#a mortal is more of a saint than any god

[rin-hanarin]

「Forgiveness for a sinner」

[stvolanis]

Your lover, Lestat, was sickening in every way possible. Sickeningly charming. Sickeningly cunning. Sickeningly handsome. He was the master of manipulation, with his charismatic tendencies aiding him. Lestat, controlling in every sense of the word, seemed to control everything and everyone around him—except for you. And God, did it drive him absolutely mad.

Lestat was so used to getting his way. Torturing peoples bones till they bended to his liking, before meeting their inevitable doom and snapping. Rubble at his feet. He had a way with words, that was no surprise and was well known by those who knew him and lived. He was a greedy, narcissistic man, but you—you were his remedy. The right to his wrongs.

Lestat bowed for no one, yet he’d fall to his knees in your presence if you’d ask. He was an evil man, yes, he knew this to be a fact. But that didn’t matter to him, when little ol’ you peered up at him through those bashful lashes of yours like he was nothing but a saint. How could someone so devastatingly beautiful be the devil himself?

Lestat was madly in love, madly obsessed, and madly captivated all in one. An ambush of tiny angels plucking at the dead strings of his unbeating heart in a chilling melody only you knew the chords to.

Sex was an otherworldly experience. He was your first everything, including your first time. He was gentle, loving, and tender with each thrust he’d give you. Strings of praise slipping past his lips in his native tongue, accent thick and heavy as sweat dripped down his forehead. He was holding himself back, afraid his power would hurt you. He’d laid with mortals, uncaring of their comfort—but even as you were a vampire, he treated you like you would accidentally break at any moment. More fragile than human.

“Our beings as we know them are tied for eternity now, mon cher. I am yours as you are mine.”

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[dailyadventureprompts]

Thirsting Grail, Outergod of Wants and Wounds

Artsource

Adventure Hooks:

While travelling the party encounters a once famed surgeon who seeks their help in undertaking pilgrimage to the distant shrine of a death god. When pressed on her motivation, she reveals that through some curse or divine act of cruelty, those she operates on can never die, but also cannot heal. 

There is a tree that grows in the ruins of the old braon’s castle, said to have sprouted from the chopping block upon which he had his wife’s lovers executed. The tree grows no leaves, only flowers, and it’s said that if you make a tea from its blossoms, you will receive a vision of your one ture love.  Beings of woven thorn are said to guard the tree, but there are those who would pay desperately to drink of its boughs. 

A once peaceful kingdom dissolves into a generations long civil war, any hope of peace drowned beneath a tide of violence, ruination, and grievance that none can hope to escape.

Among the outergods there are none more eager to engage with mortals than the entity known as Thisting Grail. It is a thing of violence and appetite, and seems all too eager to lend its power to those most likely to misuse it, whether they sought it’s aid in the first place or not. 

Scholars and madmen have long debated the Grail’s motivations, what goal or ideology it is trying to achieve with the visions and often horrific miracles it bestows. In truth, Thirsting Grail has no goal beyond the pursuit of violence and longing, it is a means without an end, ready to lend itself to any cause that would make the world a bloodier, hungrier place. 

The god is formless, an ocean of boling blood that takes on the shape of whatever “vessel” its followers imagine for it, borrowing their cultural iconography and birthing itself anew each time. There are litanies of these avatars, hundreds more likely forgotten by history;  blood saints and baleful red stars and heart hungry blades. Perhaps because of blood’s ubiquity in ritual and occult practice the Grail’s influence can “seep” its way into the worship of other entities, divine or demonic, and it’s not unheard of for otherwise upstanding and dogmatic worshippers of banal gods to accidentally begin practising the grail’s bloody rites. 

Sanguimancy and other forms of blood magic are the most obvious of Thirsting Grail’s gifts, but it has other more esoteric offerings: smoke from sacrifices or incense mingled with the formless god’s essence can grant visions of desires made manifest, though often twisted through a disturbingly carnal (in both senses of the word) lens. All too often worshippers ( and the cult leaders that encourage them) see these visions as prophetic, leading to the outergod being sometimes called “the mother of truth”.  It can also manifest the objects of desire: succulent fruits, unearthly lovers, weapons of inordinate power, but there is something fundamentally wrong with these creations as they cannot grant true satisfaction, and often leave those that partake of them wanting more than when they started. 

Those who fall prey to Thirsting Grail’s influence can become warped as their own veins become polluted by the entity’s ichor: becoming feral creatures of endless cruelty and appetite, or having their wounds open wider and wider until there is nothing but wound remaining of their swollen flesh. Those so overtaken grow and warp and merge with others until new horrors are birthed from them, a permanent seedbed of 

Titles: Mother of truth, formless mother, font erubescent, the bloodstar.  Symbols: A red grail or fountain, cultural iconography stained with blood.  Signs:  Wounds that bleed but do not heal, plants overflowing or cracking open to expose their innards. Unsettling red dreams.  Worshippers: Those with bloodstained hands be they doctors, butchers, or murderers. Vampires, occultists, and other sanguiphiles. Instatiable gourmands and unfulfilled lovers.   

Inspiration:  I wear my influences on my sleeve with this one.  I’ve been turning the Elden Ring mythology over in my mind for some time partially because I think there’s a lot of fun ideas there but also because I felt like (in typical Fromsoft fashion) there wasn’t enough shown to really scratch my itch for discovery. 

The formless mother/bloodstar was chiefest among these elements: A killer aesthetic with lore that was a little too thin to use as inspiration. After a while that thinness turned into a feature, the idea of an eldritch entity of pain and violence that conformed to the needs of those who worshipped it, granting power to those who would go out and make the world more violent and painful.  I liked the idea that “mother of truth” was a misnomer, and that cultists would ascribe meaning and intent and iconography to a god that didn’t care one way or another. 

Another strong influence is the Grail from Cultist Simulator/Book of hours ( SERIOUSLY, play book of hours you fools), an eldritch entity/aspect of reality that presides over hungers and births be they literal or figurative.  The Blood + Mother connection was obvious here, but the Grail provided some more texture and esoteric aspects to fill out my version’s storytelling potential.

[thatshadowgastwhore]

Why demigods have certain powers: a theory (long post)

I have this theory that the reason demigods have specific strengths, or display one aspect of their parents powers over others is due in large part to what aspect their godly parent visited their mortal parent in AND how their mortal parent perceived them. TLDR at the end. Idk if this is a common theory, but I’ve never seen it written out before.

Half of this is pretty much so canon, in the way we know that Greek vs Roman demigods are different because they aren’t the same exact gods. The best example of this is Nico vs Hazel, where Nico is a child of Hades, who is the god if the Dead where Hazel is a child of Pluto, the god of the Underworld and Wealth. This affects their powers. We will come back to them.

However, we also know that demigods don’t necessarily inherit all of their parents dominions. For example, Will, Kayla, and Austin are all children of Apollo, but each have very different specialties. Will has power over healing and light, Kayla over archery, and Austin over music. Apollo is god of all three, but they all have very defined areas of interest and talent.

I think what powers come to a demigod naturally will be determined by their mortal parent, not their godly parent. The best example of this is Hazel.

Marie Levesque very specifically summoned Pluto because he was a god of wealth. It’s how she perceived him, not as a god of the underworld, the dead, or shadows, but as a god if riches and jewels. This explains why Hazel’s abilities are focused on riches. (I’m aware Pluto grants Marie a wish, and that part of that is that Hazels jewels are all cursed. However. Even after they stop being cursed (kind of) at the end of SoN she doesn’t lose the ability to summon them. SHE is the gift Pluto granted Marie, not the gems themselves) This doesn’t mean that she can’t access other abilities associated with children of Pluto/Hades, as is obvious in HoH when she assists Nico in shadow traveling everyone out of the House of Hades, or that the dead don’t sense her as a child of the Underworld and defer to her, like the Leres at CJ, but that isn’t how her powers naturally manifest.

Sticking with Hades, Nico (and Bianca) are a good comparison: they have (kind of) the same father as Hazel, but their abilities are very different. Looking at Maria, we don’t know too much, but I am going to assume something based on the fact that she’s from Italy in the 30s and her name is Maria: she was probably Catholic. Now, as someone who was raised Catholic, I feel qualified to say that Catholics are, while not as a whole superstitious, they are quite obsessed with death. Not in a Rapture sort of way the way some denominations are but more in a…they care A LOT about the Saints and Heaven and judgement, and because of that they’re more than willing to accept things happening because of intercession of a Saint or a dead loved one guiding them. I am not Italian in the 30s, so I can’t speak to that. But because of that, and the fact we KNOW that Maria knew the father of her children was Hades, Lord of the Dead (he offered to keep her safe in the Underworld, she knew about the prophecy, she knew Zeus wanted her dead) we can see how these things about her are reflected in her children.

Nico is known as the Ghost King, because his powers mostly manifest in his ability to summon and control the dead. He also has powers related to shadows, but he really has to practice to get good at it and not pass out. Affecting the dead is the first thing we see him do as a Hades power (dismissing the skeletons attacking Percy at the end of TC, and again all through BotL with Minos) before we ever see him shadow travel, which isn’t introduced until tLO, two books after his introduction. While Bianca’s page time is limited, the only real Hades power we see her demonstrate is when she destroys the skeleton. Maria saw Hades as the king of the dead more than any of his other powers. She obviously RECOGNIZED he had dominion over darkness and shadows (she says so when she tells him she won’t raise her children in the darkness of the Underworld) but that isn’t the part of him that she sees and values and fell in love with. She had kids with the god of the dead, so her children primarily manifest their powers over that domain. I also think that the fact she knew she was dating a god made her children more powerful, if that makes sense. Nico and Hazel are some of the most powerful demigods in the series, even apart from being big three kids.

But Mags, Mags! I hear you cry, what about kids like Annabeth? Athena kids don’t have obvious powers, how is that relevant here?

There aren’t a ton of good comparisons for Annabeth to see how her abilities compare to her siblings besides maybe Malcolm. However, I’ll do my best.

Annabeth’s power from Athena is her intellect and her cunning. Let’s look at how Athena and Fred met: Annabeth tells us that without Athena’s help, he wouldn’t have graduated his doctoral program. So when Fred met, we can assume he met Athena in her aspect of being a scholar. We know is that this is not Athena’s only mythic role, she is also a strategist and a patroness of useful crafts like weaving among other things.

I believe that Annabeth’s intellect really does manifest more as a scholar than anything else. For example, she has no formal schooling between the ages of 7 and 12, when she is at camp full time. Those are some formative years when a child creates a foundation for their future learning, and Annabeth has ADHD and dyslexia. School should not be a walk in the park for her. And yet, she doesn’t really struggle to reenter school, and she’s constantly referenced as doing essentially independent studying, whether it’s reading books in Ancient Greek or working on Daedalus’s laptop. Studying and researching is her hobby because it comes incredibly naturally to her, which matches up with how Fred would have seen Athena. And yes, we see her weave to get across the cavern in MoA, but that’s kind of a one off. Annabeth herself realizes in the moment that, “oh yeah, Athena’s the goddess of useful crafts,” like it’s never occurred to her to even attempt such a thing before. The only time we see her bring this talent back is at the beginning of BoO when Jason is stabbed (iirc - I could be wrong on this reference. I didn’t open a single book to write this essay)

Comparing that to Malcolm, we don’t know a ton about his powers or his parent. All I can recall is a single short story in which Athena sends him a dream requesting he reinstate a festival of hers, and he leads the Athena cabin in setting everything up, and I think weaves the Athena Parthenos a cool robe? Fact check me here, that’s as memory serves.

So why wouldn’t Athena ask Annabeth to do that? She’s the one who found the statue after all. I’m willing to bet it’s because whomever Malcolm’s father is, he met Athena in her aspect as a craftswoman. The skills that Malcolm inherited are primarily to do with crafting because of his mortal parent.

You can also see why some aspects of gods aren’t really seen in their children. For example, Dionysus is a god of wine but also notably mania. Of his two children we see + the one child of Bacchus we see, (Castor, Pollux, and Dakota) all three only have affinities towards the former. (There are vague allusions to the twins assisting the Demeter cabin with the strawberries because fruit bearing plants do well with them, although grapes are best, and Dakota has his kool aid addiction) but none ever display an ability to induce mania. Dionysus does, in TC when Percy Iris Messages him, but his kids don’t. Why? I’m willing to bet that less people are attracted to the manic aspect of Dionysus than the party side, especially because it requires wanting to make a baby with the guy. Not everyone, I’m sure at some point there’s been a Dionysus demigod who could, but it’s be rarer.

So what about Percy? He has like ALL his dad’s powers. Eh - kind of? Walk with me here:

We know quite a bit about Sally and Poseidons relationship, that they were together for an entire summer, that they met at Montauk, and that Sally knew she was dating the King of the Ocean. (Poseidon also offers her a palace under the sea to keep her safe from Zeus. Now he’s 2/2 on having his brothers offering to keep their lovers safe from him and thus revealing their identities to them and making their kids even more powerful)

We know that she associates Poseidon with the sea very strongly, but more so that she thinks he is powerful but GENTLE. I posit that because of that, it explains why water is healing to Percy. Zeus kids don’t get magically better when they stick a finger in an outlet. Demeter kids aren’t healed by plants. This is kind of unique to Percy and I think it’s because of Sally and Poseidon’s relationship. I would also assume that at some point, Poseidon showed her that he could communicate with sea life and horses, and those then became part of her idea of him, which is why water, equestrians, and fish are the parts of Percy’s power that comes most naturally.

You know what Poseidon’s the god of that isn’t in Percy’s primary powered? Earthquakes. He’s done it once: Mt St Helen’s in BotL and he did so while he was actively dying and the mountain was already erupting a little bit, he just made it worse. But he’s never actively tried to do so. It feels kind of like Hazels shadow travel: he probably could, with a lot of effort and maybe some help because his dad IS Poseidon, but it’s not his thing.

It’s also why he can kind of mess with ice. The only real time we see him do so is in SoN when he collapses the glacier CJ in Alaska, but for the most part, if water isn’t in its liquid form, he doesn’t really mess with it. No steam either. He probably COULD, but Sally met Poseidon by an ocean, so that’s their basis.

The poison in HoH reads similar to the earthquake. He probably could control any water based liquid but it would take more effort and he doesn’t want to. For what it’s worth, yes, Percy could blood bend, easier than he could poison bend because blood is salt water. But he won’t. Because it disturbed him.

Moving on.

Mags! That’s all well and good, but what about Thalia and Jason? Don’t they kind of disprove your theory? They have the exact same mortal parent, why do they have such different powers?

Well, for what it’s worth, they DON’T have the exact same parents. Zeus and Jupiter are not the same god. So they’re technically half siblings through Beryl. Swerve. But I see your point - if I’m suggesting that the powers one inherits from their godly parent are determined by one’s mortal parent, then Thalia and Jason should be basically the same.

Well, they are pretty similar, all things considered, but a key part of that is what there really is to inherit from their godly parent. This gets more into classical theory that I am not an expert in, but from my understanding: you can generally state that of the two, Zeus was more impulsive and wrathful and might smite you for anything, and Jupiter filled the father/king of the gods role more. And we already agreed at the bringing with Nico and Hazel that Roman and Greek gods aren’t the same.

And. When we’re looking at the relationship between Beryl and Zeus, it’s a wild starlet having a wild fling, she has no children, she parties, she’s here and there and everywhere, she can’t be tied down. And it’s implied that she knew he was a god, because being able to catch the attention of Zeus apparently made her go off the deep end when he left. And she wanted very badly to see Olympus but Zeus refused (with good reason. The reason being Hera) Thus, Thalia’s powers pick from the ones matching those traits. She’s got power over lightning, but not necessarily the sky. She probably could fly if she ever tried. And also: she doesn’t have to ask permission to call down lightning. She just does. She makes her own lightning.

Jason on the other hand, is the result of Beryl and Jupiter. The relationship was a smidge more stable. Beryl was calmer when Jupiter was around and Jupiter presented himself to her in a more…grand? aspect. It makes sense then that Jason can fly but he’s not really a lightning guy. Like. Yes. He caaaan, but pretty much so any time it counts there’s a mention that he like, petitions his dad to let him summon a bolt. But he controls the winds with ease, because Jupiter is a king, and that’s how he presented himself to Beryl.

Which brings me to a straight up theory I have about May Castellan. I think that she was either a politician or a political correspondent. Someone who was on the news a lot, someone with a sharp tongue, an excellent debtor, and an orator extraordinaire. All we know about her in canon is that she had Luke, and she was special enough to Hermes that he continued to visit her after Luke was born, and that he told her about the Oracle, and how that turned out.

Hermes is the god of a metric ton of stuff. Thieves, travelers, tricksters, merchants, athletes, gymnasiums, orators, communication, gambling, the list goes on. A lot of his kids are described as speedy: their mortal parents probably caught his eye due to being athletes. We know Luke to be very charismatic and the best swordsman the camp had seen in years. I think that indicates that May attracted Hermes as someone with a sharp wit, who could verbally spar anyone into submission (unless she was legit into swordplay) and she caught peoples attention and could convince them of anything. It also explains why she’d have been so insistent on becoming Oracle, besides being clear sighted. If she was an elected official or a media correspondent, it would suggest an interest in conveying messages, and being the voice for others, like being the voice of Delphi.

But Mags, that’s all well and good but Will’s mom is a musician. Why is his only gift on that front that horrible dog whistle?

Eh…? This one is tricky, however, it might be that she attracted Apollo because of her music, but he attracted her because he exudes warmth and light, thus her child gained healing and light powers and not music. It’s a weaker explanation. Sorry.

There is one other very notable exception to this theory, and I do have an answer to that. Leo’s fire ability had very little to do with Esperanza, and everything to do with the prophecy.

I think that Leo was fated to have power over fire, as the fire in “to storm or fire the world must fall.” That being said, I don’t think Leo’s crafting skills were fated. Those I feel were passed down from Hephaestus through Esperanza’s association with engineering and crafting with him, but the fire wasn’t. The fates wove that power in.

TLDR: Which powers a demigod inherits from their godly parent isn’t random, it’s determined by how their mortal parent perceived the god and their domains.

[skyscrapergods]

Are there such things as minor gods? Things like how Aphrodite is the main goddess of love and related things, but the Erotes are all gods and goddesses of more specific parts of Aphrodite's domain.

There are entities that come to represent a concept in their local community. The less people who know and venerate them, the less powerful they are. There are many names for boosted creatures: saints, partially ascended, demigods, etc. The world is massive and each part has its own culture.

Twilight was already growing taller and longer before Celestia supercharged the process and made her into a Godling. Godlings cannot go back to how they were before, but they can try their hardest to remove themself from the concept of their godhood and hope they don't grow any further.

An example of a venerated creature would be Rain Shine, matriarch of the Kirin and Conduit of Silence. She is taller and more powerful than the other kirin, but no one thinks of her as a god.

Hierarchy of Ascension

Patron

This pony (or griffin or dragon etc) is known for their association with a certain trait, concept, material, area, personality, etc. You wouldn't yet call this their "domain" and most people are unaware there is anything magical going on.

Rarity - fashion. She is well known as a fashionista, and her garments give an extra sparkle of inspiration and self love to their wearers. There are many of these in the world.

Zecora - exotic wilderness. Everyone thinks of her as foreign and strange but capable and kind. She is adept at using folk remedies and navigating the Everfree Forest with ease.

Spearhead - Subjective art. This royal guard-turned-artist builds strange compositions that many ponies find confusing. But he is skilled at evoking emotion with seemingly random shapes.

Conduit

People who are changed by their domain, and have notable power relating to it.

Rain Shine - Silence. She is more powerful when no one is speaking. Her magic caused already health-compromised kirin to lose their voices.

Trouble Shoes - Bad luck. Thought of as being a massive clumsy screwup, that is what he became.

Fleur de Lis and others with a similar build - We will have to do more research on their actual domain.

Sassy Saddles - conduit of sweatshops apparently

Thorax - Leadership that values the people rather than the self

Shining Armor - Protection

Bastian

Significant changes and powerful magic that can last through the ages. Lifespans extended but they are still mortal. Physical changes tend to manifest during highly magical moments, and can fade afterward. Known by hundreds of mortals.

The Pillars of Equestria, and later, the bearers of the Elements of Harmony.

Pinkie Pie - Chaos

Harbinger

Extremely powerful creatures who are on their way to a natural ascension to godhood. They Can be killed, but if their power continues to grow they will become immortal. They can start to take on other domains as people attribute more concepts to them. Known by millions of mortals.

Sombra - He has his own chapter, to be released.

Queen Chrysalis - Terrified Reverence. Ruling through fear. Selfishness and taxes. She thinks she is the Harbinger of love, of course.

Tirek - Habinger of helplessness. He makes everyone feel terrified and unable to act.

Dragon Lord - Powerful and massive leader of dragons. This is a form of near-godhood that can be transferred from one dragon lord to the next. Usually this transition is peaceful, with the old lord announcing the new one to dragons of the world. But history is stained with the blood of battles for the title. The Lord is whoever dragons believe to be their ruler. One historically successful way to achieve this belief is to kill the old one. Thankfully, modern dragon law includes term limits.

Deity

Alicorn Post | Gods Tag

Immortal beings that are many many times their original size. Massive, powerful magic that is interwoven into the fabric of reality. Gods have multiple concepts in their domains, usually related to each other in some way. This includes "positive" gods taking on "negative" traits as part of their domain.

Known by hundreds of millions to billions of mortals.

Discord - Chaos and disharmony. He is a dimensional interloper that has gained notoriety and thus power in this dimension as well as his own.

Celestia - The sun, sky, and daytime. Main Post | Tag

Drawback: Burns

Luna - The moon, the night, and dreams. Main Post | Tag

Drawback: Nightmares

Twilight (future) - Friendship and connection. Main Post | Tag

Cadance - Romantic love and family. Main Post | Tag

Boabab (oc) - Life. The beginning, the planet

Novo - The Ocean

Godling

Godlings are creatures who have been ascended through the acts of another god. They have skipped the slow growing power gain. Instead, they manifest godlike traits while still keeping their small size. The God who ascended them will usually announce the new Godling to their followers, which immediately gains the Godling a congregation and begins their ascent rapidly. They have varying levels of power and control over their domain.

Twilight (current day) - Friendship.

Cadance (formerly) - Romantic Love

Cozy Glow (temporary) - Chaos

Sunburst - Unknown. Main Post | Tag

Flurry Heart (current day, born as a godling) - Unknown

Of course, this is just putting names to the laws of magic that govern our world. And magic, as we know, does not follow rules we try to set. If you were to ask a lorekeeper from the other side of the world or in the ocean, you would hear very different interpretations of the same system.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Hunt a Silver Stag (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 6.9k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wore a crown of deer antlers atop your head. Charms were woven into the gaps between the tines, attached to golden thread; jewels of starlight strung like teardrops from the moon. Your feet, staying still on the hard stone of the Great Hall, are bare though attract no dirt or dust—it is as if the very ethereal aura that coats your gown of pure white repels any such thought of uncleanliness or corruption of this mortal plane. 

You are so very far from home.

Standing in the center of your soon-to-be husband’s court, your eyes seem not to be on the man himself, who watches you greedily from the throne of black iron, but instead behind him. Blank of any emotion, your long lashes blink in the direction of the stained glass windows with a horrible longing. Whispers from the multitude of court attendants go in one ear and out the other—useless to you. Their time would be gone in a blink, and yet here you would remain, immemorial. Their words were nothing, and their utterances would turn to dust faster than their bodies would.

You can’t help but wonder if those colorful depictions in that glass window, of God and his valiant angels, are mocking you as you blink at them slowly. Not only for what you are and where you now find yourself in the kingdom of your enemies but for being so full of the very qualities that would normally resign a woman of this age to the stake. 

Independent, confident, and curious, among others. 

A voice raises above the rest, and your eyes blink elegantly, the silver hue to them unnatural in all senses. Yet, you do not look away from the mighty white stag, its soldered bits of thin glass a patchwork of an overwatching Lord. Saint Eustace is there, staring at it, just as was told from generation to generation.

A pagan man converted to Christianity, the symbol of a cross set between antlers very much like the ones adorning your head. Humming under your breath, your eyes dip down, chin moving. Below the window, there stands a tall knight, and your gaze locks with his softly. 

“Today,” the King’s voice echoes over the crowd as brown orbs stare at you, blinking. “We are here to celebrate the joining of two great bloodlines!” He stands with a grand cape over his shoulders, falling to the floor as his boots stand at the top of the stairs to the throne. Yet, this knight holds your attention more than your Promised does as the cheering starts, loud; making your ears twitch.

At your waist, a golden belt is engraved with expert attention, stories woven into metal that even seem to move with the magic embedded into it. It seems to hum with an energy that makes your eyes narrow in confusion upon this stranger.

He had brown eyes, the knight, and the hues reminded you of brown that you could see in the trees of your home—those old beasts that grew still with the magic of your line and your gentle touch. Surrounding him, there was silver armor and a strip of red fabric that went over one shoulder, hanging beside the items of his station; a sword and a dagger on a brown leather belt.

Brows furrowing, your head tilts slowly, unblinking, as the eye contact persists. 

A bold man, it seems.

The knight’s eyelids slightly widen, as if realizing he had been staring, and his face swiftly moves to the side, his short hair close to his oval skull. You hear the faint clearing of a throat come into the shell of your pointed ears.

Sighing, your focus returns to the matter at hand, the crown’s adornments clinking together as your head rotates. The speech. 

King Michael spreads his hands out, a man far into his older years but still had the gleam of malice in his eyes. Those beady things. They remind you of a rat—a small creature, while intelligent, that cannot win unless through tricks.

“We all know that magic has slowly been disappearing from the lands,” the King utters, voice echoing off the walls. Your hands are holding themselves near your abdomen, grace embedded into your bones. Watching how he speaks, you can’t deny he was influential. But influence didn’t matter when you had no wife—no children. He has a dying line, and that means weakness…which is why you’re here, after all. “And in that time, our war with the Fae has fallen into a stalemate.”

Your expression sharpens, fingers twitching. Stalemate? There were humans in your lands—spreading their fires and swinging their defiling iron swords. There was no war here except the one that this King was perpetuating. 

But you held your tongue, even if your silver eyes narrowed in an ancient, bitter, anger. Your head raises itself higher, hanging gemstones swinging. The knight near the stained glass is back to watching you—his feet shifting from under him, hands behind his armored back with loose shoulders.

“...Today, myself and the King of the Fae have come to an agreement in confidence, and in the fashion of old, I am to be wed to his daughter, a princess!” Gasps, cheers, clapping. They spring up from all corners of the Hall, bouncing. Your body longs for nature, to be away from rock and metal, these suffocating walls that close in with the gaggle of wretched corpses walking. “Peace shall be beholden to all of us! Magic shall come back into my bloodline through our many children, and all will share in its wealth!” 

You had compared yourself to a broodmare when your father had given the news of your journey here. A womb to be filled until you could give no more; restrained to a bed—away from any privilege and right.

And you’d been sent here anyway. A price needed to be paid, your father had told you. A daughter to stop the war. A child to bring back mortal magic and keep the peace through generations. Was your head to be put to the block for that? Who was to say that children would bring peace? That there weren’t more conflicts to come?

This was a momentary sacrifice, and here you were wearing white.

You hum under your breath and feel shackles tie themselves to your ankles; tying you to this place. But what other option did you have?

Your ears listen to the loud rapturous cheering, the exclamations of love that mean nothing to you—you do not love these people, do not love their need for violence and their pride. You want to go home, to find where you can rest among glades and grass. Converse with the birds and the beasts to learn of their news of far-off lands; run your hands through clear streams and watch plants grow where you walk.

As your stone body stays still, silver eyes unblinking, the knight near the window is the only man in the room not gazing at you like he wants something from you. While Lords have their eyes filled with lustful envy of your age-less skin—your finery and wealth; the promise of strong children, the knight is the only one with an open expression. 

He only watches, handsome face holding the whispers of stubble and eyes that would make many moral women wish to be his wife. 

Admittingly, your attention keeps going back to him, just as his own is stuck on you even as he tries to look professional. Back straight, armor glinting, sword pommel fiddled with by long fingers. 

The King is walking down the stairs, one withered leg at a time. You don’t offer any help.

“My bride,” Michael licks his lips when he’s in front of you; but he’s more fixated on your stomach than all else. What it will hold for him. “My beautiful Fae bride. My wedding will be known through history for ages to come.”

My. 

The world holds its breath. The knight’s jaw clenches, though no one sees it. 

You take a heavy breath into your lungs to hold back your snapping tongue. As the words meet the air, they come out as unemotional as a wave at sea. Wind holding mist.

“Certainly.”

—

As it turned out, the castle itself was even less homely than the material that was used to build it. You walk slowly through the halls, hands behind your back and your crown glimmering—the trail of a thin and flowing gown making you look like a specter. One crudely carved window after another passes by your right shoulder, and you look out of every slit; seeing the silver shades of moonlight. In contrast, everything on your left was washed with firelight from the blazing iron sconces, your ears twitching to the pop of wood and fabric saturated in animal fat. 

Everything here was horrible.

A prison, you think, slowing near one of the larger windows in the hall. A cage.  

Staring outside, trying for only a moment to understand the disgusting castle and adjoined town you look at, there’s a faint noise from far down the corridor. 

Wasting no time, your head moves slowly to the side, blinking. There isn’t anyone to be seen, but yet again, your slightly pointed ears twitch. 

A firm heartbeat. 

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Staring at nothing, you listen for a moment, taking it in as your visage fights with blue and red light, shadows littering the small cracks and the marks of stone—your hands slightly tighten, but you hold no fear. 

You refused to be afraid here; you would go to your spiritual death with a high head, and nothing less. 

“It’s unbecoming to stalk as if a wolf,” you call, voice smooth and even. A beat of bird’s wings. “Four-legged beasts have perfected it, yet, the same cannot be said of you.” 

There’s a lapse of silence—a swirling of slight tension that comes not from you but another. The heartbeat in your ear lightly skips. Startled. A shadow cusps one of the connected hallways, a gleam of silver armor. You blink slowly.

“Apologies, Ma’am.” The Knight. The one from the Great Hall. “I…didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

His lithe form doesn’t try to hide from your accusation, instead, his body moves to the middle of the stone floor and straightens—one hand going to his heart and the other behind his back; bowing. The darkness of his complexion seems to glow in the light, smooth skin besides the marring of small scars along the left cheek. Tiny things, only two lines.

For no reason at all, your body lightly turns towards him, watching.

“I’m not nervous,” you respond. “Please, stand straight.” 

He does so without hesitation, though his eyes are avoiding yours. A guilty pull is to his lips that you can’t help but quirk a brow at. Yet, you remain emotionless, and outside the shadows of flying birds shift past.

“What is your name, Knight?” You see his expression slightly tense at the question, but you continue easily. A test, perhaps, if this man was worth your time. “I recall your face.” 

“I can’t give you that, My Lady.” Brown eyes go to meet yours, and the silver flecks in your orbs glimmer. “My orders were clear.”

“And were those orders also to follow me?” 

He clears his throat, feet shifting. “...Maybe.”

You hum, moving your body slowly and walking forward to him. The man blinks in surprise, straightening even more but a firm set to his eyes. His attention never wavers, unless it’s to glimpse your crown and belt, perfect pieces of artistry lost to this section of humanity. No mortal craftsman could imagine making something as such. He liked them, you notice at the light impression of awe in his gaze.

Anyone with sense would.

Stopping just a few feet away, you tilt your head. 

It was common knowledge that you never gave your name to one of the Fae, your betrothed would have told everyone close to him to avoid doing so. Just as you would never tell your real name to anyone—not even under dire circumstances. Names hold power, and no person in this castle would make you even more of a prisoner than you already were. 

You know the names of beasts and plants, flora and fauna—they bend to you, let you manipulate them to your will, though you often find no need to. The animals from any land prefer your company, anyway. The castle’s hunting hounds have already become well acquainted, just as the messenger birds had. 

But mortals? No. No, there were no names that you knew besides the King himself, and even then it was a fake one. Second names and such, are common. 

“Your title, then,” you say to the Knight. “If you’re to be a constant face to me.”

“Gaz is just fine, I’d say.” He nods his head, a slow smile moving his cheeks. Your brows furrow. Strange fellow. “A pleasure. I really do need to say that I wasn’t following you for long—I was only concerned you might have lost your way.”

You stare. 

“Lost?” Owlishly, your head shifts.

Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to rub at the base of his neck. “Yeah—lost. It’s, uh, it’s a big castle, My Lady—”

“Stag.” Wide eyes blink, this meeting is only awkward on his part and not yours. In fact, for how humans go, he was acting far better than most. Usually, there was iron being brandished by now.

“What was that?”

“My title,” you explain, your crown’s gems bright in the light. The fire crackles, popping. “Stag. I do not need my status stated. I know what I am, Knight.”

“Then I’d say the same,” your fingers twitch, liking the word game he plays. Inside of your sockets, the unnatural makeup of your eyes shimmers. 

“Very well,” you pause, picking your words. “Gaz. A strange choice to be sure.”

He chuckles, nodding in a very stoic-like way despite the nearly boyish nature of him. “Well, Stag isn’t exactly common, either.”

You hum in your throat, unblinking; staring. Your intrigue grows the longer the man talks. Just like in the Great Hall, his form attracts all of your attention to it, against all laws that you seem to know in your soul. 

“Pray tell,” you shift, moving back to the window with your feet not making a single sound. Gaz watches on, eyes flickering between the hanging gems and how you tread over the stone as if you had wings. Your form slips back to the window, and your focus once more goes outward. ��Has the King told you to spy on me, Gaz?”

The title, even if not the one of his birth—not the one written on his soul like a brand—still made the air quiver with might. You were older than most of this kingdom, the Knight knew. Older than the oak trees of the nearby forest; older than rock and wind and air.

Power dripped off your tongue like water to a leaf. 

But it wasn’t your influence that made the man answer you. It was his own nature. 

“Yes,” Gaz says, taking a few steps to where you stand, watching a flock of birds dance above the courtyard, silver moon-drips illuminating white feathers. “But I wouldn’t call it spying. Officially, I’ve been put in place to keep you safe, Princess.” His dark brows crease when you don’t pay him any mind. “I take my job very seriously, yeah?” 

“I can see that,” you utter, eyes still on the birds. “The only thing I need protecting from is the iron ring on your right hand.”

He startles, blinking for a moment. 

“...Parden?”

Silver eyes pierce him, watching; waiting. 

Gaz looks down, locking on the hand that has been resting on the pommel of his sword. Cape swishing, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. His sigil ring—the one that had been given over at his dubbing ceremony sat on the first digit, the engraving of his King’s coat of arms glimmering back. 

A wolf; a snake caught in its fangs. 

Brown eyes dart back, and he sheepishly smiles, huffing a chuckle of sorts. 

“Comes with the job, unfortunately,” yet still, his other hand easily grasps and slips the thing off, tucking it away into the leather pouch swinging from his belt. “I thought that was a myth—the Fae being harmed by iron. Conjured up to give people something to cling to.”

“I can name a million things that men and women like you consider myth,” you mutter, starting at that pouch, deep in thought. You hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. Your shoulders loosen their rigidness, but your chin never drops its high pride. “Every story comes from somewhere—be it reality or wives’ tales. Who’s to say that the words don’t give them life in one form or another?” 

“Bloody hell. Not a discussion to take up with me, I’m afraid,” Gaz huffs a chuckle, smirking. While still hesitant around you, the conversation wasn’t anything that made him want to not be around you. Everyone deserved to have their character shown, and what he was seeing so far wasn’t ringing any alarms. “Sound more of a scholar than a Princess, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Your lips quirk. “I prefer philosopher.”

“And what’s a Fae philosopher doing out in the middle of the night, then?” A breeze wafts through the window, blowing on your dress and making Gaz’s cape flutter in its bloodish tint. The torches whip and dance. You take a low breath, bird chips coming closer. 

“Speaking with an old friend.”

A white dove lands on the stone opening of the window, fluttering wings coming to fold along its sleek form until it shakes and settles all at once. 

“Lysander,” you say in greeting, nodding your head. Gaz watches, barely moving as his lips part in astonishment. 

Your hand extends itself, bearing no rings or bracelets. All you needed was your crown. Tiny eyes blink as an angular head turns to the side, tiny coos sparking from a rounded breast. Pale feet grasp your perfect flesh, such a tiny weight settles before you lift effortlessly; wings flapping to keep balance. 

“What news, then?” You ask in a whisper, bringing the beast to your crown. Lysander settles on one of the tines, head dipping down as feathers puff. Into your ear, words take shape. 

You hum in answer, blinking at every clicked sentence; tapping talons. 

Gaz stares blankly, eyebrows pulled up on his head and unable to articulate himself.

So many stories about your people—he hadn’t thought half of them to be true. While he’d been stationed in many places during the duration of this war, he’d never actually encountered one of the Fae before. Gaz had been told they were like a plague; they came in when you weren’t looking, spoke magic into your ears, and forced you to come back to their home and live as mindless beasts. Cupbearers and entertainment. 

Of the countless knights he’d been in line with, he knew the true names of none of them. A precaution. Forethought. 

Yet…you don’t look dangerous. 

But the man is far from stupid. 

“He says the fires from your forges burn his eyes,” your voice snaps him back to you, and he straightens, fingers twitching. Gaz finds your face already turned his way, owlish in its movements. “The smoke makes his throat ache.”

“I,” he pauses, mouth opening and closing. Brown eyes dart to the sharp-beaked dove; the thing very much like you in the way it watches him. “I’m…sorry?”

Your lips pull in a frown, sighing with a shake of your head. 

I can never survive here, you find yourself thinking. I believed this is what I had to do, but if this is how I’m going to live…

“Tell me about your King, Gaz,” your body swiftly turns, feet carrying you down the corridor once more with long, even, steps. “If I’m to marry him, I will know of his nature.”

The man clears his throat and follows after, where you hear the clinking of silver and the scabbard against his thigh. He glances over at you, walking if not a bit behind yourself in proper fashion. 

“What do you want to know, Ma’am?”

Your unnatural orbs shimmer, and the bird on your crown hunkers down; puffed contently and eager to rest his wings from a long flight. 

“Everything. I will not be unaware of my fate.” 

“Well,” Gaz sighs, rubbing at his chin with his opposite hand. He licks his lips, mind running to answer the best he can. “You’ll not want for anything—finery and wealth will—”

“I do not care about mortal revelry. I need neither fine things nor wealth.” Your voice curtly moves along the open air. The Knight’s boots connect with stone while your bare flesh emits nothing. “His character, Knight. Is he fair—just?”

Gaz’s face tightens, glancing from you to the hallway as he takes a moment to think.

“My King has…become troubled with the turning tides of the war. I’m sure when your marriage is official, he’ll go back to how he was before.” He doesn’t seem certain, but loyalty is a trait that a knight knows well. You had been set as his charge, of course, not under the best of circumstances, but he would do his job how he believed would benefit all parties. Even if his guts were stiff at the thought of a forced marriage. 

“My Lady Stag?” He asks, and your heart jerks unexpectedly at the muttering of your title. 

Blinking in confusion, your hand coming up to rub at your collarbone like a willow branch, you almost miss the question entirely. 

“Where you come from, if I can ask, of course, what’s it like?” Your mind strays from marriage ceremonies and consummation—momentary peace slipping in on waves of this man’s smooth accent. 

Mouth opening, only to close once and open again, you decide to indulge this man with your answer. If only because he speaks of your home. 

“Green,” is the soft utterance of your answer to him. “It’s green. More trees and rivers than you can count in your lifetime. Animals each more fantastical than the last; all of which your people now call nothing but hearsay.” 

You can sense his attention, sucking up knowledge as if he had the years to know and understand it all. 

Lysander coos, shaking his feathers out, and you glance upward without moving your head. You chuckle like a blade of moving grass. 

Blinking, Gaz slowly begins to smile, cocking his skull to the side boyishly. “What’s so funny, then?”

Your high nose twitches. 

“He says you’re as if a Wyvern hatching. A curious thing.” Brown eyes drift to your companion, whose peaked eye pierces like black fire-stone. Gaz’s mouth releases a puff of a chuckle, chest jerking. 

“Hell, never thought I’d get insulted by a bird.” 

“Humans have not the ability to speak with beasts,” you ease out, walking on. “On that, I have to say you are at a sure disadvantage.”

“What?” Gaz’s amused voice is in your ear. “Minus the whole immortality thing?”

You side-eye him, visage calm with decades of understanding. “Not everything is built to last forever.”

A momentary silence falls between the two of you. Eyes locked, you both stare, legs carrying bodies across the unfeeling stone until the area Lysander had told you about takes form. You shift a slow right and exit into the inner courtyard, large stone walls making a small square of patchy green grass and dying plants. A fountain sits still. 

“If this is to be a game of equal exchange, Knight, I desire to ask the next question.” Your eyes take it all in, hand moving out to capture the blackened leaves of a Medlar tree. Frowning at the dead fauna, you hear Lysander take to wing, flapping until his ghostly form lands on the far-off fountain’s edge. 

“Alright,” Gaz nods, looking around at the dying place with a frown as well. He’d never come here before, but the state of things was…sad, really. “Ask away.”

“When you leave the castle—the town,” you let power move to your fingertips, and you feel the tingles of it running the lengths of your arms like ice and fire; taking a low breath. “What do you see? I admit, I’m not used to having company with humans. I know not how their souls feel.”

Gaz walks into the small enclosed space, humming as he taps the pommel of his sword. His shoulders shrug as his head tilts up, blinking at the stars. 

“I wouldn’t see it as you would, I gather.”

You look over your shoulder, amusement in your face mixed with a slice of intrigue. “That wasn’t my question. But, no, you would not.” 

“Figured,” he chuckles, nodding at you. Gaz articulates himself dutifully. “I see a place far more peaceful than the one here. Outside the stone and smog—it’s beautiful, truly. Calm. You can actually think above the noise, you know? I usually find myself wanting to get out more often, but my duty ties me here.” 

Your eyes soften slightly, thumb running the face of the leaf as you take in his words. Lysander stoops to take a sip of water. 

“You’re…” You lack the words, only humming and stopping yourself. 

“Why are we here, Princess?” Gaz asks you, gazing around. “I had only expected you to walk to the kitchens—the library, even. Don’t get me wrong, you can go as you wish, but I’m not sure this is the most…” He grunts. “Sightly place to end up. Everything’s dead.”

“Nearly,” you whisper, a tiny smile taking over your flesh. “Not quite.” 

Gaz’s frown is lost to you, as is his comment that he mutters, “Looks it.”

Leaning forward, you press your lips to the leaf you hold as if a precious object. Into its blackened and shriveled form, you whisper its name—its true name, one you had learned through years of patience and trust that bordered on an entirely trance-like state. A Medlar is a tough and stubborn thing, like the fruit it bears, it will hang on until all else is gone to dust. Its roots are strong, and from them, you had listened to the earth sing its songs one buzzing note at a time.

All things speak, you just have to know how to listen. 

There’s a surge of wild order, a dichotomy of will and freedom; the sing of an axe and the memories of young saplings just gracing their leaves to the sun. A circle of death and rebirth as old as the stars that still shone in a sky of black. 

You know many names, but those of the trees were the first to come to you, and it was only proper. Before anything, there were trees. 

The Medlar shakes, its leaves dropping down one at a time until they come in groups, in clusters—bare branches shiver like dogs do until creaking ballads move over the air. 

Starling, Gaz had taken a large step back, hand snapping to the handle of his sword, the blade half drawn. Lysander flies past his face, blunt talons skating the close-cropping of his hair before the bird grapples to your crown. Flinching, the knight watched with a mixture of horror and pure wonder.

The tree was sprouting new greens. 

You step back, and from your feet, the dead grass quivers, before the smell of groaning earth makes his nose twitch; fresh blades show themselves anew. The dove atop your crown jumps from one sharp tine to the next, dodging lines of gold—eyes glinting and wings flapping excitedly. 

Life is in the very air. 

You smile to yourself, silver eyes moving as a nearly ancient-looking spark flares to life in them—a long breath entering your lungs. 

Gaz’s face begins to heat as he watches, his heart pounding with something he can’t understand. He stares at your bright face before his fast-blinking eyes move to the grass growing all around; the bushes dancing, flowers opening up and turning to you. Birds gather on the edges of this verdant and fertile land, darting one by one to the fountain and to the trees. Singing.  

The knight steps back, feet dancing over the ground with an airy laugh stuck in his throat. 

“Holy hell…” he breathes, nearly panting. 

Wide eyes move back to you, expression open, innocent. This was a moment when you truly believed you’d never seen a face more bare than this; more giving. 

“You…” He laughs. “You’re tellin’ me you could always do that?” You chuckle, and it is a sound that could make roots grow in his heart, flowers bursting from his lungs. “I…I’m speechless, really. This is,” he laughs once more, turning a full circle, with his hand going to the back of his neck in shock. It was entirely new—all of it. Ivy climbed the stone, and the animals spoke and flew in the air; excitement something that transcends species. “This is extraordinary.”

You were something incredible. 

Chuckling, you raise a slow brow, feeling a foreign heat move over your cheeks. It’s a moment before you speak, taken aback by the reverency.

“My thanks, Knight,” your head nods his way, a simple dip of your chin and nothing more. “But this is only a small courtyard. A fraction. If I so wished, forests could grow from ashen ground.”

“How?” He asks you, eyes glittering more than the moon. 

Smaller birds join Lysander on your head, finches, perhaps, and sparrows. They tweet and chip, speaking their thanks. You reach up and let one move onto your finger, bringing it back to eye level as you move to softly connect your forehead to its own. Moving back, you hum and watch the bird fly off.

“Ages of practice,” you elegantly tip your head his way, careful of your cargo. “Quite verbatim.” 

Gaz is speechless, unable to recall something in his life that had made him feel so special to be able to witness it. Magic to humans was a dying thing—you’d be surprised if he’d ever even seen it in this magnitude before. 

“...Amazing,” he utters under his breath, smiling like a fool.

For all of your Fae trickery, your games, you had to be honest. “I don’t believe I thought you’d be this moved by it.”

“Really?” He blinks at you, a boyish twist to his face. “How could I bloody not be, Love?”

Your air gets stuck in your throat, eyes minutely widening. 

Gaz quickly comes back to himself, straightening and clearing his throat as your face suddenly blazes in a way that startles you. Heart pattering like a horse’s hooves not only at the…different title but his awe at your magic as well. 

“Forgive me, My Lady,” you choose not to correct him. “I overstepped.”

His body bends forward in a deep bow, hand to his heart, resting over his armor as the cape drapes its crimson fabric to the now vibrant grass. 

It had briefly eluded you that you were to be married soon. A comment like that could get the Knight and his tree-bark brown eyes put to the sword. You hold back a long sigh, eyelids fluttering shut softly. 

“Is he kind?” Your question is small, but it moves like a knife.

Gaz stares hard at the ground, once dead and nothing but a reminder of nature. He clenches his jaw, a worry swirling in his gut. The man knows who you’re asking about, and he holds the same dread he did in the Great Hall as you were led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar. 

Maybe the Knight was broken, but even if he’d never met one of your kind before, he knew that no person deserved to be bartered for the illusion of peace—forced to give children like they were only objects. But maybe he was also just a man not meant for this lifetime.

It was the way of things.

Gaz swallows the tension in his shoulders. He will not lie. 

“...No.”

—

This tall knight had become a constant at your side. Officially, he’d been placed for your protection, but you knew it was because the King didn’t want you to cut and run. 

But unless there was a very good reason to, he should have known that you were not the running type. It was a battle of wits, and even into your marriage, you would always come out on top.

It started easy enough—Michael would invite you for tours of the castle ‘making it a home’ he’d said in front of his court. It was a power trip. 

He’d talk about his wealth like it would make you swoon; like you cared at all. You could only hide your sneer for so many hours, even with your infinite amount of patience. Time had mellowed you like the rocks of the ocean, but even they cracked when the storm was strong enough. 

Yet still, you considered yourself too intelligent for baseline insults.

“My palace was much the same, your Highness. Our towers rose high—nearly gracing the clouds themselves.”

“Oh, lovely, my King. Pray tell, do you also have pet dragons? Oh…unicorns, perhaps? My, I had the most lovely unicorn companion when I was just shy of my two-hundredth birth year. A little thing—all legs and neck. Beautiful creatures.” 

“Gorgeous little trinkets. Tell me, do you have a coffer for fallen stars? They create the most magnificent illumination for late-night reading.”

Gaz nearly lost his composure at times, even if no one else could tell except for you and your pointed ears; twitching at every breath that was fought to keep still. The over-the-lip huffs and chuckles. In fact, you found yourself perpetuating the back-handed insults just to hear those noises. Such small and meaningless things, in the grand scheme. 

You took…enjoyment from it.

Seeing the effect it had on the King was also a bonus—his raging eyes, snapping tongue held back for only his reputation and little more. He wanted to take you by the arm and shake you, you knew, yell in your face. 

Kind, King Michael was not. Gaz had been correct. 

In the nights, you would discuss with the Knight—sitting in the dense and growing courtyard with your body comfortable on the grass; Gaz’s on the fountain’s edge.

You have much of the same confidence in one another as you do tonight. 

“Do knights marry for love?” Your voice wafts out, petting Lysander with a single finger in your lap; itching at his neck as he coos. “Do they get to choose?” 

Gaz fiddles with his cape’s clasp, fingers dancing over the silver make. He has made a motion to always take off his ring when it’s just the two of you, easily slipping it away until he was forced to put it back on. He doesn’t know if you feel it, but he believes the two of you to be well-off acquaintances—perhaps even friends. 

The man enjoyed speaking to you. He reveled in the limitless knowledge that spilled from your tongue, your stories and tales. Gaz, unlike so many others, enjoyed your company not for the power that it offers in a physical sense, but for the words that you freely give. Often your sentences were like honey to him, seeping into his head.

A princess speaking with a knight? Unheard of. A Fae princess? Blasphemy. 

It was easy to forget that you were older than many generations of his family line. 

“No,” he says, glancing over. “All knights take a vow of chastity when they commit to service. None of those alive in this kingdom will wed unless they willingly break their oaths.” 

Your head tilts, crown resting comfortably a small distance away on a rock.

“That sounds lonely.”

Gaz smiles, “Worried about me?” 

You stare, eyes traveling the little deaths on his face—the lines, the scars. “If it’s what you wish to do with yourself, who am I to tell you any different?” 

The man’s face softens, lips pulling as his cheeks heat under the moonlight. “Figured you’d have some opinion of it.”

You hum, raising a brow. “It’s your life—it’s so fleeting. Tread it as if water between your fingers. Before you know it, it’ll be gone.” Lysander leans into your flesh, shivering. “Live it.”

“For someone who says they don’t know humans that well,” Gaz grumbles, though his chest is light. “You sure know a lot about them.”

“Intuition,” your mouth twitches in a smile. “And a bit of reality.”

Delicate looks are shared. 

You do admit, you liked these conversations with Gaz. The long nights and the feeling of grass under your flowing dresses; the horrid contraptions that your betrothed had tried to make you wear stuck far back into the wardrobe of your room. Heavy items—suffocating corsets, unlike the simple but elegantly sewn one you wear now. You could feel it trying to sneak in when the days drew on. 

Control. 

It was all becoming more and more apparent. You did not want to live like this. 

Your face goes troubled as the calm silence moves over the Medlar with its reaching branches. Fireflies hang like miniature stars as you take your crown and slip it back on; to feel the comforting weight of antlers. 

The knight pauses as he slips his cape off of his shoulder, blinking over at you in a slow confusion. You look troubled. He’d never seen that expression on your face before.

“Stag?” Your head swivels, as if in another world.

“Just thinking,” your voice moves into his ears, making them hum with energy. Gaz’s brows furrow, a frown taking over. After a second, he stands, moving closer on quiet feet. 

You watch him as he goes to kneel near you, one arm moving over the bent nature of his leg while the other holds fabric—letting it cascade over the earth. Brown eyes narrow, and a joking tease moves with the undertone of slight concern.

“I’m usually the talker, I know, but when you look a bit like that it makes me nervous.”

You frown. “Look like what?”

“Like someone’s got a sword to your neck, Princess.” The air is cool here, the deep throws of night taking you by the breath in your throat. A smooth smirk. “It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?”

If you leave, if you find a way out of this…the war will never end. It will go on until stone cracks like glass and generations forget why it even started in the first place. 

But why were you put to the axe because of it? Why must you take the blade to the stomach—an object of greed? 

Gaz’s amused voice moves lower at your immobile lips, going serious. 

“Hey,” a hand outstretched to your arm, hovering. “Really, is everything alright?”

“Gaz,” you pause, voice still level despite your heated pulse. It’s like a snake curls itself in your guts, roots growing in your veins. The courtyard seems to shiver all by itself, leaves curling into themselves from bushes and trees. Lysander’s feet shimmy, head moving about. 

This knight had been kind to you as well as honest about his intentions. Chivalrous. Such qualities are hard to come by anymore.

“I don’t believe I want this.” It’s a breath more quiet than a lapping of waves. Gaz stills, fingers above your flesh twitching. “I can’t live in a cage. I refuse.”

Silver meets brown, holding it firmly. 

“I will not be a prize to be chained to a birthing bed.” 

The man’s face pulls at that, tightening. 

You don’t know what to expect. It isn’t fear in you—no, nothing like this could make you afraid. Apprehensive? Perhaps. Age made you cautious. At any moment he might flip his tune; run off to tattle to a King he, seemingly, likes just as much as you. Which is to say, very little. But there’s still the possibility, the knowledge stacked over ages and ages of strategy and mind games. 

A knight of a tension-ridden kingdom, swearing fealty to a King whom you’re betrothed to. You’d just expressed treason, in a way. It could put you to the sword; to the rope. To irons. Your mind runs through the millions of possibilities, not able to settle on a single one before—

A cape settles over your shoulders, startling you. 

Hand snapping to grab the front, your head snaps up, eyes wider than you can remember them ever going. 

Soft browns meet you, a thin smile. Fireflies buzz about, and a dove sits under your still finger, watching with beady orbs intently at the scene. A Medlar quivers. 

A stag and a knight breathe the same air. A godly creation and a saint ensnared in a song far larger than they intend, as the world shifts past all around them. Silver starlight leaves long reflections breaking from the hanging glory of your gems, but the patches of light on Gaz’s face capture yours in that instant far more than they should have. 

Impossibly so. Unnaturally so. 

Does this mortal have magic of his own, perhaps? You have to ask yourself. There was no other possibility. 

And when he speaks…it’s like whatever ice has been layered over your antediluvian heart breaks into fire. There wasn’t even a fight from him.

“Then tell me what you need.”

TAGS:

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[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

@smoozie okay!!!!! i just finished figuring out every hermits godly origin so.

the basic premise of the AU is that every single hermit is a god, or a being of similar power (except for Xisuma, who didn't intend to be admin of a server of mostly gods and DOESNT UNDERSTAND HOW THIS HAPPENED TO HIM GODDAMNIT.) together, they make up a pantheon thats occasionally worshiped by members of other servers, which some of them lean into and others find very, very uncomfortable. It's also a "being worshiped makes you more powerful" setting so there's that.

specifics as to their origins:

BDubs - A living saint of the sun and its light. Inherits some small amount of divine power from this, and says that this makes him a god. The other gods, especially Gem (who helped to grant him this power) think this is very cute of him.

Beef - A semi-omniscient demigod who mostly acts in service of other, greater gods. His latest patron is Big Salmon, a "higher power" that he claims controls the concepts of the water, consequences, and commerce.

Cleo - All Cleos across the multiverse have been left in mental contact with each other after the Time Witch's ritual. They form a powerful network between them, altogether controlling the flow of time and space across the servers they intersect with.

Cub - Through blood sacrifice, poorly understood magic, and worship of Vex gods, rendered himself functionally immortal. This was a science experiment for him, but he'll take immortality if it's what the end result comes to.

Doc - Achieved code-warping levels of power after the successful slaying of a Developer in single combat. Xisuma frequently enlists his help in keeping the server stable, because surprise surprise, 26 gods in the same place of vastly different origins makes the code a bit unstable.

Etho - Shapeshifting trickster god. Old, though not the oldest member of the server. Sometimes claims that he's following a script handed down by beings above him, though most other members of the server think he's saying that to dodge responsibility for his mischief.

False - False and her sister Symmetra were natural-born deities, worshiped as counterparts. False is worshiped as goddess of victory, art, and the water, while Symmetra is worshiped as goddess of defeat, industry, and the earth. False hasn't seen her sister in hundreds of years, and over time their worshipers combined their iconography into a single god.

Gem - Gem is a dimension-hopping, shapeshifting celestial being with domain over nature and sunlight. She pretends not to know what other members of the server are talking about when they bring this up, and mostly uses her powers for LARP purposes.

Grian - Watcher. Has claimed the server as his own, and thus sustains himself on high-intensity emotions of its occupants. To sate this hunger, he regularly starts wars, games, and other server events.

Hypno - A mage who ascended to demigod status through feats of arcane prowess. Longstanding enemies, dating back to their mortal days, with Wels. Their feud has become more amicable recently, thank god.

Impulse - He and Tango have the same origin, having ascended as part of the Rule Our World challenge they were placed into. After the forces of the universe were done subjecting them to whatever whims crossed their minds, Impulse became the embodiment of achievement and industriousness, while Tango became the embodiment of chaos and games.

Iskall - Part of the first group of players that Developers ever made. Escaped the purge of the first players, and has been dimension-hopping and stealing power from different servers ever since. Technically still mortal, but has been alive longer than any of the other server members.

Jevin - A demigod, and champion of the demigod Wels. Jevin was granted some of Wels's power under the condition that he helped Wels bother Hypno, which Jevin is more than okay to do. When he's not using divine power to prank Hypno, he's using it to prank everyone else.

Joe - Has, on separate occasions, claimed to be both "the most powerful of the Hermits" and "just an average guy." When pressed on what made him more powerful than the gods and eldritch beings he kept as company, Joe just smiled and said "I'm Joe Hills, recording as I always do in Nashville, Tennessee." Nobody knows what this means.

Joel - Joel Thundercheeks of Stratos, an 11-foot tall deity of lightning, lore, and the skies. His abrasive personality and tendency to throw power around made some question whether he should be invited, but Gem and Pearl advocated for him hard. He's used to being the only god around, so he's a bit surprised that throwing his power around doesn't always work now.

Keralis - Fragment of an eldritch being, and the conduit through which most of its power expresses itself. Bridges dimensions, and travels through time as easily as it does space. Unclear whether he is aware of any of this.

Mumbo - Was a mortal, though he has rendered himself immortal through animancy. His own soul is bound inside of a golden heart inside of his S7 base, and he has supplemented it with a fragment of Grian's, making him part-Watcher.

Pearl - Santa Perla, goddess of flowers, the harvest, the summer solstice, and the noonday sun. Thought she was mortal until the Empires crossover, when she remembered her past queendom. Her life force is tied to the lands she cultivates, so she has taken careful effort to ensure all her bases are verdant and flourishing.

Ren - One day declared himself "the king of all gods" despite not having been a god before this. None of the other Hermits were particularly willing to challenge him on this since it seemed harmless. Somehow, though, news of it spread, and he has established a fairly thorough following across other servers as a god of leadership, trade, travel, and theater.

Scar - Ate God. Which one? He never elaborates. Oh, sure, he'll go into detail about, say, the recipe he used to cook God, but ask him which God he ate, or how he killed it first, and he just brushes right past it. His power can't be denied, though, so he must be telling the truth.

Skizz - Suffused with Withering Energy, and acts as a bringer of doom and despair because of it. Oh, sure, he's a really nice and supportive guy, and everybody loves him, but also things tend to collapse around him in dramatic and spectacular fashion. Hermitcraft has only survived because of the power of 25 other gods crushing any disaster before it happens.

Stress - Goddess of hope, beauty, and love. Unfortunately, she was cursed a long time ago by Iskall when they first met, adopting a monstrous form, which is worshiped as a deity of doom, evil, and hate. He's been very apologetic about it since and offered to help her reverse the curse, but she's overall very happy with the state of things. They've become very close friends.

Tango - See Impulse. Unlike most gods, who become more powerful the more they're worshiped, Tango draws power directly from the souls of those who perish inside his games, which has made him somewhat giddy about the concept of death in general.

Wels - A knight and folk hero who ascended to demigod status from the pure gratitude of those who he saved. Considered a patron of justice and protection. Over the years, he's become bored with this, and gotten into quite a bit of mischief. See also Jevin and Hypno.

XB - A mortal godkiller. He ruthlessly hunts gods outside the server in order to make them answer for their crimes against mortals. Within the server, he also occasionally kills the others, just for funsies.

Zed - Avatar of Death. Controls the process of respawning, though he often gets so distracted that he forgets to actually pay attention to it, leaving some players in limbo for quite a while before he remembers he has to pay attention to their souls.

[the-greatest-magic-of-all]

With such a God-focused season, one day, once Junior Year is finished and I have both the time and energy to do it, I want to make a Fantasy High God AU zine. It'd be from the pov of a mythologist/theologian in Spyre who's found strange links between minor deities throughout different regions' pantheons.

Half-Elves have a God of Dance and Flames who has been said to have defeated a Tiefling vagabond (and tamed his Hellhound mount) and charmed Fire itself with only a dance and his silk battle sheet. And if you look deep enough into his history there are rare depictions of him wearing an oddly shaped pendant and riding into battle with a sling-wielding Goblin peeking out of his rucksack. Interestingly enough, there's a minor Goblin God of Justice and Mysteries, the son of a Goblin Folk Hero and the Goblin Goddess of Knowledge, Laws, and Justice, who famously wields his father's enchanted sling. Though he and his father are often shown with angelic wings. So, why would he dally with a God so closely associated with Fiends?

Tieflings have a trickster Goddess of Music, Rebellion, and Devotion. The daughter of an Archdevil and a Wood Elven Goddess of Archery & the Wilderness. She's said to be a paramour of a Half-Phoenix Pirate Goddess of Wizardry and Knowledge and once toured the lands, performing with a Half-Orc companion. A lot of artistic recreations of that tour depict the Half-Orc companion with flower motifs that correspond with a Gnomish/Half-Orcish God of Tinkering and Rage. One that once outwitted a Sphynx and regained his spurned Saytr paramour's love by speaking to/reaching the stars with the help of a band of Tinkerer Gnomes.

There are tales of a Twice Risen Goddess who was once the chosen one of the Demigod Helio, but took one look at him and thought she could do better. With the wisdom to raise Gods from the dead and remove unholy rites without any divine power other than her own, this God-Saint of Doubt travels across Spyre not to spread her own religion but to inquire about others. This deep curiosity is probably how she ended up in some Fallinel depictions of the First Elven Oracle, who upon death ascended to becoming the Goddess of Sight, Intelligence and Righteous Fury. There are even short hymns written about the Oracle foreseeing the God-Saint's rise (against the Elven Moon Goddess' wishes) and of the God-Saint banishing some dark entity from possessing the Oracle with only a profane curse of its name.

And even more stuff connecting them all. Like the fact that all of them have tales of them defeating an Ancient Red Dragon. Or the tales of The Festival of the Crab King: a strange, delirious story of mortals witnessing a euphoric revelry of the deific kind that involved all these Gods from different pantheons.

[muxshwriting]

take me to church

Aleksander Morozova x reader

summary: after you get hurt, Aleksander begins to pray to a higher power he lost faith in long ago || warnings: injuries, angst, questioning faith || words: 581 || masterlist

"Bring her in."

Aleksander watched as a broken and bloody body was dragged into the room by two guards, his face turning thunderous. They threw you to the ground just in front of the him and stood back as you groaned in pain.

"Found this one in a West corridor, trying to break into your chamber General." One of the guards spat.

"Do you have any idea who this is?" Kirigan's voice thundered through the hall. No one had ever heard him so angry. Ivan stepped forward from his post, intent on making the guards suffer. Fedyor, on the other hand, approached you on the floor and wrapped a hand around your wrist, steadying your rapid heart.

The guard swallowed nervously. "She was breaking in to your rooms sir."

Aleksander seemed to only grow angrier. "Regardless of if she was or was not breaking into my rooms, why was this not reported to me?"

"We are reporting it to you now Sir- General. She was taken into custody this morning." The guard seemed to trail off as he realised the hole he had dug for himself.

Aleksander glanced back at Ivan and nodded his head. Within an instant, the two guards were on the floor, dead. He knelt by your side, catching sight of all the cuts and bruises you were sporting. The anger rose once again. They had you for less than four hours and had done immense damage.

"Get me a healer. Now!" Without another word, he gently brought your head onto his knees. He moved a piece of hair from your eyes and cupped your face gently. "How is she?" He whispered to Fedyor, almost scared of the answer.

"She's strong." He reassured. "Her heartbeat is steady and it's getting stronger by the minute. She'll be waking up soon."

He moved his hand from her wrist and let Aleksander's replace it. He clung to your wrist like a lifeline, holding his fingers in to feel your heartbeat and pressing a brief kiss to your knuckles. You stirred. A low groan escaping your lips as you try to shift your battered body.

Aleksander was quick to shush you. "It's alright. Don't move, okay. You're going to be fine."

"Aleks?" Your eyes slowly peeled open, staring up at Aleksander and immediately meeting his gaze, your eyes filling with tears as you did. "Sasha..."

A small smile graced Aleksander's lips as the door opened and Ivan came rushing in with a healer. It truly was a sight to see; the General of the Second Army was kneeling on the ground beside a beaten girl.

"I’m tired." You whispered. A tear slipped down your face.

"It’s okay." Aleksander whispered back. "You’re gonna be fine. Just go to sleep, okay? I’ll be here when you wake up."

To fall in love is to create a religion with a fallible god. And that's exactly what you were, fallible and mortal.

With the reassurement, you fully relax and let your eyes slip shut. Aleksander ran his hand through your hair, the movement sending you to sleep. Even after the healer began to work, he stayed. He watched as your brow furrowed, then relaxed. He would stay from now on.

For the first time in a while, in a long, long while, Aleksander prayed. He had been around to see many Saints rise and fall. Because of that, he had stopped believing long ago. But maybe he should have believed. He would believe now, for you.

if you want to be added to the taglist for these, let me know! as always, likes and reblogs help me grow and inspire me to write more xx

[pyrrhiccomedy]

the one thing I have heard probably the most consistently, from the most people, since being diagnosed with breast cancer, is that I have a "good attitude;" meaning, that I make jokes about having cancer, which makes whoever is listening to me feel better about the fact that I have cancer.

Here's the thing - the worst part of having cancer (so far, in my experience - I'll update as this progresses) is having to live with the constant, oppressive dread that right now, somewhere in my body, a cancer cell is taking root in my bones, or in my lungs. That it will silently grow, and spread, and eventually become rampant and untreatable, killing me decades before my time, and I won't know that I'm on that course until it's too late to do anything about it. That I will have to leave my wife alone, that she will have to watch me die painfully and without dignity, and that I will leave this world without having had the time to see so much of what makes it beautiful and strange.

this is not a funny thought!

However, the second worst part of having cancer is - okay, so they removed the tumor, right, and at the same time, they also removed a clump of lymph nodes in my armpit. They do that to test whether or not the cancer has spread. So coming out of surgery, I have two incision sites: one above where the tumor was, and the other one on my trunk right about where your bra passes under your arm.

And that means I'm not allowed to wear deodorant for ten days.

Imagine me: stinky, in my bed. I am an adult woman with a beating heart. I will not claim I have any greater share of dignity or wisdom than a typical example of my cohort, but I have lived and learned and erred, and amassed a small collection of accomplishments which I would not be ashamed to present to God at my reckoning, should such a being exist, and should such a reckoning take place. Times when I have shown meaningful kindness to someone when it would have been more convenient or popular to do nothing. Times when I have told a necessary truth to my own painful detriment. Things I have made that possessed, to at least a meager measure, a glimmer of genuine beauty. Trust I have earned, and not betrayed. I'm not a saint, but my soul is not nothing, and as I am forced to reckon with my own mortality in a way that few people my age ever do, I, like - I smell pretty bad? And like - my armpit is, like, clammy. I mean, how long has it been since you didn't wear deodorant for multiple days. There's a change in texture that I was not expecting. Just in the right armpit! The left armpit is fine, she gets to have deodorant.

But like, stress makes the B.O. situation not so hot, and I'm medically prohibited from doing the one thing that would rectify the situation. I own deodorant. It's right over there. I can see it from where I'm sitting. I am sure you understand of course that I am immersed in greater miseries. Even aside from the existential dread of having cancer - the incisions are painful. I'm very tired. I have two blown-out veins from when the anesthesiologist struggled to find a workable injection site before the surgery, so I have some wild bruising, and I can't really bend my left arm. But these are afflictions with some dignity. To have pain or fatigue after surgery is rather ennobled in the common discourse. But - do I have to smell like ham, too?

Must I smell like rank ham?

Of course the solution to the ham smell is just to take more showers, but bathing after surgery presents its own category of woes, which are also not particularly dignified. And it's here, caught betwixt the Scylla and Charybdis of 'smelling like old meat' and 'unwinding my boob from its surgical sling to take another ride around the wet room rodeo' that I find the humor in my situation. The feeble ape rails against her trivial but intractable stink!

And that humor spreads - much like cancer! - to everything else that it touches. It is, actually, very funny to tell someone that the joke Christmas gift they got for me is probably what gave me cancer. It's funny, when people find out I got my diagnosis on January 2nd, to blandly follow that up with "--So, 2024, not off to a great start, but 2025 is going to be my year." It's funny, when someone invites me to something we both know I probably don't want to go to, to suck air between my teeth and go, "Ooh, I would, but, you know--the cancer. Yeah, I can feel it flaring up right now. Maybe next time."

Things are funny when they subvert your expectations. People expect you to treat your cancer diagnosis very gravely, and so it's funny - to them, and to me - when I don't. And then they tell me I have "a great attitude."

"You'll be fine," I've heard over and over again. "You have a great attitude. That's the most important thing, in this kind of a situation - keeping a great attitude."

I certainly hope that's true! There is definitely plenty of science to support the idea that a positive mental attitude has an impact on health outcomes. I think the effectiveness of modern chemotherapy drugs, and the extent to which my particular cancer responds to them, will have a significantly larger impact; and that moreover, it's probably prudent to remember that people with great attitudes die of cancer every day. But I will not turn my nose up at a percentage point or two perhaps coming from the willingness to crack jokes about all the cancer I've got, and how surprised I was to learn that I'd got it.

As I suggested up top, I know that when people say "you have a great attitude," they sometimes genuinely mean that they are pleased to find me in a mental state that might increase my chances of recovering from a deadly disease, but mostly they mean "thanks for not being a huge bummer about your cancer. I appreciate you for not ruining my day about it." And I'm completely okay with that. Like, yeah - I am deliberately sparing you from the burden of having to Take Seriously my life-threatening condition. You're welcome. I, too, would rather avoid this conversation on one of the finite number of Thursdays God has seen fit to grant unto the measure of our lives. What the fuck are you supposed to do about any of this?

(Shout out to my one good work buddy who, on hearing the news, instantly responded with "Oh my god, Geri Hallwell aka Ginger Spice also got breast cancer young! You're like twins!" Thus far he is the only person who has said something in response to the news that actually made an immediate, positive impact.)

So anyway, obviously all I ever say in response to "you have a great attitude" is "Thanks! I'm just focusing on the positives and taking it a day at a time." Because that's true, and moreover, it's all anyone needs to hear.

What I'd like to say - not to them, because there's no point in burdening them any further than the embarrassing reminder of death burdens anyone - but maybe to someone, maybe just to You, maybe that's why I'm writing this -

What I'd like to say is: dogg, you have no idea how subverted my expectations have been lately. How could I not find this funny?

How profoundly alienated from the absurdity of death would I have to be to not laugh about this?

Like - I know this is so stupid, but listen: I could die. No, no - listen - no I know everyone dies - but like - are you listening? Are you actually listening? I could die. I could die. I could die. I could die.

Isn't that so funny? Isn't that actually so funny?

And this - this attitude that I'm in, right now, this one right here, where shaking my head ruefully and marveling at the - maybe belated, but I think probably actually quite premature - realization that oh no, 'everyone dies' means for me too, huh - and laughing at myself for never, apparently, really grasping that until now, and laughing at the incredible statistical unlikelihood my cancer - I've never won anything before! - and laughing at how woefully ill-prepared most people are to respond to news like this, and laughing about how, of everything terrible about cancer, the actual number-two-on-the-list worst thing about it so far is that I can't put on deodorant -

Is this the great attitude you're talking about?

I'm not angry, I'm not resentful, I'm curious, I'm really curious. Do you understand why I'm laughing?

[idkyetxoxo]

Criston Cole - A Halo of Ruin

Summary - Sworn to oaths, he finds his unshakable honour shattered the moment he lays eyes on her. She unravels him, making him forget his vows, duty and the very essence of who he is. What follows is a dangerous obsession, where honour takes a backseat to forbidden desire.

Pairing - Criston Cole x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2202

Masterlist for Criston • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Ser Criston Cole prided himself on his unwavering adherence to the sacred oaths of the Kingsguard. 

He was a man defined by honour, loyalty, and an unshakable sense of duty—or at least, that was the image he had long projected, the ideal he had worked tirelessly to uphold.

Never, in his most fleeting moments of weakness, did he imagine that his resolve could be so thoroughly undone. 

But then, he saw me, and everything shifted.

To him, I was beyond compare—radiant in a way that seemed almost otherworldly. I defied the realm of reality, a vision too perfect to belong to the mortal plane. 

The first time I crossed his path, Criston felt time itself grind to a halt. I moved with a grace that made even the wind envious, a book held close to my chest and a deep crimson rose delicately twirled between my fingers. 

My smile lit the air around me as if the sun itself had descended to bless my presence. 

He could have sworn that it was as though the gods had reached down from the heavens and gifted him a glimpse of an angel.

He stood frozen, rooted in place by a spell he did not understand. And then, compelled by something he could neither name nor resist, he pursued me. 

Disbelief warred with hope in his chest. Surely, I could not be real. Surely, no earthly creature could possess such captivating beauty.

"My lady," he called out, his voice tight with a mix of awe and nerves. 

His gloved fingertips lightly brushed against my shoulder, and I turned to face him. 

The world seemed to fall away when our eyes met. My smile was both a promise and a peril—a curve of lips that could coax saints into sin and unravel the convictions of even the most disciplined souls. 

My gaze held him prisoner, binding him tighter than any vow ever could.

"Yes?" I replied, my voice a melody of silken notes, sweet as honey and as delicate as a whispered secret on the wind.

Criston faltered, words catching in his throat as he stared into the depths of my eyes. The armour that had always felt so heavy now seemed insubstantial. 

He withdrew his hand as if burned by the intensity of his own emotions. "I—I just... what is your name?" he managed, at last, the question emerging more like a prayer than an inquiry.

I continued to smile, and in that moment, he knew with every fibre of his being that he was lost.

Criston was bewitched—completely and irrevocably captivated by me. There was no other word to describe the hold I had over him. 

He began to seek me out whenever he could, his gaze searching rooms, hallways, and gardens for any glimpse of me. 

To his immense relief, and perhaps against every cautious whisper in his mind, I met his attentions with a warmth that mirrored his own desire. 

It was as if fate had entwined our paths, and for a time, he dared to believe himself the luckiest man in the realm.

Honour? To the flames with honour. Oaths? Let them be scattered like ashes in the wind. 

Between us, there was no room for rules or regrets—only the fire that burned whenever we were near one another.

"Stop staring at me," I murmured, my fingers caressing the petals of a white rose he had pressed into my hand earlier. 

We were alone in his chambers, a fire crackling gently in the hearth, the night still young and full of promise.

"How can I?" he replied, his voice low and rich with unrestrained adoration. His eyes roved over me, drinking in every detail as though I were a vision that might vanish with the next breath.

"Close your eyes," I whispered, my voice teasing yet soft, an invitation more than a command. 

Criston's jaw tensed; he never thought there would come a day when he would resist anything I asked. But he shook his head, refusing to look away, his gaze dark and hungry.

"Do it," I pressed again, a playful pout forming on my lips. 

He drew a sharp breath at the sight, his resolve shattering like fragile glass. With a reluctant sigh, he obeyed, his eyes fluttering shut. Trusting. Surrendering.

The rose slipped from my fingers, forgotten, as I moved closer. 

I climbed onto his lap, my hands cradling his face. He leaned instinctively into my touch, as though the warmth of my palms alone could anchor him to this moment. 

I leaned in, my lips brushing against his cheek—a feather-light caress—before capturing his mouth with my own.

Time stilled. His breath mingled with mine, and his pulse raced, beating out a rhythm of longing and disbelief. This was real. He was not dreaming. 

His hands found my waist, gripping with equal parts need and reverence. 

Slowly, I guided him down, our bodies sinking into the softness of the furs spread before the hearth. Shadows from the fire danced around us, a flickering testament to the heat we shared.

Criston's eyes opened, darkened with emotion as they met mine again. 

In that gaze, I saw the man beneath the armour—the one who had torn away every shield for me, who would risk everything for just a moment longer at my side. 

And in the dance of flames and whispered promises, we both knew there would be no turning back.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a reverent whisper, the weight of his words soft but potent. 

I offered him a smile—the very smile that always unravelled him, reducing every carefully crafted piece of his composure to dust. It was the smile that made his heart stutter and his breath catch, leaving him no choice but to believe that, in this moment, he was the luckiest man alive.

"You're too kind," I teased, letting my fingertips trace lazy patterns over his chest as I perched delicately in his lap.

"No—no, I mean it," he insisted, his voice trembling with raw sincerity. There was a hunger in his gaze, but more than that, there was awe—a reverence that both humbled and exhilarated me. 

I laughed softly, turning my head, but the pull of his gaze drew me back to him like a magnet to its source.

Still meeting his eyes, I reached for the hem of my dress. With deliberate slowness, I lifted it over my head, the fabric slipping away like water to reveal bare skin. 

I placed it beside us and settled back atop him, exposed and vulnerable yet somehow powerful under the intensity of his gaze.

His eyes roamed over me, drinking me in as though he feared this might be the last time he could. They lingered on every dip, every curve, memorizing me as if I were a sacred text he wanted to learn by heart. 

He swallowed, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, and I couldn't help but grin, my palms gliding over his chest in invitation.

"Touch me," I whispered, the words soft but insistent. He remained frozen, captivated by the sight of me, as if reality had suspended itself. 

I leaned closer, repeating with gentle demand, "Touch me."

Taking his hands in mine, I guided one to my waist, pressing it firmly against my skin, and placed the other against my chest. 

I watched as wonder crossed his features, and then, as if a spell had been broken, he moved.

His fingers traced paths of fire along my bare skin, his touch tender but laced with urgency. As his hand slid lower, gliding down my stomach and between my thighs, I drew in a sharp breath. 

My hips lifted, offering more of myself, and his touch deepened. His fingers explored, a soft caress turning bold, while his thumb circled my clit, sending ripples of pleasure through me.

A breathless moan spilled from my lips, the sound a sweet melody that spurred him on. 

He quickened his rhythm, each stroke a promise, each caress a spark that sent me spiralling higher. 

I moved against him, seeking, needing, craving the release he teased from me with every touch.

Through it all, Criston watched me, captivated and triumphant, the sounds of my pleasure his victory, the sway of my body his masterpiece.

He didn't stop until I shattered, my climax crashing over me in waves that left me trembling in his arms. 

Only then did he begrudgingly withdraw his fingers, leaving me gasping and blissfully spent, my body still humming from the intensity of it all.

"I suppose I owe you now," I whispered, my voice ragged, chest rising and falling as I tried to catch my breath.

Criston shook his head, his eyes soft with something deeper than lust—a reverence that made my pulse quicken again. 

"You owe me nothing," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Your company has placed me in your debt forever."

I laughed, a low, sultry sound that vibrated between us. "So you don't wish for me to return the favour?" I asked, teasingly arching an eyebrow as I watched his lips part, then press together again, caught between words and raw need.

His silence spoke louder than anything he could have said. 

"That's what I thought," I purred, shifting down his body with deliberate care. I felt his muscles tense beneath me, anticipation coiling around him like a vice. 

My fingers traced the waistband of his pants, and with one smooth motion, I slid them down, releasing him. His hardness pressed urgently against my thigh, every inch of him ready, waiting.

I took my time, trailing my fingertips lightly over his length. The touch was barely there, but it drew a sharp intake of breath from him, followed by a soft, unbidden whimper that sent heat pooling low in my belly. 

Smiling, I guided him inside me, our bodies aligning perfectly. I paused, savouring the exquisite sensation of him filling me, before beginning to move.

I rocked my hips slowly at first, relishing the friction and the way his hands gripped my waist as though anchoring himself to reality. 

With every roll of my hips, his fingers dug deeper, marking me as his. I leaned back, letting the motion take over, each thrust sending pleasure radiating through me. 

My hands found their way to my hair, pulling it back as I closed my eyes, losing myself to the rhythm, to the feel of him buried deep within me.

Soft moans escaped my lips, mingling with the low groans that rumbled from his chest. The sounds of our pleasure filled the room, an intimate symphony that neither of us could resist.

"Gods, you're..." he began, words failing him as his eyes roved over me, unable to tear themselves away. 

His gaze was full of wonder and desire as he watched every undulation of my body, the way I moved with a sensual grace that seemed effortless and yet completely intoxicating. 

His expression was rapt as if I were the only thing that existed in his world.

A lopsided grin curved his lips, desire tempered by something softer, something achingly tender. "So beautiful," he breathed, his voice rough and trembling.

I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his, and our movements quickened, our bodies moving together with desperate, unrestrained passion. 

Each thrust brought us closer, every touch, every breath a reminder of this moment, of the connection binding us so completely.

As the rhythm of our movements intensified, the world around us blurred, leaving only sensation, only the overwhelming need to chase the rising crescendo that threatened to consume us both. 

I rode him with a fervent passion, each thrust building upon the last, until our bodies were taut with anticipation, teetering at the edge. 

His grip on my hips tightened, his breath ragged against my skin as he moved with me, into me, our bodies entwined in perfect sync.

The tension snapped suddenly, and together we tumbled over the precipice. I cried out, my body shuddering around him as the pleasure surged, wave after relentless wave. 

He followed, a low, guttural groan torn from his lips as he found his own release, his grip on me tightening as if he could somehow hold this moment forever. 

We clung to one another as the intensity washed over us, hearts pounding, breaths mingling, until finally, spent and trembling, I collapsed atop him.

Slowly, I slid off him, my limbs heavy and languid. I nestled into the soft furs beside him, feeling the warmth of the fire's glow against my skin. 

The flames danced across my naked form, casting flickering shadows that played over every curve. The heat was a pleasant contrast to the lingering warmth of our bodies, a reminder of the fire that smouldered between us.

Criston turned to me, his gaze soft but intense, as if he couldn't bear to look away. 

In the dim light, his eyes traced every line and hollow of my body, as if trying to memorize me all over again. 

There was no shame, no hesitation—only awe and desire, mingled with something deeper that neither of us dared to name.

 "Honour, oaths be damned," he whispered, his voice low but resolute.

He was entranced, lost in the heat, the need, and the undeniable truth that this, whatever it was, was worth everything.

A/n - Very sloppily written smut I will admit so sorry about that x

[blogdemocratesjr]

Statue of Joan of Arc in the spot where she perished

That, to me, is the fascination of France's national saint—not just the subject of a biography, not merely a picturesque figure in armour and a scarlet cloak, but a figure who challenges some of the profoundest tenets of what we do or do not believe. More, perhaps, than any other military figure in history, she forces us to think.

She makes us think, and she makes us question; she uncovers the dark places into which we may fear to look. We read, and, having read, are left with the essential queries: Does God on occasion manifest Himself by direct methods? Is the visible world the only world we have to consider? Is it possible for mortal man to get into touch with beings of another world? Is it possible that unearthly guidance may be vouchsafed to assist our human fallibility? Is it possible that certain beings are born with a sixth sense, a receptivity so far beyond that of their duller fellows that in order to explain it we take refuge in such words as "miraculous" and "supernatural"?

—Vita Sackville-West, Saint Joan of Arc

[viking-raider]

SALT IN OUR WOUNDS - CHAPTER VII

Summary-> Receiving help from Pastor Zane draws out more than contact with Gus's men.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 3.5k

Chapters-> I II III IV V VI

Warnings-> PG-13: WWII!AU, Language, Deception, References to WWII, Fluff, Use of the word Nazi, Angst, Confessions

Inspiration-> The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> This is a work of Fiction, pulled from my imagination. Had this chapter sitting in my Google Docs forever, just waiting for me to finish editing it.

Divider by->  @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’ Ao3-> DRAGON_DWELLER

Gus felt speechless as you came downstairs, his mouth going dry, looking you over. Even elbows deep in a steaming bucket of soapy liquid or in a simple skirt and blouse, you looked gorgeous. But the navy-blue sailor dress you wore, accented by three white buttons running down from its faux wrap v-neck, with a matching belt and flats, had only enhanced your beauty in every way possible. It paired well with the dark blue suit and white dress shirt Gus had tailored the afternoon before. Its fabric, still smooth and warm from your iron an hour ago, paired with tan braces, shoes polished until he could use them as a mirror, and a gray tie that Edmund had kindly lent him.

“You look beautiful.” He rasped, gulping thickly.

You bit your lip and shyly glanced away. “Thank you. You look very dapper yourself.” You complimented him back, rubbing your bare arm. “Do you have what you need?” You asked, composing yourself as you took a step closer to him, reaching up to adjust his tie slightly.

“I do.” Gus nodded, lightly patting his chest, where two envelopes of an identical letter were tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Good.” You whispered back, clearing your throat and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Then, we should go. We don’t want to be late, it’s impolite to keep a man of God waiting.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.” Gus chuckled, turning to grab your coat from the hook by the door and helped you put it on, before slipping on the overcoat the tailor had given him. “What is Pastor Zane like?” He asked, as the two of you started the walk to the modest parish church; a ten-minute walk away.

“He’s very kind and has a wit about him.” You replied, slipping your hands into your coat pockets. “He’s not much different from his sister, Mrs. Moulin. He’s a little younger than her, from what I’ve gathered over the years of knowing the two of them. He felt the calling of God, when he was a young man, after he and his father survived the sinking of a fishing boat. Proclaims that he and his father were clinging to the overturned hull, expecting to die, and did what any man in mortal fear would do; prayed to God. He begged the Lord, that if he managed to save them, so his sister and mother could have a provider, that he would commit his soul to him for all eternity.”

“I see his prayer was answered.” Gus stated, offering you his arm, as the two of you cross the road, passing by the fountain in the village square.

“It seems to have been.” You nodded, looping your arm through his. “Another boat happened to be sailing by and saw the sinking vessel, and it stopped to rescue them. Pastor Zane joined a seminary two years later, then returned here when he graduated to run the Village’s parish church.”

“And Edmund trusts him.” He asked, an edge to his voice.

You looked up at him, brow creased slightly, understanding his hint. “We all trust him, Gus.” You replied, protectively. “He’s a good man and he won’t betray you to anyone. You’ll see when you meet him.”

“I trust you.” He said softly, giving you a gentle smile.

The walk was refreshing. You pointed out little things about Saint-Thuney to Gus and greeted the few residents that were out and about as well, popping in and out of the bakery or salon. With a gentle bend, the Village’s paved roads and sidewalks transitioned into a well-worn dirt church lane, where the weathered stone building sat upon the crest of a small hill. There was a wire fence on the left, the backside of a small sheep enclosure. To the right were waist-high hedges, and just over the top of the emerald leaves, headstones could be seen from inside the Village cemetery.

“It’s a real Eden here in Saint-Thuney.” Gus commented, watching the wooly sheep graze.

“It really is.” You agreed, nodding with a small upturn at the corner of your mouth. “It’s almost easy to forget there’s a war going on.” You commented, as the hum of a plane moved overhead.

“Almost.” He agreed, feeling the weight of the letters in his pocket as you reached the top of the hill.

Gus pulled open the heavy, wooden door of the church and stepped aside, ushering you inside the quiet, cavernous sanctuary. The pews were mostly empty, minus a woman in the front pews, but she was motionless and lost in prayer. The flames of the lit votive candles on either side of the altar flickered with the Village's hopes and prayers. It felt both peaceful and eerie to Gus. He observed you pause before a Caen-stone stoup pedestal, dipping your finger into the still Holy Water and quickly crossing yourself; mumbling a silent prayer. Licking his lips, Gus repeated your action, not wishing to be disrespectful. You made your way down the aisle, towards the back of the altar, where, along the wall, was a huge, ornate confessional, and gestured to the only open door.

“You confess here.” You told him, with a light of intent in your eyes.

“Thank you.” Gus replied, nodding his head and casting his eyes piously to the polished floors. “It’s been some time since I’ve confessed.” He admitted, moving past you to the confessional.

“Pastor Zane will take excellent care of you, then.” You said, patting his arm, then left him to light a votive candle, carefully side-eyeing the praying woman.

Gus closed the door on the confessional, plunging himself in darkness as he sat down on the teeny, uncomfortable seat. The partition between the confessional stalls slid open and the dark silhouette of a man filled the grated gap.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” A deep voice rumbled. “Peace be with you.”

“Amen.” Gus replied, clearing his throat. “It has been some time since I’ve confessed, and I will tell you, Father, I likely have many things to confess to. But my most urgent confession is one that a mutual acquaintance of ours has enlightened you on already.”

“Yes, I believe so already, my son. I am Pastor Zane, and take you to be Gus, the one staying with Edmund’s sister.” Zane inquired, cutting to the chase.

“I am, Pastor.” Gus confirmed, removing the letters from his pocket. “I was told you would be able to send these letters to their destinations for me.” He said, tapping them against the screen.

Pastor Zane hummed, opening the screen and reached out for the letters, but Gus didn’t let them go readily. “I assure you, God as my witness, these letters will see the people they’re meant for.” He assured Gus, his voice steady.

“For a holy man, that’s more than I can ask.” He answered, letting them go. “How long will it take?”

“That will depend on how badly the Germans are hindering my contacts.” Zane told him, tucking the letters inside his vestments. “If all is well, then no more than a week and a half. If the Germans are being difficult, two or three.”

Gus sighed, slumping against the back wall of the confessional. “Not ideal. But I suppose it’ll have to do. Is there no way for you to get them there sooner? Telegraph, perhaps?” He inquired, cocking a brow at him in the dark space.

“If my men can not get your letters to them in a month, then they will wire them. But, this is our way.” Zane informed him, his tone immovable.

“Fine then.” Gus hummed, resigned. “Well, I came here under the guise of marrying that incredible woman just out there.” He said, nodding at the door. “What do we need to do for that?”

“Nothing, you aren’t truly marrying her.” Zane answered, shaking his head.

“People think I am.”

“And you will likely be gone in a month.” the Pastor countered, cocking a brow at Gus, curious as to why he was so intent on the subject. “I will simply say I gave you both my blessing to marry, should anyone ask. All the two of you must do is keep whatever charade you’ve been doing up.”

“Hm.”

“Unless, it is not one.” Zane dared to say, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“I-”

“This is confessional, my son, what is said here, stays here.”

Gus was quiet for a moment, before drawing in a deep breath. “I do find myself in love with her. But I know, for her safety, I can’t be.” He confessed, smoothing his palms over his thighs.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.” Zane said, his voice echoing an odd tone of familiar yearning. “But it is the soul that pays. As long as she doesn’t know your intentions, don’t act upon them. It will be easier that way. She’ll be able to move on, when you are gone.”

“I know that.” Gus huffed, standing up and exiting the confessional, agitated.

“Are you all right?” You asked, as Gus stopped beside you, seeing the deep valley between his brows.

“I’m fine.” He answered, picking up a wick and using one of the burning candles to light it. “It’s just been sometime since I’ve confessed; it touched a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry.” You said softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “I’ll be right back.” You told him, stepping away to slip into the confessional yourself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.” You uttered, crossing yourself.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Pastor Zane replied in a calm voice. “Tell me of your sins, child.”

You drew a shallow breath. “I’m unsure if it is a sin, Pastor Zane. Perhaps, it is, because it’s selfish.” You paused, brows drawing together as your heart thumped against your ribs, like a Blitz, your mouth working for a second, before the words finally found their way out. “I don’t want him to go. I don’t want Gus to leave.”

“I love him.” You confessed aloud, your voice breaking.

“Oh, my dear sweet girl.” Zane sighed, shaking his head. “No, and while our almighty Lord may consider that lustful, I do not believe that’s your intention. You are both young, living in a frightening time in our history. You did a brave and Christian thing, by saving him that day, and perhaps feel a bond with him for it. However, Gus must leave, when his people arrive to retrieve him. He does not belong here with us. He belongs back wherever he came from, and you must let him go.”

You scrunched up the skirt of your dress and let out a shaky breath. “I know. I doubt he even feels the same.” You mumbled, biting your lip. “Well, those are all my sins, Father.”

“Very well, my child.” Zane nodded, bowing his head slightly. “For your sin, I assign you the penance, ten Glory Be’s.”

Accepting your penance, You finish your confession and Pastor Zane sealed it with the sign of the cross and a soft amen, before you exit the confessional, only feeling slightly better about what you had told him. The door to Pastor Zane’s side of the confessional opened and the tall, robed clergyman stepped out, salt-and-pepper head ducked to clear the low door. He offered you a smile that almost instantly warmed your heart, his kindness evident in his expression and bright, coffee-brown eyes.

“How is your family?” He asked, the formality of confession left in the Confessional.

“They’re all very well, thank you.” You replied, nodding your head respectfully. “My father sends his respects as usual, and Edmund promised to come to the next services.” You informed him, watching his eyes move away from yours to something behind you. “As for Willa, she is her usual self.” You said, feeling the commanding aura Gus radiated and turned to smile up at him.

“Gus, this is Pastor Zane.” You introduced them properly to one another.

“A pleasure.” Gus greeted him, reaching his hand out.

“Quite.” Pastor Zane replied, taking Gus’s hand between his and giving it a hearty shake. “I am so excited at the prospect of the two of you wedding.” He told Gus, his eyes making a quick sweep of the church, spotting the still praying woman. “My sister will be so thrilled at having such joyous festivities in the village.”

You chuckled, knowing how much Mrs. Moulin loved throwing parties, when given the chance.

“I’m grateful you’ve agreed to marry us.” Gus replied, his shoulders somewhat tense. “Especially without knowing a jot about me.” He smirked, snickering.

“Ah, if this fine, young lady has such feelings for you, then you are truly worthy.” Zane assured him, waving it off and noticed the woman stand from her pew. “Well, I must return to confessions. We shall see each other again, for that special day.” He smiled, motioning the woman into the box. “Have a blessed day.”

“You as well, Pastor.” You bid him, grinning back. “See, that went well, didn’t it?” You said, looking up at Gus.

“You can say that.” He replied, his fingertips tracing the length of your spine. “Is there anything else you need to do here?” He asked, looking about the modest room.

“No, I lit the candles Papa asked me too.” You said, shaking your head.

“Very well, back home we go.” Gus declared, offering you his arm and turning you both towards the church doors.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing, to reveal Remi entering as he removed his tan, newsboy hat and tucked it into his back pocket. He started, seeing you and Gus coming towards him from down the aisle of pews, but he quickly composed himself.

“What are the two of you doing here?” He asked, upon meeting the two of you at the stoup, dripping his fingers in.

A bashful smirk crossed your lips and you turned your face into Gus’s arm for a moment, feeling like a caught child for some reason. A chuckle rumbled in Gus’s chest, witnessing your shy gesture, and his hand came up to brush against your cheek, affectionately. Remi studied the two of you, setting his stubbly jaw at the close intimacy the two of you were displaying so openly.

“We came to ask Pastor Zane to marry us.” Gus confessed to the shopkeeper, his eye moving back to Remi’s.

“M-marry?” Remi choked, his resolve breaking with shock.

“Yes.” You nodded, biting your lip. “Gus and I intend on marrying. I think I’ve allowed him to wait long enough.” You said, looking up at Gus with a soft look.

“Years.” Gus cooed, holding your chin between his fingers and ducked his head to brush his lips against yours in a sweet kiss; stealing your breath away. “But now, I have you in my grasp.” He smirked, pulling back slightly.

“From the day we met.” You sighed, licking your lips and tasting Gus on them.

“Well,” Remi cleared his throat and dipped his fingers back into the stoup, crossing himself. “I congratulate the both of you on your engagement.”

“Thank you.” Gus nodded his head, politely. “It’s kind of you.”

“Quite.” You agreed, offering him an appreciative smile. “We’ll let you get to whatever you were doing, and I’ll see you later on.” You said, brushing past him and out the door, moaning softly as the cool ocean breeze rushed around you, cooling your heated skin.

You were in disbelief that Gus had been so bold as to kiss you, your mind a hurricane of thoughts and emotions, that you hadn’t realized he was speaking to you.

“I’m sorry?” You cleared your throat, shaking your head to focus on him.

Gus chuckled, looking down at you. “I was saying, it’s a really lovely day out.”

You frowned for a moment, before concentrating on the world around you. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan with streaks of clouds racing across it, yet not a drop of rain threatened to fall from them. The shining sun steadily crested from behind the church, its rays warming your back and shoulders, and glittered off the restless waves of the Channel below, like gold. The breeze that had cooled you continued to flow about you and Gus; rustling the Sycamores, Sweet Chestnuts and Hawthorns that populated the Church lane and Village. It filled your noses and lungs with the pleasant and fortifying scent of the ocean.

“It really is.” You agreed, a content smile upon your face.

Gus studied your face, before you looked back at him, he felt his heart swell. His love for you only grew with each second the two of you spent together. But the knot in his stomach tightened, knowing how much he had to go, especially now the more he fell for you. Gus would not put you in harm’s way. He’d rather throw himself back into the Channel than for that to happen.

She’ll be better off. Perhaps, once I’m gone, she’ll find someone that’s right for her. He thought, plastering a smile on his face as you looked at him. Maybe, she and Remi will fall in love. But, maybe, until then…

“Would be a shame to hurry home.” Gus pointed out, finding his voice again.

You blinked at him. “We could walk along the beach for a bit?” You suggested, cocking your head at him.

“Sounds nice.” He nodded, offering you his arm again and the two of you strolled back towards the Village.

Ignoring the turn onto your street, you guided Gus leisurely towards the beach, pausing on the sandy sidewalk to take your flats and stockings off, not wanting them to get sandy and wet. Gus followed your action, taking off his shoes and socks. Both of you left them there on the sidewalk, for when you returned on the way home. The breeze was stronger down on the beach, whipping your hair free of its pins and into your face. Gus slipped off his overcoat and draped it over your shoulders, giving you a wink as you glanced up at him.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, tucking your arms inside the toasty wool.

“I can see why you like to take walks out here in the mornings.” He commented, listening to the soothing sound of the waves crashing against the white sand, not another soul insight.

“The people of Saint-Thurney don’t really like coming here.” You confessed to him, casting your gaze out to the Channel.

“Why’s that?”

You chuckled softly. “Things have a habit of washing ashore here.” You explained, pausing to face the water. “Typically they’re dead.”

“But not always.” Gus purred, cocking a brow at you.

“No, not always.” You giggled, nudging his side with your shoulder. “But it disturbs them, so they don’t come here. The official office sends some men out once a week or so to comb the length and take care of anything they might discover.”

“You’re not worried about…well, I guess you’re not concerned with finding something, given what you did find.”

“I’m not. It’s a cycle of life.” You shook your head, brow pinching. “However, other than the occasional dead sea animal, you’re the first thing I’ve ever discovered on the beach. So, I guess either whoever's job it is to clear the beach of such things is quite good or the villagers are superstitious.” You hummed, pressing your lips together in thought, but shrugged. “Which wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Well,” Gus sighed, hugging his arm around your shoulders. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad that you found me.”

“Oh, are you?” You teased, smirking.

“Yeah!” He grinned back. “It was either dying, the Germans or you. I’d really rather not die and the Germans have such sour faces. But you, my love, are just right.”

“Your Goldilocks, am I!” You laughed, shaking your head.

“Indeed.” He cooed, daring to kiss you again.

“You are frisky today, March-Phillipss!” You gasped, breaking away from him, biting back a blush.

“What can I say? I love my fiancée.” He teased, winking at you.

You tisked at him, shaking your head. “Naughty boy.”

“Guilty.” Gus confessed with an impish grin, as his eyes moved over your head, observing something back towards home. “Suppose Edmund wants to know how everything went.” He commented, a gentle furrow between his brows.

“What?” You frowned, turning to find your brother coming up the beach towards you. “He seems a bit ants in his pants.” You noted the expression on his face. “What’s wrong, Eddie?” You asked, meeting him halfway. “Is Papa all right?” You inquired, feeling a cold twinge in your stomach.

“Pops is fine.” He assured you, waving it off. “But we have another issue all together.”

“What?” Gus asked, coming up behind you, his hand resting on your hip.

“Trottier is at the house.” Edmund informed you, biting his lip, and rubbing the link of his pocket watch in his agitated state.

“Oh, hells.” You whimpered under your breath.

“Who the hell is that?”

“He’s the Director General of the Village.” You answered, a lump in your throat.

“Rat fuck is in the pocket of the Germans.”

“Now, Edmund, we don’t know that for certain.” You scolded your brother, scurrying by him, anxious to get home before Trottier could traumatize your father without you there.

[crguang]

parenting with black swan... i know her kid is always gonna always beg her to tell stories and she'd probably always make sure her kid doesn't get any nightmares ☹️☹️

i swear there is a whole universe in my head where i have a baby with black swan it’s just so ironic (in a good way) how she’s left her mortality behind yet would be such a good mom… she’s soft, warm, understanding and the most patient person ever considering she’s a memokeeper. she probably would have to read up on how to raise a kid since she never had to and would look calm the whole pregnancy while she’s actually kinda freaked out. soothes you whenever you need it while she’s looking into her cards afterwards to see if she’ll fuck this up ndjfjfkhk but she’s the most supportive wifey ever. cravings at 3am mean nothing to her she doesn’t sleep. you call her name and she’s right there with a, “yes, darling?” gives you massages to soothe your body’s soreness, is always touching your bump in some way, marvels at it at night when you’re asleep and she’s tracing patterns on your skin WOW. she’s the first to hold the baby once they’re born and for once she has nothing to say. just stares at the tiny human in her arms with all the wonder in the world— she’s already thinking of all the memories they’ll make and the impact they will leave behind with every step forward and she’s just tongue tied. then she carefully hands the baby to you and whispers praises on your temple yeah i thought about this ok

swan might be the best when it comes to a newborn waking up crying ever so often because they need to feed because she never sleeps so you wouldn’t have to get out of the bed every time, when you’re too exhausted she brings the baby to you instead. she lingers around stroking their little head with a finger as they quiet down… im fine. tells them all sorts of things whenever she holds them but especially at night, she’s always telling them stories to help them fall asleep so they grow attached to her voice very quickly and that doesn’t change as they grow up. imagine a fussy baby who just wont fall asleep despite how exhausted they are and eventually quieting down in swan’s arms while she narrates a story about kings and gods. and when she’s away on memokeeper business they miss her voice more than anything 😞 her kid grows up super curious just like she was as a kid, always touching stuff and asking about things (very much a little yapper) and swan answers every question with the patience of a saint. crying… her kid sits on her lap while she displays her cards and teaches them what each of them means but they really just like the pretty colors and reaching out to the floating shapes. swan’s in every one of her kid’s favorite tv shows. a child could never be bored with her she’s just too cool and her magic would leave them gaping in amazement… my heart. my heart

[vosh-rakh]

madstone, chapter 5

“I suppose that is my name,” the former god said with a tilt of his head. “I considered changing it, but the priests advised I didn’t. Would confuse the people more than necessary, they said. I suppose they’re right.”

He put a delicate hand on Kassur’s shoulder, who suddenly felt very small and embarrassed for his outburst. “You say my name with a curious accent. Are you Velothi, by chance?”

Kassur nodded. He didn’t think his accent was that strong. Maybe Vivec was just good at picking up on it.

Without removing his hand, Vivec looked up at Ku-vastei. “What brings you to my city, Hortator?”

“Trouble with the Ahemmusa,” Ku-vastei said. She raised and jingled the Madstone in the air. “We’re helping this lad get it sorted.”

Vivec leaned his face in to examine the amulet. “Interesting design. Dwemeri, I take it.”

Ku-vastei took a closer look at the Madstone. “Is it?”

“May I?” Vivec asked, hand outstretched. Ku-vastei tentatively handed the Madstone to him. “Yes, but of very ancient make. Likely fashioned prior to a law that standardized their more utilitarian style. A law passed long before even our war with the Nords.” He smiles sadly, his eyes seeming to look beyond the amulet and into the distant past. “This really brings me back.”

Kassur managed to catch a glimpse of the amulet in the god’s hand, his first real look at it since they retrieved it. It had a round blue stone engraved with a radiant eye, cradled in an inverted crimson crescent that looked like horns. 

Vivec then casually flicked the Madstone with his finger; a loud, clear tone rang out from the stone. Kassur instinctively covered his ears, even though the sound wasn’t necessarily painful. 

“Before they became atheists,” Vivec began when the sound diminished, “the Dwemer feared the Daedra. They lacked their later, more complete understanding of metaphysical tonality, but still vaguely knew the importance of fundamental tones. They crafted devices such as this to ‘scare away’ the influence of the Daedra.”

“Seems the Ahemmusa somehow obtained one and used it to keep Sheogorath away for generations,” Ku-vastei filled in. 

“Interesting,” Vivec mumbled, scratching his chin. “I wonder how it came into their hands. No matter, I suppose.” He looked again at Kassur. “I suspect whatever issue your tribe faces, this device is instrumental to its salvation.”

“We think so, Lord Vivec,” offered Aryon when Kassur didn’t reply. 

“Oh, please,” said Vivec with a dainty wave of his golden hand. “I’m barely a ‘Lord’ anymore. Call me a saint still, if you want. But I’m more part of the common rabble these days.”

Kassur somehow doubted this. How could a god become a mortal so easily? This was, of course, assuming he was ever truly a god in the first place, something Kassur’s people readily questioned. Regardless, there seemed something insincere, or at least unbefitting, in his stated humility. 

Moving right along, Vivec said, “Well, I suppose I’ll be coming with you.”

Ku-vastei barely suppressed a hiss. “That won’t be necessary, Vivec.”

“Oh, please,” Vivec said again, clasping his hands and stretching his arms in front of him. “I’m bored out of my mind here. Endless bureaucracy. And there’s only so many ways you can say, ‘Get rid of that rock in the sky.’” 

He cast a glance upwards at Baar Dau, which Kassur only just now noticed. It was indeed a giant rock in the sky, crawling with miners like kwama, bits of excavated stone falling into the water by the Temple canton. 

“Won’t leaving the city put its stasis in jeopardy?” Ku-vastei asked. 

“No, I can handle it from afar well enough, especially seeing as it’s quite a bit lighter these days.”

Ku-vastei swished her tail and scratched her chin. Finally, she acquiesced. “Fine. You can come. But not like that.” She made a gesture with her metal hand, dividing her face into two halves.

“Of course,” Vivec replied. “I can be discrete.” In an instant the gold faded from his right side, leaving him fully grey, like any other Dunmer. “Completely inconspicuous.”

“Fine,” Ku-vastei grunted. “Just don’t make any kind of scene. This doesn’t have to be a big ordeal.”

“As you wish, Hortator,” Vivec answered. Kassur was amazed by how easily Ku-vastei commanded the (former) god, and how readily he submitted to her whims.

“Let’s be on our way then, shall we?” asked Aryon. “We’ve got the better part of the island to cross.”

Ku-vastei shrugged. “We’ll just teleport to Sadrith Mora, take the boat to Vos, then walk the rest of the way to Ald Daedroth. Not too complicated.”

- - -

And it wasn’t too complicated. The teleport to Sadrith Mora (which Kassur handled even better than the last three, getting quite used to it), the walk across town, and boat ride to Vos, were mostly uneventful. But it was far from boring, as you might imagine, being a trip with a powerful wizard, the leader of a nation, and a god. To Kassur it went by in a blur; either Aryon and Vivec were in heated debate about the Dwarves, which Ku-vastei moderated, or the three discussed political matters so far over Kassur’s head in their import that he simply tuned it out and focused on not getting seasick. Gals Arethi kept a baleful eye on Kassur, but apparently the esteemed company Kassur traveled with kept him safe from the shipmaster’s wrath.

When they arrived, Sedyni the Vos shipmaster was not there. The four travelers stepped off the boat and glanced around. The nearby tradehouse seemed unusually quiet. Gals shrugged and sailed off back to Sadrith Mora.

“Where is everyone?” Kassur asked. At this time of early evening, the village was usually buzzing with activity.

Vivec closed his eyes. “The chapel is empty.”

“How could you possibly know that?” asked Ku-vastei, planting a metal hand on her hip. Kassur wondered about that brass gauntlet she wore – it was incredibly ornate, and had an air of being impossibly ancient and powerful. But he had no idea how to ask politely.

“I can still feel it,” Vivec said, opening his eyes again. “Most people still revere me as a god, especially this far removed from the official temple in my city. So the Tribunal holy places are still attuned to me.” Kassur had no idea what he was talking about.

Aryon was oddly quiet. In the short time Kassur had known him, he’d never acted like this; he was the type of consequential mer to always have something to contribute to a conversation. It was barely perceptible, but Kassur could swear he saw a slight tremor in Aryon’s hands. But Kassur couldn’t tell if it was fear…or rage.

“Aryon?” asked Ku-vastei. “Are you alright?” She seemed to notice the same thing Kassur had.

“Check on the village,” Aryon said, his voice dry. “I go to the tower.” And so he did, flying off fast through the air, much faster than they had in Vivec. As Kassur watched him disappear into the sky, he saw a dark cloud in front of the setting sun. Or…was it a pillar of smoke?

“This bodes ill,” Vivec said, frowning. “Kassur, stay close. It’s quiet, but I suspect danger.”

Kassur felt a sudden pang of guilt. He realized he was more like a liability to these powerful beings, someone they had to keep close and protected because he was so weak and helpless. He could barely conjure a flame, and didn’t know how to use a weapon. In a fight, he was worthless. He began to wonder why they’d brought him along at all. A sneaking suspicion told him they thought he would be useful only as a bargaining chip, of sorts. A sort of intermediary to help them accomplish…whatever grim task they meant to do.

The thought escaped his lips just as he thought it. “Don’t kill them,” he blurted. “If it is the Ahemmusa. Please.”

“Kassur…” Ku-vastei began, turning to face him. “That might not be –”

“You have our word,” Vivec interrupted, placing a delicate hand on Kassur’s shoulder. “No excessive harm shall come to your people.”

Ku-vastei scoffed, snapping her head towards Vivec to glare at him, but after a moment sighed and shrugged. Kassur wasn't sure if he could trust the word of the false god – or if the Nerevarine had any interest in going along with him. 

They proceeded towards the town walls, which were actually the backs of the tightly-crowded huts of the village, no space left between their rounded stucco corners. There were no guards posted at the gate, the town’s single entrance, and beyond them was still silent. Down the single street they could see that many of the doors were half-to-wide open, but there were no obvious signs of a struggle.

“Vivec,” said Ku-vastei, “take Kassur to check the chapel. I’ll check on the houses.” Vivec nodded and gently directed Kassur towards the chapel as Ku-vastei began picking her way from hut to hut.

Vivec and Kassur passed under the chapel gate into the meager courtyard. The small alchemical garden the two priests maintained there was not overgrown or choked with weeds. “They haven’t been gone long,” Kassur observed out loud. 

Vivec noticed Kassur examining the garden and nodded. “Good,” he said, smiling at Kassur. “Let’s check inside.”

The door was closed, and unlocked. But the chapel never locked its doors, not even when the priests were both asleep. Vivec cautiously pushed through the threshold, Kassur following close behind. “Hello?” called out Vivec. “It’s alright. We’re here to help.” 

There was no answer. The chamber within was nearly pitch-dark, only faint light coming through the stained glass domed ceiling. Vivec cast a Light spell for them to see by as they entered.

It was a mess. The Tribunal tapestries on the walls were torn to shreds, and the murals defaced with what Kassur hoped was paint; candles and torches were snuffed out; the prayer-stools were upturned and thrown about; loose ripped-out pages of books were fluttering in the breeze visiting from outside; ash and bones from the circular Waiting Door on the floor were spread across the room haphazardly. Kassur held no great faith in these things, but it still pained him to see such desecration of a holy place. 

“Be on your guard,” said Vivec stiffly. “In this state I fear I could not trust my divinity to tell if we’re alone. There is little holiness left here.”

Kassur’s muscles tightened. He still didn’t understand how Vivec could know such things. But if he truly was anything close to what he claimed – an ancient mortal-made-god, a living deity – then it was difficult to doubt him.

They slowly circled the Waiting Door, more carefully inspecting the scene, but there was no more evidence of exactly what had happened. At least there’s no blood, Kassur thought. He remembered his teacher, Yakin Bael, and said, “There’s a bedroom downstairs. We should probably check there, too.”

Vivec nodded in agreement, and led the way down the steps, his orb of magical light guiding the way. The priests’ bedroom was not saved from the sacking: pots and urns of various alchemical and cooking ingredients were overturned and cracked open; broken glass from shattered bottles littered the rug underfoot (Kassur was for once glad for his shoes, and Vivec hovered an inch above the ground); the desk had its drawers yanked out, scattering torn papers and writing implements, and its stool and tall candlestick were toppled; the privacy screen was ripped open; and the beds were torn apart, sheets and blankets strewn and split.

Vivec stopped to inspect some of the loose pages of sermons and notes on the floor. Kassur went up the short ramp to the beds to look more closely. He knew the bed on the left was Yakin’s – they had a few lessons down here, when the upstairs chapel was too busy and loud. He picked up a pillow from the floor, gashed open and spitting up dried wickwheat stuffing, and gently laid it back on the head of the bed. He knelt down, and quickly realized that under the pillow was Yakin’s spectacles, broken and bent at the nose and lenses shattered. He gently took them in his hands, careful of the jagged edges of glass, and stared at them.

Just as he was getting used to his new life in Vos, now it seemed to be ripped from him again. Even the only real friend he had among the housemer, his teacher Yakin Bael, seemed to be in some unknown peril. And, useless as always, Kassur could do nothing but follow along with the real heroes, who actually had power to do anything about it.

“Here,” said Vivec, startling Kassur from his misery. A second orb of light appeared, floating near Kassur by the beds. 

“Thanks,” said Kassur. Vivec smiled and kept reading a document in his hand.

Kassur looked back down, and something immediately caught his eye. Just under the edge of the bed was a bright gleam, reflecting the magical light above. Kassur slowly reached for the shining object and pulled it out. 

It was a short sword, still in its sheath; its metallic hilt had been catching the light. He removed the sheath noiselessly and beheld the glistening steel blade, sharp as the day it was forged. “Vivec,” he called, “he had a sword. Yakin, that is. And he didn’t use it.”

Vivec dropped what he was reading and floated up the ramp to Kassur, looking down at him and the sword. “Hm,” he pondered, tucking his legs up under him as he floated and placing his hands on his crossed knees. “Doesn’t mean there wasn’t a struggle. Those spectacles are broken. No blood?”

Kassur looked around again. On a whim he grabbed the pillow he had adjusted earlier and turned it over; sure enough, a small bloodstain seeped through the cloth case.

“Punched in the face,” Kassur suggested. “Nose bled, maybe broken. No other signs of a struggle, that I can tell.”

“Fair analysis,” Vivec said. “I don’t think there’s any other clues here. Let’s go meet up with Ku-vastei.”

Ku-vastei had just come back from the end of the street to the chapel by the time Kassur and Vivec came out. She was alone.

“I see you didn’t find any survivors,” Vivec said, frowning. “Any dead?”

“No,” Ku-vastei said. “No sign of any struggle. Everyone is just gone. What of the chapel?”

“We found no one, but the chapel was desecrated. The homes were untouched?”

“That I could tell, yes. Some doors were left open, and the breeze disturbed some belongings, but that was it.”

“Hm,” Vivec said, stroking his solid grey chin. “Perhaps they’re sheltering at the tower?”

All three turned west towards Tel Vos. The pillar of smoke was rising higher, and blacker. Without a word they began at a quick pace towards it.

- - -

Aryon had put out most of the flames by the time they arrived, but the damage had been done. There was nothing left of the Telvanni fungal roots of the tower but ash, even Aryon’s personal pod at its peak. The tendrils which had so integrated themselves into the stonework of the Imperial fort no longer held it up, causing several portions to collapse into charred bricks.

Ku-vastei and Vivec readied their spears (Kassur hadn’t noticed the god had been carrying one until now) while Kassur cowered behind the two. But it made him feel like a coward, so he tried his best to straighten his back, puff out his chest bravely, and at least put his hand on the sheathed sword of Yakin Bael, even if he didn't have the nerve to actually draw it.

Aryon knelt in front of a smoldering pile of bodies. It was hard for Kassur to make out in the carnage, but it seemed like a mix of guards, tower servants, and Ahemmusa raiders. He might have recognized some of the latter, if they weren’t all so horrifically burned.

“Master Aryon?” asked Vivec. “Are you harmed?”

Aryon turned his head slowly. There was no evidence of weeping on his face, but he looked like a man completely exhausted. Kassur understood the feeling immediately. “No,” Aryon said. “They likely went north before I arrived.” He stood and wiped his hands on his robes. “To the old camp. What of Vos?”

He’s held together by a thread right now, thought Kassur. There was a haunted look in his eyes. He’d just lost everything. Kassur could relate – although he’d ran from his old life, instead of having it torn from him.

“There was no one there,” Ku-vastei said. “No sign of a struggle, except that the chapel was ransacked.” She took a cautious step forward towards Aryon. “Are you sure you’re –”

The wind changed suddenly, and Kassur caught a big whiff of the corpse-smoke. He gagged loudly, covered his mouth with the collar of his robes, and fled towards a nearby wall. He planted his free hand against the stone as he tried to calm his retching before it grew into something worse. He could feel three pairs of eyes on his back, and he resented it. He let go of the wall and looked at his hand; it was completely covered in soot. The wall now had a relatively clean handprint on it where he’d stolen the blackness. “I’m fine,” he shouted, although the act nearly made him gag again. “I’m –”

There was a loud crack somewhere above him. He only had time to look up at the top half of a tower rushing towards him, but not enough to move out of the way. He closed his eyes.

Something hit him hard, but not at the angle he was expecting. The collapse was deafening, its roar of crumbling stone erasing all other sounds. When the sound had settled, Kassur opened his eyes. Ku-vastei had him in her arms; he could feel the cold metal of her right hand pressing into his spine through his robes. 

Vivec and Aryon appeared in the air above them, their feet glowing with pink light. “Are you two alright?” Aryon asked.

Kassur felt a soothing energy enter his body from the gauntlet, and he felt less sore from the tackle. “Yes,” Ku-vastei said as she stood up, lifting Kassur with her. “I’m fine, and he will be.”

Kassur caught a glimpse of Aryon’s face, wrinkled with worry, before it relaxed into relief. Then he put on a new mask, a mask of cold wrath. A cascade of facades to make Mephala proud.

“Good,” Aryon asked. “We need to go to the old camp and see if they’ve taken the citizens there.”

Aryon turned, and with a mystical wave of his hand, buoyed up the rubble in mauve smoke and flung it aside. “Come,” he said once the crashing din faded. “We have work to do.”

Suddenly, Kassur was terrified of Aryon – and for the safety of his own people.

[vonreverie]

beast-yeast 3 color analysis (also spoilers maybe)

i am in the middle of playing beast-yeast 3 and ohhh my god i have so many thoughts. i think the devs did a great job in creating this sense of safety and divinity in the ivory pagoda by simply using colors. white is typically a color associated with all things innocent and truthful, and we can see that white is the main color in the temple. white is also associated with purity, which plays into this theme of deception in the pagoda. we instinctively want to trust that there is little danger in the ivory pagoda, since a temple with such pristine colors MUST be good and safe!!! in many mythos/modern society, white s typically the color of creation. it's used to represent life, which is exactly what mystic flour cookie believes she's doing. she is giving "new life" to these cookies, enlightening them (a concept which is also tied in with white!) to save them from any sort of mortal pain.

the other main color, gold, is more closely associated with the actualization of divinity, especially in religion. whether it be golden temples, golden headpieces, golden gods, golden gates, it's safe to say that where divinity goes, gold follows. the devs wanted to show how godly these beast cookies are, and how being revered as such has changed them. mystic flour cookies was a saint to these cookies who wanted their wished granted.

cloud haetae cookie slams it into the player that mystic flour cookie is all benevolent, but the player can sense that something is off, and that's MAIIIINLY because the color white isn't a pure white, it's a more creamy off-white, almost yellow-ish, clueing the player into the true nature of mystic flour cookie and cloud haetae. they're all literally saying "heyyyy we're not that good but you wanna trust us because you like how this whole temple looks...gotcha bitch".

if the devs used shit like bright orange and green, this illusion of safety and comfort would immediately be shattered, cluing the player in a lot faster than intended and generally just creating a different vibe.