntails <3 (also available on ao3)

“It will be alright, darling boy, I promise— everything will be alright.”

There’s no response, but Lilia doesn’t mind. His son has always been the quiet, thoughtful sort. Humming faint snatches of a lullaby long forgotten, he threads a hand through the boy’s moonlit strands, apathetic to the copper rust smears left behind. The child’s bangs have grown, he notes idly, fussing with the strands that have fallen over the boy’s face. Lilia ought to cut them soon.

“There will be time for that later,” he finishes his thought out loud, bending forward to press his lips benevolently to his son’s cool forehead— a blessing, Lilia thinks privately with a smile, examining the faint crimson outline of his lips against that pale skin. Blood of the father, blood of the son; sacrament and all that.

“But for now, my dear,” he gently strokes the backs of stained claws against the side of his boy’s face, leaving a virginal blush behind on a bloodless cheek. “It is time for you to wake up.”

Silver is five years old and held at knifepoint when he first meets his father. 

There is a man holding his small arms behind his back, another grasping at his feet, while a third laughs grimly down at his rapidly watering eyes and traces the blade delicately against his temple.

“You’ve been a burden on our village for far too long, brat,” he sneers while Silver’s rabbit heart beats fast and panicked within his heaving chest. “No mother, no father, cared for out of the kindness of our hearts, and you have the nerve to go about stealing our scraps to feed the animals?”

They’re hungry too! Silver wants to cry out, if opening his mouth wouldn’t drag the blade against his hairline. And they’re his friends, when no one else would be. 

The man, unfortunately, is right.

He has no family to speak of; an abandoned babe with odd-colored eyes, silkspun hair, and a debilitating tendency to sleep without cause like the dead themselves that had everyone in the village whispering fearful tales of curses and changelings. It didn’t help that the spring of his arrival had marked the beginning of a painful famine that would relentlessly grip the decaying land, crops failing out of a barren and cracked landscape as rivers began to bleed thin and dry. Changeling or not, it hardly took much time at all for any sympathetic feeling towards the foundling child to metamorphosize into bitter resentment at an extra mouth to feed when their own fevered children were crying out for more. Was it any wonder that he had turned to the few remaining woodland creatures for comfort, saving meager portions of his already miniscule meal to share in gratitude for their simple acceptance and affection? 

The man with the knife doesn’t wait for any answering explanation, merely smacks the blade pointedly against his cheek with a cruel, hungry gleam in those dead fish eyes, and the other two holding him still trade malicious grins. 

“It’s only fair that you pay for what you stole,” the man continues, almost kind and patient in his rationale— (I didn’t steal! Silver wants to shout, mouth dry and empty with fear. I only ever gave them food from my portion!)— and he hums with a terrifying softness at the way Silver’s frightened gaze tracks the knife’s every teasing glide about his forehead and his limbs tremble in their brutish hold. “Oh, not with your life— not at first, anyways. We’re going to scalp you; I can only imagine the price your pretty hair will fetch when we tell the traders that it's woven out of pure silver. It’s a start for what you owe us all for taking care of your worthless and lazy hide for the past five years, and then—”

He pauses as if for some grand operatic effect, savoring the way the tears helplessly gather and bubble at the edge of Silver’s lashes with a wicked smile. 

“Then, we’ll kill you and plate you tonight as dinner. I think there’s enough to go around for the rest of the village, don’t you?”

Two things happen: First, Silver bursts into tears. Second, a dark shape drops from the trees above and latches onto the man’s throat, tearing it open in one fluid movement and soaking the entire scene, Silver included, in a hot spray of blood.  

The entire woodland clearing erupts into chaotic, frenzied screaming. The other two men violently shove him forward in a futile attempt to use him as a shield and escape, and he falls numbly to the ground, limbs frozen in place out of dumb shock as shadows leap effortlessly over his head. The knife that had been so sinister just moments ago lies dull and dirtied in the forest floor by the now nearly headless corpse, and in the dim reflection of its blade, Silver can make out the similar gruesome demise of his other captors. The shrieking fearful sounds are silenced just as abruptly as they began; in less than thirty seconds, the forest has returned to its quiet, sedative self, at peace with the justice that has been served. 

Who . . ?

Quiet, gentle footsteps sound from behind him, their stride unhurried and at ease as they round his quivering, prostrate frame, and something hysterically yells in his mind that it’s poor manners to not at least look his rescuer in the eyes. 

“Hello, child,” the angel (for surely that must be, he fell from the heavens, did he not?) smiles down at him through dripping fangs.

Silver stares up through blood-splattered lashes at his savior and wonders if this is what it’s like to be stricken with love. 

The vampire takes him home. 

He laughs uproariously when Silver so shyly and seriously wonders aloud if he was truly an angel, with hands as kind and gentle as the spring sun upon the muddy bruises and dried wounds from the knife split across his face. 

He laughs at a lot of things that Silver says. It’s uncannily loud and booming for such a small man, but Silver instantly decides that he likes it.

The vampire explains that he is, well, a vampire. He even lets Silver curiously brush tiny fingers over his fangs once they’ve been cleaned of blood and gristle, smiling down at him all the while without a trace of malice that he’s grown so used to seeing. 

He tells Silver that his name is Lilia, Lilia Vanrouge. It’s a difficult name, a weighty name for Silver’s tongue to pronounce, but he rolls it softly in his mouth to savor it all the same, marveling at how much it feels like royalty. 

Lilia explains to him by the light of the fire that he’s lived for a very long time, that he’s enjoyed a life rich beyond anyone’s comprehension from all of the sights he’s seen and the wonders he’s traveled. But no creature is immortal, not even vampires, as long-lived as they may be— the years are heavier now, they ache and sting at his bones as if he’d soaked them in baptismal water. And in his many travels, he had so happened to stumble upon this empty cottage tucked away and abandoned inside this quiet, peaceful forest—

(“Like me,” Silver whispers solemnly. “Is that so?” says Lilia, summer-cherry eyes brilliant against the flames.) 

—and so he had thought, what a nice place to relax and rest his weary soul, a place for him to enjoy a rare moment of serenity before the next grand adventure swept him back out to sea. 

“How silly of me at my age to think that I could anticipate the future,” Lilia brushes his hand gently through Silver’s tangled hair, the knots easily coming undone from a mere sweep of his fingertips. Silver can’t quite recall how and when he had made his way onto the vampire’s lap, only that he is leaning his head adoringly against the man’s chest, staring up at him with bated breath.

“I didn’t expect to have to rescue my newest venture!” 

There’s no need to discuss it after that: Lilia never asks him to leave, and Silver never thinks to do so. 

It’s idyllic. Lilia feeds him, clothes him, lets him play with the forest animals for as long as he wishes. They take care of the little cottage together— Silver discovers a patch of land in the back that at one point might have been a sad attempt at a garden, but under the patient toil of the two of them, burgeons into life with all manner of flowers and vegetables. Lilia teaches him how to darn his socks and how to properly use a whetstone. He tucks Silver into the small bed alongside him and paints visions of faraway worlds upon the thin wooden walls, a better storyteller than any traveling bard that had come to the village before.

When Silver calls him ‘Father’ for the first time, he doesn’t laugh. 

In return, Silver doesn’t complain when he helps Lilia mop up any traces of blood from the traveler he’s feasted upon for the night. 

His father is not a monster, this Silver knows as truly as the sun travels through the sky. The weary men and women who wander across their little abode are treated with nothing but kindness— a warm seat by the fire, a fresh meal to eat, and a soft place to rest their heads. All that his father asks of them is to spare what little coin and wares that they are able to part with, a strange gleam in his eyes and a sincere smile on his face.

Without fail, the strangers comply. They always do.

And in the morning, if they’re a little more woozy than when they laid down to sleep, Silver reassures them that the small satchel of strong-smelling herbs and wrapped provisions for the road will do them a world of good. Together, father and son stand in the doorway of their humble home, hands raised in gestures of well wishes and farewell, as good hosts ought to do. Their visitors stumble down the chrysanthemum and lycoris-lined pathway back to the welcoming arms of the forest, and Silver flexes his toes in his new shoes while his father indulgently twirls his latest trinket around his fingertips, admiring the glint of it in the pale sunlight. 

(“Not all vampires are as kind as I am, child,” his father explains to him as he tucks a sheathed blade into the drawer of their nightstand, under the pressed and faded flowers that Silver had brought for him over time. “There are those who would see longevity as the means to power instead of the humbling blessing that it truly is. There are those who have let their years sour their minds like fermented wine, who have only steeped in cruelty instead of basking in the innocence that still exists in this world. And I would not have you defenseless inside our own home.”

Silver looks at the dull sheen of the knife and thinks back to the cold sting of one flayed against his cheek, and he wonders if those who lurk in the shadows of the night are truly the ones he ought to fear.)  

The years pass in this necessary fashion, seasons tumbling and turning over themselves with a prevailing peace that Silver had once believed could only exist in storybooks. He outgrows his sleeves faster than travelers pass by, and it isn’t long before he finds himself a whole head and a half taller than the vampire. His father laughs at his shaggy bangs, proclaiming Silver to be more sheep than boy, and attacks his hair with all the ferocity of a mad barber. The lasting effect leaves something to be desired and Silver could swear that the bluebirds by their window are chortling to themselves instead of singing. 

His father ruffles his sharp nails through the butchered mess of Silver’s hair and laughs again, proclaiming them to be matching lopsided twins, and Silver is unable to imagine a moment that he’s ever been happier. 

What a shame it is then, that all good things cannot last. 

The summer of Silver’s sixteenth year is a cruel, unforgiving one. 

The August sun swelters the earth with a breathless heat, insidious like none before. It is relentless in its seething anger to drive the woodland creatures to the deepest burrows in search of shade, the birds to practically droop like molten taffy in their water bowls, and his father to haunt the shadows of their home, face flushed and eyes feverish in a way that no cool rag could soothe. 

There could be no greater pain in Silver’s heart than this: the wilt in his father’s proud spine, the light tremors that seize his clever fingertips. He hovers over the vampire like a fretting maid, hands wringing uselessly as nothing short of the obvious will soothe his father’s condition, and travelers have been few and far between. Lilia conjures up smiles for him and swears that he’ll be alright, it’s simply a harsher season than before, and Silver cannot help but get the distinct feeling that he’s being placated. Even worse, it mostly works, the lonely and frightened child from the woods who sleeps deep in his soul comforted by that unsinkable paternal reassurance. 

Still, Silver is unable to completely shake the feeling that something is amiss. 

Lately, his rest at night has been disturbed. He wakes to the faint sounds of ruptured inhales so very close to his ear, of something in the clear throes of distress, with choked noises of desperately sought after air as if the deprived creature was suffocating. The noises are so frightening, so animalistic in nature that Silver can only think to associate them with his beloved woodland creatures, and yet when he hurries to his bedroom window and peers outside with his heart in his throat to find the poor animal that had been mauled by a predator— there is nothing but the silent gleam of moonlight, shining down upon his deflated flower beds. 

His father merely purses his lips in worry when Silver brings these odd instances to him, and wonders aloud if these are queasy dreams brought on by the heat; with little else to explain, Silver’s inclined to believe him. 

But these events are pushed out of his mind when salvation finally approaches one late afternoon in the weary figure of a man, clinging to the reins of a stumbling horse, at the end of their pathway. 

His father must have sensed the newcomer’s presence too, for Lilia is at the door before Silver can even call for him, ever the gracious host and smiling beatifically at their wayward traveler as if Silver hadn’t needed to shake his shoulders thrice in mounting worry to wake him that very morning. The man eagerly accepts the offer of nightly shelter, passing the reins of his horse to Silver to tie to a post in the welcome shade of a nearby tree, and Silver watches over its broad shoulder as he gently rubs the creature down. His father, ever the effortless conversationalist even at the height of his malady, needs no reins with which to lead the man into the cool, womb-like darkness of their home, and Silver feels a rush of palpable relief at the familiarity of the old song and dance— perhaps at last, his father might finally take a turn for the better.  

The next morning, Silver checks on his father first and smiles to see the vampire snoring away in what must have been his first blissful sleep in weeks, bedsheets haphazardly tangled about him in an ocean of white. With practiced motions, he leans down to straighten the blankets fondly around the slumbering figure, only to wrinkle his nose at the sharp scent of iron heavy on his father’s breath. After such a dry spell, the bitter tang scratches at his senses, and he can’t help but take a glance into their tiny living room where their guest yawns and shuffles in his borrowed blankets. 

Perhaps a breakfast with a healthy side of dark, leafy greens was in order. 

Morning is a quiet and simple affair— his father is sleeping in for once it seems, and Silver makes efficient work out of the early meal for their guest who must have had a rough night of tossing and turning judging by his wrinkled clothes and constant, belly-deep yawns. Silver even offers for the man to stay a while longer if he isn’t fit yet for travel, but their guest insists (rather strongly for his exhausted nature) that he could not impose on their goodwill much longer. With a mental shrug, Silver bows his head and allows the man privacy to retrieve his things, heading outside with the intent to bring the waiting horse to its owner. 

Only, the horse is nowhere to be seen. 

Silver’s heart falters in his chest, and he turns to their departing guest with a litany of apologies on his lips, for he had been so sure of tying the creature up safely for the night, but the man waves him off with an unsteady hand and a smile that keeps attempting to slip from his face as if greased, proclaiming that he had no need for what had been such an aging beast. He could continue his travels alone, and Silver can only watch and uneasily curl his fingers into his palms as the man cuts a wavering figure back down their pathway despite his bewildered protests. 

(“We ought to warn those who stop by that there may be a bear in the woods,” he tells his father later, the vampire having woken long past their traveler’s departure. “The noises I’ve been hearing and now the horse’s disappearance. . . someone could get hurt.” 

His father doesn’t seem too concerned with Silver’s hypothesis, and he supposes that’s simply how one behaves after centuries of besting mortality. Still, he resolves to be more cautious in his time spent outdoors.) 

The man’s arrival marks a turning point in the summer, the blistering dog days giving way to the cooler promise of autumn. It also marks a turning point in his father’s health, one that Silver is initially so incredibly grateful for as the vampire seems to perk up and become the very picture of rosy, energetic grace. The weakened figure of mere weeks prior haunts the corridors of his mind, and Silver finds himself making excuses as his father welcomes the oddly increasing number of strangers who have found themselves down their homely path with open arms and glittering eyes above a wide, gleaming smile. It had simply been a veritable drought of company, and his father, gregarious as he was, was in his element now, thriving off the attention almost as much as the blood that came with it.

And perhaps that is what itched at his nerves most of all. It was one thing to suddenly play house with the travelers that seemed to constantly appear on their doorstep—

(Silver had questioned them, a discomforting notion to learn that not only had they been told of the cottage’s existence by those who staggered off in the mornings, but almost fervently urged to visit.)

—but never before had he witnessed his father drink in such abandon. With such a slow, but steady, trickle of visitors, his father may have sampled another’s blood once or twice a month at most, always cautious enough to not take too much. His father is not a monster, and his kindness exceeds that of all the humanity that Silver had known in his short life— this he tells himself as he averts his gaze from the still-clotting punctures, glistening and accusatory over rumpled shirts. 

His father is not a monster, and he still tells himself this as he stumbles out of his bedroom one cold winter’s night, awoken once more to that strange, garbled collection of sound. His father is not a monster, because it simply could not be his father crouched before him on the floor of their living room, an all too still and silent figure splayed out beneath him like a rag doll. He surely must be dreaming, as those muffled, wet noises pause in their desperate slurping and enlarged fangs draw up and away from a ruined shoulder, dripping in a dark, glutinous substance. His father is not a monster, because the creature hunched in the shadows of a dying fire looks nothing like the angel who had rescued him in the forest all those years ago— whatever this, this thing is, slavering wildly over a face locked in a euphoric death mask, it is not his dearest father.

They behold each other in the scant space of a fragile moment, a bewildered gaze still frozen before the onslaught of horror could possibly sink in opposite that of unmoored feral hunger. Silver thinks back to the knife hidden beneath the drawer of his nightstand, cloaked in dust and dried flowers and the somber protection of a father’s love. He thinks back to the incredible speed that had disposed of the men who had intended to kill him on such a similar frigid night, a speed unmatched to the naked eye. 

The vampire utters his name like a prayer, smeared tenderly in lamb’s blood.

His father is not a monster.

Silver opens his arms, and waits for his angel to carry him home. 

In response to the delicate graze of his father’s gore-drenched claws against his youthful face, the boy’s eyes flutter open at last. Lilia does not seem to notice the vibrancy that has vanished from them, leaving behind the dull haze of a mist-choked morn where once the dawn light soared; perhaps he simply does not care. “Oh, Silver,” he breathes in reverence, the miraculous wonder of a father witnessing his child’s (re)birth for the first time, and he throws his arms around the boy’s stiff shoulders. There is no response, but that is to be expected when one is missing a greater third of their tattered and torn esophagus, the mutilated remains of which are strewn across the floor or smeared over Lilia’s mouth.  “My darling boy, my precious son, how perfect you are at last.”

Silver trembles in his arms like a newborn fawn, and Lilia coos reassurances to him, helps his boy to his feet and steadies his legs as he leads him over to where their meal now lay in a crumpled and tangled heap. It is always cumbersome, the first feeding, and Lilia had no one to guide him through the carnal, mindless greed of his own— no such fate shall befall his son. He will share with him the abundance of milk and honey, lift it to his frozen lips where those new, budding fangs peek innocently above, and watch with boundless pride as new life, a near eternal life, is bestowed upon the one timeless treasure he has coveted in over six hundred stolen centuries. 

Later, they will bury the body together, sink the flesh deep within the garden where the others take their rest, a cluster of pearly white bones only disturbed by an odd set of larger, equine-shaped ones. Later still, when a young man approaches their home in the evening gloom to seek shelter on the long, arduous journey to his grandfather, Silver will greet him. He will smile enchantingly over his new high-necked shirt and take his hand, drawing him deep into the clutches of their wonderful little home, deep into the blessed darkness where his father waits. The table will stay barren, the bed unmade— there is no more need for pretense between the two of them. Not now, and not ever. 

Lilia can see it all. And with pleasure, he smiles. 

[liaromancewriter]

Magical

Premise: They’re caught up in the magic of a moonlit night.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Sienna Trinh x Max Valentine (M!OC) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff Words: 735

A/N: It's been too long since I wrote a Maxenna fic. This one is pure romance! Based on an ask by @rafasgirl23415 #42 from this kisses list (out of pride). Submission for @choicesjunechallenge2024 prompt "bridge" and @choicescommunityevents Fairy Event - prompt "moonlit magic"

The bridge was bathed in the golden glow of streetlights, casting long, romantic shadows on the River Seine flowing quietly below. Its surface mirrored the light from a waxing moon that peeked through wispy clouds on an otherwise clear night sky.

In the distance, the Eiffel Tower sparkled, its lights shining like a thousand fairy lights. A soft breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers and fresh bread from a nearby boulangerie. The soft strains of music from an accordion drifted through the night, mingling with the sounds of the city.

The air was thick with the warmth of a Parisian summer night. It was a night made for romance—magical.

Sienna Trinh glanced sideways at the handsome man strolling beside her, and her lips curved into a secretive smile.

If someone had told a younger her that she would be on a second honeymoon in Paris with Max Valentine, her hand clasped in his, his ring on her left finger, and as in love as the first time they said the words to each other, she wouldn’t have believed them.

When she first saw him, he reminded her of a sleek panther with messy blond hair and a flirtatious half-smile hovering on his lips. She’d felt the first flutter of butterflies but quickly dismissed them—and him.

Now, fine lines fanned out from the corner of his green eyes, and there were hints of silver just starting along the hairline of his artfully styled hair. The boyish features had honed into statesman-like maturity. But his grin still made her heart go boom.

Ten years of marriage had only enflamed what began as a flicker almost fifteen years ago.

Lost in thought, Sienna didn’t feel Max tug at her hand and almost stumbled. He caught her, as she knew he would, and turned her about to face him.

“Daydreaming, again?”

She gazed into his laughing green eyes and fell in love with her husband all over again.

“Dance with me,” he brought her hand up to his chest, intertwining their fingers.

Max rested one hand on her waist, guiding her movements with ease. His eyes never left hers, and the world around them faded away into a hazy backdrop of twinkling lights and the sweet melody of La vie en rose.

Sienna’s dress fluttered gently around her legs, and she swayed in his arms. She laughed as Max spun her gently before reeling her back toward him. Leaning into him, she rested her head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek.

“Remember our first dance?” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

"How could I forget?" Sienna grinned, tilting her head to meet his eyes. “I thought I’d entered a magical spring garden high in the sky. It looked like you’d bought out all the hyacinths in the Boston area.”

“I was nervous that night,” Max confessed, his voice a deep rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “My heart was pounding so loud, I was afraid you could hear it.”

“I was terrified of falling for you. I tried so hard to keep my distance during that first dance.”

“I remember telling you to let go, to trust me with your heart.” He lowered his head and kissed her softly on the mouth. “Just for tonight.”

“And then you stepped on my toes,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“And you laughed, just like you’re laughing now,” he said, pulling her closer. "It’s my favorite sound in the world.” He paused and winked lasciviously. “Well, second best.”

Sienna blushed, remembering the sounds she’d made last night. It was a good thing their hotel suite didn’t have any neighbors.

Time seemed to stand still, but they continued to dance, lost in their shared memories.

Boats drifted lazily by, their passengers catching glimpses of the couple and smiling at the simple beauty of two people in love and lost in each other.

Max dipped Sienna low as the song drew to a close, her hair cascading like a waterfall over his arm. For a heartbeat, they stayed suspended like that. Then, slowly, he brought her back up, their faces inches apart.

“I love you, Sienna,” he whispered, his breath mingling with hers. “I’m proud to call you mine.”

“I love you too, Max,” she said, sealing her words with a kiss that tasted like forever.

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

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @jerzwriter @lady-calypso

@mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16

@justyourusualash @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Max & Sienna only: @aallotarenunelma @storyofmychoices @kyra75

[chand-ki-priyatama]

Krishna~The Divine

In the moonlit embrace In Sky's gentle grace There lives Krishna Krishna Who's as beautiful as a sunrise Whose beauty in words can never suffice That's Krishna~The Divine

In the melancholic springs In the timeless realms where Gopis sing There dances Krishna in his Divine Grace He stands with all his glory Face as radiant as the moonlight That's Krishna~The Divine

Upon the river's grace He plays his flute It feels as if cascading rain drops Taking away the pain Making our life light That's Krishna~The Divine

[xiakeponz]

I just wanted to translate a lil' bit of this book I was reading, because I didn't realise just how many poems (in the case of this book, Tang dynasty poems) have been lost to the ravages of time, and what a miracle it is that we even have a 唐诗三百首 today. Short note from me about translation approach is at the end under the cut.

唐诗寒武纪

王晓磊 (六神磊磊) 著

ISBN: 978-7-5302-2250-8

The Cambrian Age of Tang Poems by Author Wang Xiaolei (ISBN: 978-7-5302-2250-8)

Chapter 1 

Do you know how fortunate you are to be able to read Tang poems today? 

我志在删述，垂辉映千春。- 李白

My ambition is as grand as when Confucius compiled The Book of Poems, so that the radiance of my poems may shine a thousand springs from now. 

At a time 400 years ago from the present day, during the Tianqi Era (1621-1628) of the Ming Dynasty, when Eunuch Wei Zhongxian’s （魏忠贤）authority could eclipse the heavens- 

In the Haiyan district of the Zhejiang Province, there was an old man who silently shed his official’s robes, and folded them neatly. This was a set of blue robes embroidered with white pheasants, signifying that he was a fifth-rank court official. 

Outside, someone yelled, “Official Hu, why haven’t you come out yet! We’re waiting to escort you to De Zhou so you can take up your post there!”

“Take up my post?” The old gentleman gave a small smile, then muttered to himself, “Goodbye,  court politics! I have long grown weary of you. I’m going back to my hometown, and spending the rest of my years completing a very important matter- to compile the most complete set of Tang poems, so that there will no longer be any left out, so that no longer will there be any lost to the ages, so that our descendents can read them all!”

Let us remember the name of this old gentleman: Hu Zhenheng （胡震亨). 

Perhaps it is very difficult for people of the present day to understand - wasn’t he just wanting to make a compilation of poems, was that really so difficult? Did he need to really go this hard? Actually, yes. Back in that time period, it really was that difficult.  During that time, there were no publishing companies, printing factories, libraries, or convenient search engines. If you wanted to look up a poem, you’d have to pore through countless scrolls, you may even need to  trek over mountains and cross rivers just to be able to make a copy - and even after all that, you may not even have been able to make that copy. 

If Ol’ Hu slacked off, and didn’t make this Tang poetry compilation, what would have happened? The answer to that is, that the consequences would have been very dire.

At that time, Tang poetry was already starting to go extinct just like how our flora and fauna species are going into mass extinction today. According to Hu Zhenheng’s estimations, at least half of all Tang poetry had already been lost. 

Perhaps you are thinking, how the hell does poetry just go missing? As long as the poet is good enough, as long as the poem is good enough, then wouldn’t such works just be passed down through the ages, and be able to endure, that way? 

It really doesn’t work like that. 

Let me ask you a very broad question: out of all of the Tang poems, which one is the best? Perhaps many people will respond, off the top of their heads, “A night of moonlit blossoms on the river in spring” (春江花月夜“). This poem is lauded as the “a singular page eclipses the entire Tang dynasty” poem of poems, after all. Well then, who is the author of this fine poem? Many of you readers can answer, Zhang Ruoxu（张若虚）. 

This Mister Zhang has written such a great work, and has made such a great contribution to Tang Poetry. Well then, how many of his poems remain today? A hundred poems? Eighty? The answer will shock you - merely two of his poems remain today. 

The only reason “A night of moonlit blossoms on the river in spring” was able to be passed down to the present day, is really nothing more than a giant fluke. It was thanks to a very accidental opportunity, that when people in the Song dynasty were compiling a book of songs and ballads for their music bureau, they recorded this very poem by Zhang Ruoxu into the compilation, and enabled it to be passed down through the ages. 

Apart from two poems, all the other works created by Zhang Ruoxu in his lifetime, do not exist today. 

Now let me ask you another similar question: out of the pentasyllabic quatrain poems (五言绝句）in the Tang dynasty , which one is the best? Many will immediately respond, “Climbing White Stork Tower” （登鹳雀楼）. Yes, the one which everyone recited as a child - the sun sets against the mountains, the yellow river flows into the sea” (白日依山尽，黄河入海流）. Its author is recognised by most people as Wang Zhihuan (王之涣）. 

So then, how many poems has the great poet Wang Zhihuan left behind? The answer will again flabbergast you as you read it: there are only six poems left behind, the rest are all gone. 

Within a thousand years, we do not know how many lines like “the sun sets against the mountains （白日依山尽）”, and “the tides of the ocean and the moon rise in tandem （海上明月共潮生）” have been lost to the ages forever. 

The misfortunes of our friends Wang Zhihuan and Zhang Ruoxu, were not mere happenstance. 

How many poems of Li Bai （李白）have lived on to see the light of today? The most pessimistic takes say that, about one-tenth of all his poems exist today. 

This great genius has been writing poetry all his life, so estimates of his total poem count sits at around five thousand to ten thousand poems. For every ten of his poems, we may never ever be able to read eight or nine of them. 

Before passing away, Li Bai had sorted out all of the drafts and writings he had made in his lifetime, and solemnly entrusted it all to his uncle （族叔）, Li Yangbing （李阳冰）, and asked that he compile them into volumes, so that it can be passed down through generations. Li Yangbing did not fail Li Bai’s wishes, and poured his heart into compiling the Thatched Cottage Anthologies （草堂集）of which there were ten scrolls … which then subsequently got lost to the ages in the Song Dynasty. 

Now let’s talk about Du Fu （杜甫）。Essentially all the poems written by this similarly great poet before the age of forty, have been lost to the ages. How long did Du Fu live? Until age fifty-eight. That is to say, that all the poems he wrote for most of his life, were all for nothing. 

Another big shot, Wang Wei, （王维）fared no better. During the Kaiyuan era alone (713-741) he wrote hundreds if not thousands of poems. By the end, less than one-tenth of the total remained. 

There are countless other examples. The early Tang poet, Song Zhiwen（宋之问）was big-name poet who established the foundations of regulated verse poetry. He had poetry volumes circulating during the Tang Dynasty, however the circulation still ended during the Jiajing era of the Ming dynasty, and was finally lost during the Wanli era. All twenty volumes of the writings of gifted female scholar-official, Shangguan Wan’er （上官婉儿）, were entirely lost in the Song dynasty, and we only have thirty-two of her poems remaining today. 

The poetry volumes written by one of the “Elite Fours” of the early Tang dynasty, Wang Bo （王勃）,the genius who famously wrote “the hues of twilight fall in line with the solitary flight of a wild mallard （落霞与孤鹜齐飞）”, were arduously able to survive for a few hundred years, however, come the Ming dynasty, they were all completely lost all the same. 

This is like saying that the complete works of Jing Yong （金庸）were all lost to the ages, and you would only be able to glean snippets and excerpts of his original writings from the column writings of Liushen Leilei （六神磊磊）to get your hit. Just the thought of it makes me want to cry. 

The great Meng Haoran （孟浩然） can be counted as lucky. Shortly after he passed away, there were already people making compilations of his poems. Even so, many of his creations have still been lost. There is also the great Li Shangyin （李商隐）, who wrote “the silkworm spins silk even ‘til death （春蚕到死丝方尽）” and “our hearts are connected through a singular nexus (心有灵犀一点通)” , who personally compiled forty-odd scrolls of his writings, however, those have all been lost, and not a single volume remains. His poems have all been scrabbled together piece-by-piece, by those after his time. 

So, do you still think that those poems which have been lost to time, were lost purely because they were shoddy poems, of little worth, so no one wanted to remember them? Not at all. Even if they made a mark in their heyday, poems that are handed down will eventually be lost to time, all the same. 

People in the Tang dynasty have recorded, that of Li Bai’s CiFu （辞赋）poetry, the poems Dapeng Fu (大鹏赋）and Hongyou Fu （鸿猷赋）were incredibly marvelous, so much so that they even surpassed the calibre of writings of the big guardians of CiFu poetry from the previous generation, Sima Xiangru (司马相如） and Yang Xiong （杨雄）. Fortunately, we can read Dapeng Fu today, but … where is Hongyou Fu? Sorry, it’s gone, lost forever to the ravages of time. 

Translator’s note:

There are many ways to do a translation, and this one is more for the vibes than for the “literal” translation - that is not to say it is inaccurate, but as someone who has translated for years from Japanese to English, or from time to time, Chinese to English (when I feel like it lol) I thought I’d state the purpose of this translation so you can get a sense of my choices here.  I am translating this very casually and more for speed / for fun, it is a very pulling-words-off-the-top-of-my-head translation than the other kind of translation I do where I sit there for hours milling over a singular word. A partial reason for why I can do this style of translation is because the prose of the book itself is very conversational and casual (I will tangentially note, this writing style is kind of controversial with the Author’s other works that discuss poetry, as some readers view it as “low-brow”, but for me, I like it. I think it makes the content very digestible and accessible to readers who are new to poetry). This translation is for my buddies in the poetry club, who are mainly diaspora and/or can read Chinese to any extent anyway (in particular, I want to thank the funny and great @fwoopersongs, for always being here to chat poem stuff and making me interested in the lives of the poets and the context surrounding the poetry rather than just the poems themselves).  As such, I will try to remember to include the Chinese characters for people’s names, so you can read it with the correct tones. I bought this book and started reading, and thought wow, this is cool, I want to share it. A lot of the Chinese terms here I’ve only thought about and experienced in Chinese, I don’t watch Mandarin-language shows with any subtitles, and I don’t typically experience other Chinese Media in English so I am not sure what the “standard” (if any) terms in English would be - it’s for the vibes, especially the parts where I am translating literal poetry. For example, the author pulls verses from poetry here to set the tone for the start of a chapter, so the goal of my translation here to make a translation that it conveys to the reader a reason why that verse was chosen, rather than the “perfect” way 千秋, 碧落，独倚 or a word like that is translated (or, for example, everyone let’s agree on a translation of the poem title 《春江花月夜》 - pain - lol). I do not think I can do any of these poetry translations justice, as poetry translations in any language is more like a feeling of the soul that you try to fit within the available confines of another language, hoping that the reader on the other side can experience something in their own individual way through your shared humanity rather than language alone. Also, I do have a lot of commentary and notes that I wanted to make but I might do that in a different place (maybe as footnotes) at another time, I don’t want to interrupt the flow of the reader by sticking my own comments everywhere.

[asian-drama-tropes]

A Year of Asian Drama Tropes 2024 - Wuxia Edition

A year long celebration of Asian tropes, this multi fandom event has a monthly selection of prompts for you to choose from!

The theme for 2024 is Wuxia! Rules and FAQ can be found here!

January

Riverbank

Sect/clan conflict

Blood sworn siblings

Amnesia

"When the Sandpiper and the Clam fight each other, it’s the Fisherman who benefits."

February

Go/Shogi/Xiangqi (politics optional)

Flirting through poetry/literature/music

Secret text training upgrade

Drinking under a full moon

"Heaven’s Net is wide, and none can escape its mesh."

March

Peach blossom forest (fight scene optional but likely)

Flying while flirting/fighting (is there even a difference?)

The master chef/burns water couple

Limited time left to live

"The weak are prey to the strong"

April

Big gathering (always ends badly)

Recovery from poisoning (either antidote or internal energy)

Pressure point activation for healing/bondage

Leader of the good aligned martial arts schools

"The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind."

May

Mountain pass (always an ambush)

Disguise that really shouldn't work (but somehow does)

Musical instruments as weapons

Going berserk (for revenge or protective impulses)

"Flying flowers and picking leaves can hurt people"

June

Roof (moonlit fight scene optional but likely)

Confession in the rain (bonus umbrella optional)

Revenge (bonus if intergenerational)

Aphrodisiacs

"No one is killing me but you"/ "No one is killing you but me"

July

Tavern (fight scene optional but likely)

Lovers fighting back to back

Prosaic objects as weapons

Sweeper monk

"2 jin (1.2kg) of cooked beef and a pot of alcohol"

August

Mountaintop

Falling off a cliff (assumed to be dead but actually not)

Reclusive master training upgrade

Ancestor worship

"In the world of martial arts, no technique is faultless, only speed is invincible."

September

Hidden room

Cross dressing

Soup and wound tending (go together)

Villain who has a point

"The prettier a lady, the better she is at lying."

October

Prison (always a rescue)

Coughing up blood

Sleeves as pockets

Harem politics

"The mountain is tall, the river is long, we will meet again."

November

Open windows (secret plan/confession optional but likely)

Repaying a debt (sometimes across generations/time/reincarnation)

Heartbroken alcohol consumption

Shifu

"The truth will eventually show itself."

December

Lake/mountain pool/hot spring (sex optional)

Kneeling in snow/storm as a show of penance/devotion

Gifts of hair care items as courtship

The student becomes the master

"The will of Heaven."

[o-craven-canto]

  Evolution Langdon Smith (1858-1908)

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish   In the Paleozoic time, And side by side on the ebbing tide   We sprawled through the ooze and slime, Or skittered with many a caudal flip   Through the depths of the Cambrian fen, My heart was rife with the joy of life,   For I loved you even then. Mindless we lived and mindless we loved   And mindless at last we died; And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift   We slumbered side by side. The world turned on in the lathe of time,   The hot lands heaved amain, Till we caught our breath from the womb of death   And crept into life again. We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,   And drab as a dead man's hand; We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees   Or trailed through the mud and sand. Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet   Writing a language dumb, With never a spark in the empty dark   To hint at a life to come. Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,   And happy we died once more; Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold   Of a Neocomian shore. The eons came and the eons fled   And the sleep that wrapped us fast Was riven away in a newer day   And the night of death was passed. Then light and swift through the jungle trees   We swung in our airy flights, Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms   In the hush of the moonless nights; And oh! what beautiful years were there   When our hearts clung each to each; When life was filled and our senses thrilled   In the first faint dawn of speech. Thus life by life and love by love   We passed through the cycles strange, And breath by breath and death by death   We followed the chain of change. Till there came a time in the law of life   When over the nursing sod The shadows broke and the soul awoke   In a strange, dim dream of God. I was thewed like an Auroch bull   And tusked like the great cave bear; And you, my sweet, from head to feet   Were gowned in your glorious hair. Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,   When the night fell o'er the plain And the moon hung red o'er the river bed   We mumbled the bones of the slain. I flaked a flint to a cutting edge   And shaped it with brutish craft; I broke a shank from the woodland lank   And fitted it, head and haft; Than I hid me close to the reedy tarn,   Where the mammoth came to drink; Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone   And slew him upon the brink. Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,   Loud answered our kith and kin; From west to east to the crimson feast   The clan came tramping in. O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof   We fought and clawed and tore, And cheek by jowl with many a growl   We talked the marvel o'er. I carved that fight on a reindeer bone   With rude and hairy hand; I pictured his fall on the cavern wall   That men might understand. For we lived by blood and the right of might   Ere human laws were drawn, And the age of sin did not begin   Til our brutal tusks were gone. And that was a million years ago   In a time that no man knows; Yet here tonight in the mellow light   We sit at Delmonico's. Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,   Your hair is dark as jet, Your years are few, your life is new,   Your soul untried, and yet -- Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay   And the scarp of the Purbeck flags; We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones   And deep in the Coralline crags; Our love is old, our lives are old,   And death shall come amain; Should it come today, what man may say   We shall not live again? God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds   And furnish’d them wings to fly; He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,   And I know that it shall not die, Though cities have sprung above the graves   Where the crook-bone men made war And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves   Where the mummied mammoths are. Then as we linger at luncheon here   O'er many a dainty dish, Let us drink anew to the time when you   Were a tadpole and I was a fish.

[cnovelartreblogs]

Panel from A Moonlight Spring River manhua on Bilibili.

Chapter 41 owwwww. Huai En's backstory 😭😭😭

[greywritesrandom]

Legends and Lore - 20 {Monster}

Nymphs, Faeries, and Sprites

In the twilight realm where the boundaries between the mundane and the mystical blur, the Nymphs, Faeries, and Sprites flirt with an otherworldly grace, embodying the capricious and enigmatic nature of the supernatural. Rooted deeply in European pagan traditions, these ethereal beings are both enchanting and unsettling, weaving their presence into the fabric of ancient folklore.

Nymphs are often the most enigmatic of these entities. They are elemental spirits tied to natural features-water, trees, and mountains-each type possessing its own distinct allure and mystery. Water Nymphs, or Naiads, dwell in rivers and springs, their laughter like the tinkling of bells on the breeze, but their temper can be as turbulent as the waters they inhabit. Tree Nymphs, or Dryads, are bound to ancient groves and forests. While they protect their domains with a fierce, almost possessive devotion, their presence often comes with an unspoken warning: anger them, and the forest may turn against you.

Faeries, or Fairies, are the most varied of these supernatural beings. They are depicted in countless forms, from delicate winged creatures to shadowy figures that dwell in the peripheries of human perception. Celtic and British lore portrays them as guardians of nature, with their own sets of rules and whims. Though often benevolent, their aid comes with a price-misstep in their labyrinthine code of conduct, and you may find yourself ensnared in their mystical pranks or lost in an eternal dance. Their magic is both alluring and perilous, their offers of aid often masking a hidden cost.

Sprites, the smallest and most elusive, are the essence of mischief and misdirection. With a mere flicker of their tiny wings, they can cast illusions, steal away with precious items, or lead travellers astray in a maze of enchantment. Their playful nature can swiftly turn malevolent, leaving those who cross their path in a state of bewildering disarray. 

In the darkened glades and moonlit meadows where these creatures dwell, the air is thick with enchantment and trepidation. Their appearances are often fleeting, a glimpse of something shimmering just beyond reach, leaving behind a lingering sense of unease and wonder. Whether guardians or tricksters, the Nymphs, Faeries, and Sprites remind us that the natural world is a place of both beauty and danger, where the magical and the mysterious are ever intertwined.

[valentine-cafe]

For 164 Copper Resentment ( Zháo Talisen ):

"They say you are a sower of discord. But all I feel is comfort in your arms, my love." I hug onto his waist and snuggle his abdomen.

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ earth 164 zhao talisen

his long, slender copper and bronze ring clad fingers entangle themselves within your hair. leaving a hum to slip past his soft lips, which curl into a smile. one that holds so much love and admiration within it, as he feels the softness of your tresses against his skin.

and as you see your own reflection in the dilated pupils of his copper-maroon eyes, he gently removes your arms from his waist, crooning out quietly; "oh my moonlit field of star lilies. . ."

both of his hands curl around your waist and pulls your body up along his until you're face to face with him.

"the rise of your chest and the soft beating of your heart, they make even this unbeating heart of mine race and slam against my chest. your voice, the melodies it creates, like windchimes on an early spring morning singing to the world. you bring such a peace and comfort to this disruptive and erratic mind of mine. soothing the river of wrath that rages through it. you calm tides that none other can. for that, i thank you. my beloved."

with those words said, you feel his lips against yours, first capturing them in a loving and tender kiss. the second, he pulls away and flips you over, trapping you beneath him and his long limbs as you lie sprawled on the bed with his hair pooling around his and your face, curtaining your faces and the smiles you both exchange and before you know of it, he is going in for a much more hungry and passionate kiss.

only pulling away once he has made sure you're rendered breathless

"I adore all of you. all parts." he whispers lovingly, softly stroking the blushing skin of your cheek. chuckling as you hide your face in his shoulder and giggle in between whines.

[garden-ghoul]

Happy Gushiwensday Sunday! We had to take an extra day to think about this very tricky poem by Ouyang Xiu, to the tune of "Butterflies Love Flowers."

Returning from the painted pavilion. Ah, late spring: swallows flirting around their mates, graceful willows and trysting peachblossoms (denuded by a solid sky of drizzle and a courtyard full of wind). I frown austerely, though no-one's around to see. Alone, I lean on the crooked railing, muddled in mind. The perfumed grasses are dressed to impress in fine green silk. They recall that night, the river in Nan'an--- moonlit nights are heartless, and people change in the dark. Stumble memory to memory like a dream of desolation.

Lots of notes and original text under the cut.

蝶恋花·画阁归来春又晚

画阁归来春又晚。燕子双飞，柳软桃花浅。细雨满天风满院，愁眉敛尽无人见。 独倚阑干心绪乱。芳草芊绵，尚忆江南岸。风月无情人暗换，旧游如梦空肠断。

Ouyang Xiu is WAY too clever for me. In this poem he uses a ton of rebracketing tricks, where dividing a phrase at one point makes it mean one thing and dividing it at another point makes it mean a different thing. And on top of that he's using a LOT of idioms so you also have the connotative and denotative layers lying on top of each other like transparencies. I really picked a hard-mode poem this time! Let's get to it!

flirting around their mates --- literally "flying in pairs," with a connotation of marital bliss.

graceful willows --- willows are often compared to women in romantic poetry, and vice versa.

trysting peachblossoms --- it just says peachblossoms, but they also function as a symbol of love affairs. 浅 can mean shallow or light-colored, but also thin; Baike's annotations interpreted this as petals continuously shaken from the trees so they start to look bare. "Denuded," of course, also evokes taking off your clothes.

crooked railing --- 独倚阑 means "I lean against the railing" but 阑干 means crisscrossed or disordered, emphasizing the disorder we've already got at the end of this line! I originally translated this line as "With only myself to rely on, I have a confused, disordered mind."

The perfumed... green silk --- literally "fragrant grass is green and luxuriant." But as we've seen before, "fragrant grass" is an idiom for marriageable young people, so I tried to evoke a sort of cotillion.

Nan'an --- a district in Chongqing, but very possibly just a generic term for the south bank. Kept this because it sounds good.

Moonlit nights --- literally "wind and moon." This evokes variously romance, beautiful scenery, or petty topics.

heartless --- another fantastic rebracketing. If you break between the fourth and fifth character, as is customary for seven-character lines, you get 无情, no feelings. However, if you include the next character too you get 无情人 no sweetheart!

people change in the dark --- a continuation of the rebracketing thing in the middle of this line. If you read "I have no sweetheart," the end of this line could be something like "to exchange [gifts] with in secret/at night." If you read "heartless," you get "people exchange/transform in the dark/in secret." Given how much use Ouyang Xiu is getting out of alternate readings here, I think we're intended to see multiple versions at once. This could be "people change when you're not looking," it could be "people cross over" or even "people pass away."

Stumble memory to memory --- 旧游 literally "old tour," idiomatically to take a tour of places where you have memories. I put "stumble" here to echo the disordered mind and the broken heart.

dream of devastation --- more rebracketing, kind of? Breaking at the fourth character gives us "visiting old haunts as if in a dream, empty and heartbroken." But you can also read "empty dream of heartbreak." The reason I've used devastation here is... heartbreak didn't sound good as a final word. The word I actually wanted to use was חורבן / churban, but this is an English translation, so.

Anyway here's an additional literal translation, to show what it would be like if we only included denotative meanings:

Returning from the painted pavilion in late spring. I see swallows flying in pairs, supple willows and thinning peachblossoms. The whole sky is fine rain, and the whole courtyard is wind. I frown, completely self-controlled; I can see no-one. Alone, I lean on the crooked railing, my mind in disarray. The fragrant grass is luxuriantly green. I remember the Yangtze South Bank. The moon and wind are heartless, people exchange in the dark. I visit old haunts as if dreaming, empty and heartbroken.

[jarenka]

Yesterday classical guitar concert sent me into classical guitar rabbithole on Youtube. Of course I returned from it with videos.

Joaquín Rodrigo - Concierto de Aranjuez performed by La Orquesta Sinfónica de RTVE and Pablo Sáinz Villegas.

Other videos under the cut

Joaquín Rodrigo - Concierto Andaluz performed by Taipei Symphony Orchestra and guitar quartet: Shin-ichi Fukuda, Shih-yu Liu, Yasuji Ohagi, Kyu-hee Park.

Astor Piazzolla - Tango Suite performed by Duo Pace Poli Cappelli 

Jean-Philippe Rameau - Les Sauvages performed by Raphaël Feuillâtre

Leo Brouwer - Danza Del Altiplano performed by Mircea Gogoncea

Nikita Koshkin - Sonata No. 2 performed by Vera Danilina

J.S. Bach - Sonata in G minor, BWV 1001 performed by Drew Henderson

Reentko Dirks - Danza non Danza performed by European Guitar Quartet

Alexei Aigui – Triorio performed by the «Soloists of Nizhny Novgorod» Chamber orchestra and Dimitri Illarionov

Bonus: classical guitar and guzheng duo concert

Sérgio Assad - Mulan (dedicated to the Duo Chinoiserie) Agustín Barrios Mangoré - La catedral A Moonlit Night on the Spring River: Chinese classical work (arr. Jing Xia) Manuel de Falla - Danza ritual del fuego (arr. Duo Chinoiserie) Performed by Duo Chinoiserie