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tadpolesonalgae · 1 year ago

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Tag, You’re It[***]

Dark!feysand x human!reader

A/N: I have no words for how much I love this ask

Summary: eenie, meenie, miny, mo, catch a lady by her toes, if she screams don’t let her go.

Warnings: Non-con, smut, breeding kink, mean Dom!Rhys, dark!Feysand, mentions of rape, slight predator play, slight necrophilia (cut off fingers), mentions of torture, 7.5k words

Necrophilia part follows from: ‘He’ll never put his hands on you again.

Well…’

-Part 2-

“I—…what?”

The High Lady stiffens at your shocked tone. Almost horrified. Besides her, Rhysand’s eyes sharpen, piercing into you. She sucks in a calming breath. “We can get rid of your husband, you won’t have to live here anymore. With him.”

Your lips part in shock, both of their eyes following so keenly that you snap your mouth shut. “I love my husband,” you utter. “And this home is one we built together.” Silver lines your eyes as you try to summon anger but all you feel is betrayal. “I understand it’s nowhere near your level of wealth,” you flush, eyes hot, “but my husband and my house are both very dear to me. I will not leave them.”

“Just give us a chance,” Feyre whispers, gently, reaching to settle her palm over yours but you jerk back. Pain flashes through her grey-blue eyes before she smothers it. “No!” You keep your hand close to your chest, leaning away from her in the chair. “I’ve told you very clearly, High Lady—” Feyre stills at the title, in replace of her name, “—I love my husband, and he loves me. We’ve grown together throughout the years and there’s no one I would be happier to spend my life with. Besides,” you add, voice quieting as your eyes pierce into the female’s, “we’ve decided to try for a child. By this time next year I will have a baby to look after.”

She actually flinches at the line. A reminder of how fae bodies take longer to reproduce, how slim the chances are. A private worry she had confided in you, many moons ago. The High Lord’s eyes narrow, thinking about all the ways he could make you submit to them. Rhysand watches as you raise from your chair, tension rippling across his chest as you move to the door. It would be so easy to sink into your mind, slide through your mental shields and force you to your knees.

But his mate is still young and would not approve of his darker methods. He needs to find a way around the obstacle of morality, and quickly. Before you leave and things begin to get messy. Who would’ve guessed you’d be so loyal to your scummy husband? Anger burns across his chest at the thought alone. How you could put up with the man was beyond him. He knew the two of them would treat you infinitely better than he ever could. You just needed your eyes opened, to see their side.

The High Lord is brought out of his mind when Feyre stands from her chair, striding after you on her elegantly fae legs, swallowing the distance. Her movements are sharp, precise. No soft edges to be found. Her mind is hardened and he sends a question across the bond. It rebounds off a wall of glittering, black adamant, so pure his talons hardly leave a scratch.

Her hands land on your hips and you flinch when she spins you around, shoving you against the unopened door. “It wasn’t a request,” her words are lethally soft, warmth freezing over as ice slices through her eyes. “I was giving you an order.” Then her hands pin you to to the exit, holding you still by the sweep of your bones, and her mouth crushes down on your own.

You completely freeze, caught in the crossfire as you still. Your mind blanks with utter terror as she forces her tongue between your lips, tasting you as she growls. The sound has your hairs standing on end, tingling sensitivity erupting across your skin as her mouth overlaps your own.

The High Lord’s eyes widen, shock coursing through his blood as he watches, enraptured. His mate keeps you against the door, taking what she wants. Then she’s pulling back, a silver thread of saliva connecting your lips as you stare up at her. “Rhys,” she commands, and you’re paralysed as the male stands, exuding malice as he prowls forward, settling at her back. He towers over the both of you, and his violet eyes gleam with dark delight.

“Yes, my lady?” He drawls, hands settling at her waist, hunching over as he settles his chin on the elegant slope of her shoulder. Both of their hungry eyes remain on you, pinning you to the door like an insect to a dissection table. “Bedroom. Now.” Her voice cuts through the air, like a freshly forged blade through a narrow sheet of ice.

He presses a kiss to the space below her jaw, hands dancing over the lace at her sides. Violet eyes pierce into you before he vanishes, wisped away in a plume of shadows. Your eyes turn to the female’s, afraid, “Feyre—”

“‘Feyre’, now.” Her expression is stony, blue-grey eyes thunderous. “I thought you were content to address me as High Lady,” she spits out. You cower before her, power straining in the air, the metallic tinge shoving itself up your nostrils.

You swallow, raising your hands slowly in surrender, “I swear, I didn’t mean to offend—”

Her hand grips you jaw and you cry out, her nails biting into the soft skin of your cheek, “don’t back out now,” she croons, “you said what you wanted to. Chose your path.” Silver lines your eyes as terror screams in your blood. Her lips brush over yours as she leans down, eyes hard and unforgiving, “you dug your grave, now lie in it.”

Her lips once again crash over yours and you cry out, tears free-falling from your eyes, pouring down your cheeks as you try to scream. One hand snakes around your hip, keeping you still with her overwhelming strength. Her other snakes between your legs, fingers dancing through the fabric of your skirts, settling against your bare heat. She completely dominates your mouth, even as you thrash, her teeth nipping at your lips, tongue conquering your own as she shoves you into submission.

A growl rumbles across her breastbone as she feels wetness at your entrance. The heel of her palm rubs over your clit as you try to scream for her to stop, to get away from you. Two of her fingers dip into your cunt and you cry harder, writhing against her grip even if it’s utterly useless to attempt to escape her. She’s brilliantly, powerfully fae, and you’re undeniably, detrimentally human.

Your hands slide away from trying to shove her off, instead scraping at the door. If you can just find the handle—

The wood gives way behind you, allowing you to stumble back, crashing to the floor as your legs give out. She’s silhouetted in the frame, unusually tall, proportions too elongated to pass as human. Sharp talons protrude from her fingertips, glinting in the light. She snarls, and all it takes is that first step across the threshold that has you scrambling to your feet, sprinting down the hallways. An animal growl echoes along the corridor behind you, bouncing off the walls as your feet pound against the floor boards.

You swerve left, careen right, hit the stairs. You practically leap down them as you hear her following after you. Her steps are slow, leisurely, but you hear the menacing scrape of claws along wallpaper. It grates on your ears and you’re surprised you don’t trip with how weak your legs feel.

You fling a door open, dashing inside as you search for the final set of stairs to lead you down to the ground floor. It’s another hallway. There’s no time. You sprint down it, feeling the pressure of power in the air as she gains on you. You nearly trip on a rug but keep your balance, zipping down the corridors until you find a set of stairs. They only lead up.

Her footsteps echo on the dark mahogany floors, the deep red rugs doing nothing to soften their harsh thud. She’s practically behind you.

You take the stairs three at a time, breathing hard as you turn right at the top, searching for a place to hide. You run down more corridors with dark floorboards, more hallways with red rugs. Shit. You must’ve gotten turned around. Were you even on the first floor?

Where are you, little traitor?

The High Lady’s voice slices through your mind and you clutch your temples, the sound much too loud. It must mean she’s close. Fuck. You stumble along the narrowing hallways, but trip, sprawling on the floor. Pushing up, you see the loom of her shadow around the corner, lurking just out of sight. You turn on your heel, arms pumping at your sides, heart pounding in your chest.

You round a final corner and you know you can’t continue for much longer. Your throw open a door, spinning on your heel as you make sure to shut it as quietly as possible. You can’t hear it over the thunderous beat of your heart. In your peripherals, you can see your hands shaking as you release the handle, backing up on your tiptoes.

Powerful arms slide around your waist, pulling you tight against a strong chest, “there you are, little lynx.” You scream, pushing away from him as you turn. A vicious grin plays on his hellish mouth, stalking forward until you’re cornered against the wall. Your lungs are burning as you again reach for the handle, but it’s gone.

Disbelievingly, you stare at the flat wood, no sign to be found it was ever there. “What did you do?” You stammer, tears brimming at your eyes as his grin widens. “I didn’t do a single thing. That was all her.” You shrink away from him as he leans down, arms wrapping around your middle, the broad length of his shoulder pressing against your stomach.

Screams tear from your lips as he hoists you into the air with casual ease. You don’t weigh a thing to him. “Let me go!” You cry, slamming your hands into his back, aiming either side of his spine. He flings you down atop a wide mattress. Your marital bed, you realise. “Please, Rhys. My husband! What of my life!?” Your desperate pleas fall on deaf ears as his grin widens with pleasure.

“Keep still,” he drawls, arms folding over his powerful chest and you can’t find the will to move. It’s been taken from you. “I’m sure she’ll be along in a moment to decide what to do with you.” Tears blur your vision, and a moment later, the door swings open. A shiver licks up the High Lord’s spine as he sets his gaze on his mate, who is thrumming with dark power. Embracing the Night.

You scramble back on the bed, up to the headboard, pressing into the corner as she prowls across the room. Her talons glitter in the fading light, the room awash with blues and greys as darkness descends. “You want to make this difficult, little traitor?” She spits, standing at the end of the mattress. You shake your head, mouth trembling as your hands shake.

The grey-blue of her eyes shutter at your answer. “Come here.” One slim finger points to the spot directly in front of her. You swallow, tremors wracking your muscles but you manage to sporadically push forward. Maybe you should listen to her, get her out of that cold, wrathful state. Hands settling shakily into the sheets, you crawl forward, stopping before her as you sit back on your calves, kneeling placatingly.

“Rhys,” she addresses, never taking her cold eyes from you, “sit down.” He follows her orders, taking one of the comfortable armchairs facing the bed. He sprawls across the seat as if it’s a throne, long legs crossing over one another as he settles for the show.

Feyre’s claws retract, hand fisting in your hair sternly. “Eyes on me.” Instantly, you return you gaze to her, and her grip lessens. “Will you be good for me?” The question slices through your tender threads of hope. Your lower lip wobbles, but you nod. You just need an opening. Maybe you can throw yourself out the window.

The High Lady’s eyes pierce into you, staring deep into your soul. “Kiss me,” she commands, and you still.

“W—…what?”

“Prove you’ll be good. Kiss me. Show me you mean it.” Her brow narrows, “unless you’re lying.”

“Fey—” She glowers at the pet name you’ve had for her. “Feyre. Please.” Your hands raise to settle on her hips, holding her in reverent supplication, bowing your head, appealing to the friend you’d once had. “Maybe, if my husband could—”

She snarls, cutting you off as she jerks your head upright. “That useless sack of meat doesn’t deserve you.” You swallow down your tears at the way she speaks about the man you love, heart stinging, wishing he could be here to hold you. You were so close to your happy ever after. “But if he could just come with me! Then…then maybe…” You meet her gaze heart sinking. “You can have me.”

A thunderous growl resonates throughout the dark room and you try to shrink from her, hands pulling away as if stung. “The next time you mention him, I’ll kill him myself.” Despair wracks your heart, shuddering within its boney cage. You fling your arms around her in a last effort to summon forward the gentle friend you’d had, your closest companion, the one who you had thought you’d listen to above anyone else. Her word had been law unto you, until she’d changed.

“Please, Fey,” you sob weakly, shuddering in her arms. She stiffens under your touch, finally feeling your skin against hers as she’d dreamt about for so long. She can feel the rise and fall of your chest, the full press of your breasts against her own, the soft tickle of breath over her shoulder as your arms grip her tightly. As if you’re scared to let go of her. “I know you’re in there…” Hot droplets land on the bare expanse of her shoulder, pooling in the dip of her collar bone. “So please, come back to me. I miss you so much. Come back, Fey…”

Her hands brace your waist, gently pulling you from her. You settle back onto your knees, hands flat against her neck, just below her jaw as you look at her with dim hopefulness. You watch as her eyes glaze, in discussion with her mate. When she speaks, her voice has softened, something of her old kindness lighting the icy grey of her eyes. “Why do you love him?”

Tears spill as hope lights in your chest. “He completes me, Fey. Like how you say Rhys completes you. I can’t—…without him, I… I wouldn’t be me, Fey. He makes me whole.” You look up at her with pleading eyes, her own softening just a fraction. “It’ll pass,” she soothes, hand landing atop your head with a feather-light touch, stroking your hair calmingly.

“What…?”

Sadness lies in the depth of her dark gaze, “you’ll recover from him. Like I did from Tamlin. You’ll get better. My sweet girl…just let us help you.” The spark dims, snuffed out by her words. Then the torrent of emotions rain down on you as your hands fist in the collar of her low cut dress, pulling yourself up until you’re chest to chest. “How would you feel, Feyre?” You shout at her, tears pouring down your cheeks as you feel like you’re being cleaved in two. “What would you do if someone tried to take you away from Rhys? How would you feel if they tried to force you like you’re doing to me?”

“Why have one when they could have both?” She murmurs, looking deep into your eyes. You shake your head as her own hands slide adoringly up your sides, cupping your jaw. “No…that’s not… You’re not listening to me!”

“I drink in every word you give me, treasure every moment of your company in the chambers of my memory,” she breathes over your lips. You’re sucked into her mind, swallowed as she shows you yourself through her eyes. When you and your husband were struggling badly and you’d broken down, crying and shaking in her arms. When she’d tried to leave you alone on your birthday, thinking you’d want to share it with the man you claimed to love. Yet you had snuck out - after dark - to her own mansion in the human lands, where you knew she had made the journey to in order to at least be around to celebrate.

Her memories swarmed your mind, tainting the once dear images with a sinister gleam, a lurking presence waiting for the right moment to pounce.

The High Lady sees that same look in your eyes as the night you’d confessed to skipping meals to ration food over the harsh winter, the despair. The doubt you’d survive. She doesn’t want to hurt you, but she knows you’ll be better away from him. You just need the bandage ripped off, like what Rhys had done for her when he’d saved her from the Spring Court. She’d been dissonant at first, but had come back to life under his care.

And they could do the same for you. Nurture and guide you until you were healed of your husband’s marks. Until you wouldn’t question a lone grave dug in your back garden in the house you would leave behind. For them. They could keep you as you are, take you into their home, welcome you to their bed. She knows it will take a while, months perhaps for you to come to terms, to understand the past, but the time will come. Second by agonising second.

“But he loves me, Fey. I can’t leave him behind. He’s my husband.”

She doesn’t remind you of the threat she’s made. Of the promise she will now fulfil.

“I love you!” She snarls, pressing her forehead against your own. “We…Both of us. Rhys and I…we love you so much it hurts.” You stare up at her with wide eyes, stunned. Your head shakes subtly, trying to deny her. “We do, sweet girl,” she agonises, “you’re everything to us. The sun, the moon, all the stars. They’re nothing to you. Our Court, our people, our realm. We would pick you over them a hundred— forever.”

“No…” you whimper, hands going slack at your sides.

“We’ll take care of you. You’ll never be without a meal. Never sleep alone at night. Never worry you won’t survive a season ever again. We can be your stability. Just let us have you.”

“Fey…”

She pulls you to her mouth, swallowing down your pained whimpers as she drinks you down. Her hand twines around your waist, pulling your middle against hers. Your hands settle just above her chest, weakly pushing away from her.

She comes back harder, making you lean back in her arms, allowing her to splay you out on your own marital bed. When she pulls away, you’re panting, heart pounding. Through teary eyes you peer up at her, “you can’t do this, Fey…” you whimper, voice cracking, “you’re supposed to be my friend… You’re not supposed to…use me, like this.”

“We’re not going to use you, sweet girl,” she breathes over your lips, “we’re going to love you.” You shake your head frantically, attempting to pull away from her treacherous mouth, “but I don’t want that!”

“You will… You just need to understand. See how much better we can treat you. You’ll be bathing in pleasure before you know it. You’ll never want to leave our bed.”

You move to protest but a scent catches your attention, deep and musky. The High Lady’s eyes glaze, pausing as she speaks to her mate. You take the precious seconds to prepare yourself for the inevitable. They’re going to take you. On your marriage bed. You bite the inside of your lip, trying to prevent the tears.

Her eyes regain their life, sadness in their depths. “I’m sorry it had to happen this way.” Her lips brush against yours, a shudder slithering down your spine that she misinterprets. Her nose brushes you own in what’s supposed to be an affectionate gesture.

The High Lord raises from his chair. He’s seen enough. Now it’s time to partake.

You stiffen as he prowls closer, eyes widening as you stare up at the female. “You’re not…” you trail off, looking at her, stunned. “You’re going to let him rape me?”

Her eyes soften slightly. “We love you, sweet girl. It’s not rape.”

“My husband loves me, and yet he—!” Your eyes snap wide, hands slapping over your mouth as you freeze, terror icing your veins as they both still. “I didn’t— that—… I’m sorry…”

“He did what?” Fury sluices through the room as it blazes in her cold eyes. Their lips pull back from their teeth, rage burning in the air. You shake your head desperately, trying to swallow back the words you’ve already spat out. Talons slice from her fingernails as her canines sharpen, pupils slitting with pure outrage.

“I’m going to slaughter him,” she realises, breathing the violent words onto your lips. You flinch. “No…” you whimper, “Fey, you don’t understand…! He was drunk! He didn’t know what he was doing!” You cry. The High Lady moves to pull away from you but your arms grip over her shoulders, legs clasping around her waist. She just pulls you with her as she stands. Feyre barely even registers your weight as she steps away from the bed.

Your thighs squeeze her hips as you try not to fall, burying your face into her hair. “It was only once…he didn’t mean to. I know he didn’t. I don’t think he even remembers it.” Her body stiffens as you cry into her shoulder. Like you’ve done so many times before. And it feels familiar. A warm breath of summer air in the depths of a Winter Court snowstorm.

But your confession plays over and over again in her mind, a curse on repeat. “Rhys,” she murmurs, summoning her mate. They exchange glances, coming to an agreement. Strong arms sneak around your waist, holding your back to his chest as Feyre steps from your arms. Panic tears through you as you struggle against his iron grip. “No!” You rasp, voice breaking, “you mustn’t! You can’t kill him!”

She plants a kiss to your forehead, brushing away free strands of hair. “I’ll be back. Rhys’ll look after you,” she murmurs against your mouth and you cry. “I don’t want him! I don’t want either of you! I want my husband!”

“Don’t say that,” the male speaks from behind you, making you jump in his arms, “you want us to be gentle, don’t you?” The High Lady snarls, shooting him a threatening look. You can practically feel the smirk on his hellish mouth.

“If you hurt her…” Feyre snarls, and for a second, you think you see part of the old her shining through. Then the High Lord presses a placating kiss to your cheek, soothing his mate. “Now, do you want to deal with him, or should I?” He spits, and you know who they’re talking about. You attempt to crawl out of his arms but his head dips again, littering kisses to the slope of your neck.

You whine as you try to scrabble away, out of his dominating hold, desperately trying to escape the invasive press of something hard at your lower back. His hips roll against yours and a startled whimper that sounds a bit too much like a moan flies from your lips. Both of them still. You can feel their penetrating gazes piercing into you, willing you to repeat the sound for them. They’ve gotten a taste, now they want more.

The High Lady steps forward, cupping your jaw as she affectionately lays kisses to your cheeks and nose, as if kissing invisible dots. “Rhys’ going to take care of you while I’m gone. Okay, sweet girl?” You look at her pleadingly. “Please…” your heart pumps as you feel him twitch at the whimper. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone with him.”

Feyre kisses the bridge of your nose comfortingly. “He won’t be mean to you, sweetness. Just try to get along and everything will be fine. He won’t hurt you.” Tears spill down your cheeks as you try to grab for her. It’s a no-brainer to pick her over the High Lord who’s been ruling for centuries. You have no doubt he has near depthless experience in breaking those he views as heretics, bending them to his will.

Despite everything, Feyre still holds an modicum of safety to her person. Rhysand seems to view morality as a loose guideline if it gets in the way of what he wants. And right now, he wants you.

She puts a kiss to your lips and - praying to the mother for forgiveness - you kiss her back, desperately trying to sway her mind so she’ll stay. She moans, but pulls away, leaving your mouth cold. “I’ll be back to join before you know it. But for now,” her eyes turn ice blue, jaw tightening, “I’m going to deal with that man.”

And like that, she vanishes, leaving you alone with the monster at your back. He noses at your throat scenting you, picking up on something he likes. “That was mean, little lynx,” he mutters begrudgingly beside your ear. You shudder, and he forcefully guides you back to the bed. Rhysand pushes you forward, making you tumble down onto the mattress, bent over.

Frantically, your hands scramble for purchase, attempting to wriggle away from him but his large hands grip your hips. “Rhys…” you whimper into the sheets, too afraid to look at him. A deep groan resonates in his chest, grabbing you tight as he lifts you onto the bed, forcefully enough that your arms give out, sticking your ass in the air. You move to lift your upper half from the bed, but something prevents you—a dark power that laces around your muscle and bone, threading narrowly through cartilage.

You’re stuck, face pressing into the sheets, hind perking up.

Hairs raise all across your body as his fingers trail up your calves, catching on the material of your dress as he eases it up over the backs of your thighs. You struggled when he pushes it over your ass, revealing the thin slip of material that clings desperately to your hips.

“Rhysand…” you weep into the mattress. You don’t even know what you’re trying. If Fey hadn’t budged, there’s no way you could convince him. He shushes you—surprisingly gently. Horridly so. He shifts behind you on the bed, and you feel the invasive press of something between you—

“Rhys!” You scream. His hands wrap around the tops of your thighs, pulling you back against his face as he inhales. “Rhys! Stop that!” You cry, hips wiggling as you attempt to squirm away from him. His grip only tightens, and a soundless scream tears from your throat as he hooks his fae fingers beneath your underwear, pulling it away. Then he’s pressing straight back in, nose flush against your slick hole, mouth prone to attack your clit. It flicks out, gently, testing you out.

You feel the serpentine grin on his hellish mouth, before his lips part over you, groaning as his silver-tipped tongue gilds your glossy cunt.

Shame and mortification thrill inside of you at how quickly he has you unravelling on him. Tears wet the sheets, hot and salty. He moans at your taste, finally raising from between your legs, only to mount you like a whore.

A new wave of terror splits down your throat as you feel him against your ass. One powerful arm loops around your middle, the other snaking beneath your jaw so he can brush his words over your mouth. “That wasn’t so bad, was it, little lynx?” He lifts you so you’re on your hands and knees, back curving in an attempt to relieve the press of his skin anywhere from your body.

The High Lord’s grip tightens on your jaw, and you’re worried he’ll fracture the bone. “That damned husband of yours ever treated this cunt so good?” You don’t even try to move, fearful he’ll snap something. You wince as his grip strengthens, and panic floods your body. You attempt to squirm free of his grip, but your ass ends up pushing back into his hips, a growl sounding in his chest at the action.

“That desperate to have her treated well, huh?”

You swallow, jerking away from him. He releases you suddenly, chuckling to himself as you fall forward into the bed. Immediately, you’re rolling onto your back, scrambling up the bed to get away from him. The High Lord prowls after you, cornering you when your back presses against the wall, slotting himself between your thighs. He’s so much larger than your human form, deadly power writhing in the dark halo of shadow that surrounds him.

“Come on,” he chides, cupping your jaw as you squeeze your eyes shut, blocking him out any way you can. He makes a noise of displeasure, before his soft, cruel mouth lands over your own. A whimper slides from your throat as he nips at your lips, tongue flicking out carefully. You try not to thing about what that flavour is. “Open up for me.”

With a shake of your head, the tears fall and you feel the hot, wet trace of his tongue dancing over your cheek, lapping up the salty paths. When he reaches the damp underside of your lashes, you flinch away, peering up at him. “There you go,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the cleft of your cheek. “Stop struggling, and this will all be so much more enjoyable for you.”

Your lower lip trembles, but you say nothing. You’ve used up all your pleading words, all your exploring supplications. There’s no way to appeal to them, they’ve set their minds of you. Maybe you should just give up, as they say. Just let them have you. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad…

You hiss as you suck in a breath, realising what he was doing. Before he could fully grasp your mind, you spat at him, aiming just below his violet eye. It widened, staring at you in vague shock. He lifted one hand to his cheek, thumb swiping at the saliva as he wiped it away. The trembling swallowed your whole body as his eyes turned back to you, filled with cold violence. No more warmth. No more gentleness.

Good.

You could go down swinging.

A snarl thundered throughout the room as shadows engulfed the bed, obscuring your vision. You screamed when his mouth opened over your throat, viciously biting at the junction of your neck and shoulder. His teeth scrape over your clavicle, menacingly. His hands wrap beneath your ass, tugging you toward him as you’re manoeuvred into his lap, still rendered blind.

Through the darkness, you try to shove at him, at least pierce him with your nails. Maybe if you could find his eyes, you could dig into them. The menacing click of talons could be heard through the shadows, and you nearly froze with petrifaction as the glittering claws sliced, slowly, down your spine. The material of your clothes peel away the further he splits them. A ripping sound comes from behind you and you know it’s the last of your dress being shredded as he pushes it from your body.

Your hands find his shoulders and you raise them to his jaw, nails biting down into his skin, one thumb catching beneath his upper lip—and you nearly slice yourself on his canines. He snarls, and then you’re lifted from his lap, only to be pushed back down.

You scream bloody murder as his cock glides into you easily. You writhe and thrash against him, but every movement causes him to shift inside of you, making your inner muscles flex. He forces you down into the mattress, large hands tipped with glittering talons pinning you painfully. “You were rather cruel to my mate earlier, weren’t you, little lynx?” Rhysand drawls, tone dripping with malevolent vengeance. “Gloating how easily your human body can sustain life?” You whimper at the reminder. “I didn’t mean it,” you sniffle, eyes burning, “it wasn’t supposed to come out like that.”

“Uh, uh, uh. You said what you said, little liar. You know it upsets her, how slim our chances are, as High Fae.” You hiss as he draws his hips back, rolling them against yours. “So how about I put a baby in you instead, huh?”

————

Every second away from you is another second of torture, but she calms herself by scratching the itch. Her talons are glittering with blood, his eyes plucked clean out, mouth petrified into an eternal scream, a wound in his ribs surrounded by shredded flesh where his heart had been pulled from the cage of bone. His fingers are tucked away in the pocket of her pants.

It made her feel a little better, that he’d never lay a hand on you again.

Still.

She’d been gone too long, enjoying herself too much in tearing the man apart with her fae strength, and had forgotten you’d been left with her mate. The High Lady hisses in frustration. She’d wanted to be there, take part in the first time either of them got to touch you… But she’d had to. She wouldn’t have been able to enjoy you, otherwise, knowing such pain still haunted you.

Feyre would get answers out of you later, about why you hadn’t told her when it had happened. The Mother knows she would have whisked you away faster than winnowing. How long has you been keeping that from her? She grinds her teeth, spitting at the corpse, before leaving him in the chair. For later.

With a fraction of a thought, she’s cleaned the grin from her skin, talons retracting into smoothly padded fingers, slim and delicate. Perfect for you. She winnows to the top of your house, stood just outside, where she pauses for a moment. From inside she can hear the distinctive, pleading whimper of your voice, coupled with soft groans from her mate. The corpse is forgotten, her hand snaking between her legs as she listens.

When she opens the door, fierce arousal smacks her in the face, overpowering from being locked up in this room for so long. The High Lady’s mouth waters as she takes the sight in. Rhysand is tucked beneath you, strong, finely muscled arms set lightly over your hips, brushing over your waist. You’re spread over him, sitting tightly in his lap, chest to chest, your legs splayed out behind him. You’re completely at his mercy, unable to lift or move, just cling to him as he rolls his hips in an erotic lullaby of groans.

“Come on,” he whispers beside your ear, “be my good girl, yeah?” Your hips shift, back curving, breasts dragging over his chest. “Take it,” he implores, quietly, the soft caress of a lover’s voice. You try to bury your face in his neck, hiding from the world, but he doesn’t let you. His hand fists in your hair, tugging you backward, chidingly. His grip changes to your jaw, lifting your eyes to his. “You were so eager before. What happened? Too much?” He taunts, mouth brushing over yours and she watches as a shiver spider walks down your spine. The High Lady takes a step forward and your eyes loll to hers, rimmed with wet lashes.

Shakily, you reach out a hand to her. “Feyre…” you wail, lower lip trembling. “Make him stop…” Rhys’ hips buck and you slump into him, hand dropping as he lets you collapse into the strong lines. His hand brushes affectionately over your hair, soothingly as he basks in the hot wetness of drool spilling from the corner of your mouth onto his skin.

The High Lady coos, moving closer, leaning over to look at you. Your eyes are a little puffy, lips nipped raw, gaze glazed while your chin glistens with… heat licks between her thighs. Rhysand’s been having a lot of fun with you. Your stomach is gleaming with cum, and when he lifts you from his cock, slamming you back down, she sees the creamy ring circling base of his cock. Release has long since stained the sheets beneath you and she wonders how much longer you’ll last with your human strength.

Your head tips back, baring your throat as you flutter around his cock, tears dripping from your sore eyes. How many times has he made you come? On his thigh? On his fingers? His mouth, his cock? You’re on the verge of oblivion, yearning desperately to be swept away from the torment.

“Rhys,” she scolds, softly, helping you to lie back as he draws his hips back, pulling out. He shoots her a wicked grin, “just warming her up for you.” She shoots him a glare before her eyes settle on you. More the thick and constant leak of cum seeping out of your hole. Just how full had he gotten you?

Detecting the direction of her eyes, Rhys smirks, “we thought an apology was in order for how she spoke to you.” His attention returns to your bruised body, making you shrink away, attempting to scuttle up the mattress, but you’re so sensitive. So tired, and worn out.

Feyre raises a brow in silent question. He grins, prowling forward until he’s caging you in. With each movement you make to get away from him, your inner muscles flex, pushing small waves of come from your hole. Rhys tuts, three fingers pushing into you, tucking the creamy liquid back inside of you. “Why don’t you let Feyre what we were doing, hm?” Your lower lip trembles, but you answer obediently, too scared of what he’ll do should you fight back. “Wanted…wanted to put a baby in me.” You whimper, feeling the drag of his fingers against your inner walls. His thumb rubs gently over your puffy clit, making you whine. She wants to be the one drawing those sounds from you.

It’s her turn to play with you. Rhys’ had you to himself this whole time, while she doesn’t even know what you taste like.

“Rhysand.” She barks, drawing his attention. He knows he’s in trouble, but he offers a sinful grin none the less. “I think you deserve a break, don’t you?” She growls possessively, noting how your eyes warm to her with twisted gratitude. His eyes spark with anticipation, waiting to see what she’ll do with you.

Reluctantly, he moves away from you, leaning against one of the broad bed posts. Feyre’s attention switches to you as she coos, crawling onto the bed, ignoring the creamy stains decorating the sheets. Even if she wants nothing more to lap at them. “Was he being mean to you, sweetness?” She murmurs, lifting you into a sitting position as you hiss. She can tell just from looking to your eyes that your mind is muddled, either from Rhysand fucking you dumb for the past hours or from being tampered with. Either way, she’s not too bothered, if it works in her favour.

You nod with weary eyes, looking up at her with lost hopefulness. “Want me to help you feel better, hm? He was so rough with you, wasn’t he?” You latched onto her at the first sign of sympathy, nodding desperately. She kisses your lash line, “it’s going to be okay now. I’m going to take care of you. You want that?” Your lower lip wobbles as you nod.

She plants a kiss to your nipped lips, before descending between your legs. At first you squirm, hating the idea of having more between your thighs, but she pushes them open firmly. You whimper as her hot breath caresses your slick heat, puffy clit already aching. But when her mouth attaches to you, it’s soft and wet. No teeth to be found, just the gentle tug of tips and the soothing lap of her tongue. Slowly, you stop trying to shut your legs on her, thighs even opening a little wider.

Feyre indulges you, moving so affectionately over your pussy, lapping up the release that’s steadily leaking from your hole, even as she feels Rhys huffing in the back of her mind. “Does that feel better, sweet thing?” She questions, settling a kiss just below your clit, her nose bumping the sensitive nub. “…yeah.” She laughs softly, pulling away from your cunt as she crawls back up over you.

“Did Rhys use your pretty mouth?” She asks, and heat flushes your salty cheeks. You shake your head, tears welling, brimming at the edges. She smiles gently, “I’ll take that first, between us, then.” More tears fall but you nod, obedient. Fearing what will happen should you disobey. She’s being so gentle with you, and you don’t think you can stand another round of Rhysand’s games.

The High Lady swings a leg over your head, hovering above your mouth. The smell of her pussy is overpowering, making you go dizzy. Oh so gently, her arms loop beneath the small of your back, pulling you upward until her back is straight. The tops of your thighs settle seamlessly over her shoulders, baring your heat to her as if you’ve been served on a tray.

“Oh, sweet, sweet girl,” she breathes, pushing her nose to your entrance and inhaling deeply, like the High Lord had done. She seats herself on your mouth, and you can instantly feel how wet she is. You whimper. Her hips roll in response. “Come on, sweetness,” she encourages, “or should I let Rhys join?” Your tongue darts out, licking along to her centre. She moans, happily, basking in the feeling. “Perfect little thing.”

Feyre returns her mouth to your cunt, and for a while, you think you can cope. You think the worst of it has passed. Rhys isn’t able to touch you any time soon. At least, not while Feyre’s keeping him where he is, though you wonder how long that’ll last.

Her mouth disconnects from your cunt, and you almost whine in protest. “I did some thinking,” she murmurs, drawing your attention. “Your husband…” You can tell she still angry even at the mention of him. She takes in a deep breath, before delivering a small lap over your clit, as if to remind her that you are hers now. He’ll never put his hands on you again.

Well…

“I thought you might like to be with him one more time…” Your stomach drops. She reaches into her pocket, pulling out your husbands fingers, cloaked in magic. Even Rhys’ breath catches, before it’s exhaled in a quiet moan. “So I took the liberty of bringing parts of him to you, since he’s now incapacitated.” Pain lances in your chest, and Rhys blankets your mind to keep it from shattering. Dulling the information.

Her hips wind over you, slightly demandingly. “I think I’m being very kind, sweet thing. Show your gratitude.” You’re more or less unaware of what’s about to happen, following her commands brainlessly. He’s keeping you just to the surface of consciousness. Enough to give you breath, but not enough to escape.

Your mouth reattaches to her sex, even if a small part of you screams against it.

She presses the tip of something against your entrance, and you whine, hips bucking upward. She laughs softly, “you don’t even know what I’m doing to you, do you?” She pushes it all the way in, and Rhys’ hand fists around his cock. An open mouthed moan is released onto her pussy at the feeling of the slight, phallic object.

“Oh well done, sweet thing. Taking all of it, aren’t you? So good.” Her mouth reattaches to your cunt, and you release a pleasured moan that you can no longer contain. How did things get so messy? They were your friends. You could trust them. Yet here you are, with Feyre mounted atop your face, Rhys having already had his turn with stimulating your body.

She moans against your clit, lips kissing up and down your heat as she drinks you in until your fluttering on her mouth. Her tongue was a joyous reprieve from the High Lord, pleasuring you enough to gently spin you over that high, but not enough to throw you off the edge to crash down.

You’re swimming in pleasure, so overstimulated, so worn out, that it takes them a while to notice you’ve passed out. When they do, they stop—albeit reluctantly.

Feyre settles beside you, tucking both of you beneath the covers as her arms encase you, leaving her mate to clean up the mess. When he does, he crawls in beside you, his arms pulling both his female’s close to him. His wings materialise, wrapping over the both of you, concealing their crime from the world as they keep you slotted between them. Quiet, peaceful breaths puff from your lips as your human body recovers from the events.

They litter kisses over your exposed skin while you sleep, one for every star they see you in.

Taglist: @myheartfollower

#dark!feysand #dark! Feyre #dark! Rhysand #Feysand x reader #dark! Feysand x reader #dark! Feyre x f!reader #x f!reader #June #dark! Rhysand x reader #dark! Feysand x reader smut

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moe-broey · 4 months ago

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Here's my thought process. Because my Alfonse and Sharena plushies are made of felt and whatever material I had laying around for years, I think I have to keep in line with that philosophy. Even the embroidery on the face was stuff I already had, and I improvised in some areas where I didn't have proper embroidery thread for it (pulling apart black thread of something thicker/for jewerly making, layering sewing thread for the freckles, pulling apart yarn for the eye shines, ect).

Like what I'm getting at here is that the design philosophy is almost ragdolly in a way! And I def think they're more doll than plushie actually. I almost kinda think of Yoshi's Wooly World/Crafted World, for the aesthetics -- the "gimmick" is that they Look crafted by hand, using whatever you have on hand (which is. As I'm saying it. Literally just What I'm Doing LMFAOOO BUT WITH INTENT 😤😤😤)

So. That in mind

From the start I had the idea of using this fabric for the blue undershirt. You won't see much of it, if any at all though.... so I was gonna use it for the cape, too. But then my nana stopped by, and gave me A Bunch of fabric, including..

Like. The perfect shit. Just out of whatever she had on hand. The dark blue with gold sparkles is SO PERFECT for the inside of the capes..... and it doesn't even shed glitter!!!! It's good stuff!!! The shiny satiny gold material is thin, but hefty. So like. Even though you can see it fraying (and it does look. Intimidating.), I feel like if I'm smart I can make it work. My idea for the armor was to layer some fabric on top of sturdier fabric, anyway, to add/hold shape (but also very much crossing that bridge when I get to it).

Now, for the white fabric...... well. I've run into some issues. One of which was material that was from a thinly knit scarf, had that ragdoll vibe, but was way too flimsy. Not even gonna bother.

Digging around...

There's this fabric. It has a nice sheen to it, that doesn't really show up on camera. But you see how it fucking frays. You see how it's imprisoned by a hanger. You see the crinkles. This shit is going to be a fucking Nightmare to work with. It's lightweight, yeah. Too lightweight. I COULD use this for something else, but using it on a Fuck Around and Find Out project where I'm not even using patterns is a Death Sentence. I would Die. Badly. Next

I found this soft material I got Years Ago, big dreams of something else that never came to fruition. It would be very good plush material. I was really ruminating on it. However... I feel it may be too flimsy to use button joints on it. And even though it's not thick material, on this scale.. it's probably too thick to work with. And going back, to when I said they're more doll than plush... I have other big dreams. Of a Plush plush. I only have so much of this material, I think it would be smarter to save it. Probably will save me some grief, too. ENTER.

Pant leg. With some effort, I could probably find the rest of it. I actually do think this could work, though! It's that sort of stretchy fake jeans material, and it does have a nice visual texture to it irl. Very subtle. And I feel, fits very well into the "shit I just had laying around" ragdoll aesthetic. LITERALLY ACTUALLY...... made of rags..... and again, them being more for display than they are like, cuddly. I mean, they're also very much for Holding. I do want them to be very holdable. BUT. Idk may be onto something here...

ALSO. That red ribbon is a bit on the thick side, BUT...... it has potential. With enough fucking around I could have something, there...

LIKE I mentioned it a little bit, but I think the thing that's REALLY gonna make these guys shine is having a variety of dif patterns and textures, primarily visually. Although I do think about having to make three layers of clothing on these guys and my brain explodes. Badly. Like. I'm resigned to making one layer the bodice. We can skimp on the realism. But that still means.. the white over shirts... AND the armor..... and the capes. Help. 🧍

I leave you with this.

She's so helpful...... so good at that.....

#plush tag #i. can't remember if i had a specific tag for my own diy plushies.#diy plush #my art #anyways i just needed to talk at a wall about it. gonna hunt down the rest of those pants #also forever thinking about this one yt tutorial i watched of an elderly lady mentioning #what the Purpose of a plushie Is. and that purpose in mind you gotta make it accordingly #this was about button joints. to see how someone who actually knows what they're doing would do it LMFAOOO #but that just stuck w me.... is its purpose to be played w by a child? or to sit around and look pretty? or to be cuddly? ect #like YEAH... so true.... so true....#like. the purpose of these guys is sit around and look cute but also to be companions.#you can just bring around and have the sit on a desk or something. or do a little photoshoot.

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rikerssexblouse · 10 months ago

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Oh my God, Rikerssexblouse! That salamander embroidery is just stunning!

Did you do it freehand? Or did you have some kind of instruction because if I wanted to take up embroidery before - I now need to do it! 😂🦎💕

Thank you! It was not freehand, and this was actually my first attempt doing one that wasn’t out of a kit. Before this I’d only bought kits on amazon or Etsy, which is nice because you get everything you need, plus instructions. But for a while I’ve wanted to do something of my own design, but I hadn’t quite figured out how. So since it would have been useful for me when I was trying to figure this out, I’m going to explain the whole process. And to be clear, I’m just figuring this out, so maybe people have other strategies, but it worked for me.

First, I took a screenshot of the salamander babies poking out of the hole and opened it up in Procreate. I am not at all experienced with Procreate (my 9 year old is better with Procreate than I am), but I created a second layer, and then drew on the second layer to outline the image. That looked like this:

Then I hid the layer with the screenshot, so you only saw the outline. It looked like this:

Then I printed it out.

Michaels has little squares of fabric for embroidery, so I bought two of those, one white and one purple.

It’s probably overpriced for the amount of fabric you get? But it’s a very convenient size for one embroidery project and it’s just two bucks.

But then I had to transfer the pattern to the fabric. This meant that I had to lay the fabric on the printoff and trace it with a special pen. I used this one.

It’s water soluble, so you can rinse the marks right out when you are done.

The problem I ran into, was that the purple was much too dark to see through to be able to trace, so I had to use the white (I just thought the purple would be more fun but dark colors won’t work well with this strategy). Then I was just filling in the shapes from my pattern. After I was done, I took it out of the hoop, rinsed it in water to rinse away the blue pen marks, pressed it between towels overnight, then put it back on the hoop and tied it up the back.

I think figuring out what stitches to use were might actually be the hardest part. It’s a combination of your vision/creativity and just enough experience with the stitches that you can visualize what they will look like. I used satin stitches (to fill in the big spaces like the salamander babies’ faces and the rocks), lazy daisy stitches (the nostrils), stem stitches (for the outlines), and about a thousand million french knots (the moss). Oh and straight stitches for the letters.

The salamander babies’ heads were hard, because I had to work around the spots and eyes and everything. The hole might be the part I’m most proud of, because my plan to give it depth actually worked. Instead of doing a satin stitch to fill it in smooth, I did straight stitches and arranged them directionally (into the middle and then down) to try to give it shape so you could see how the the hole goes down into the ground. I also used a little gray in between the black to give it some dimension.

The french knots that made up the knots aren’t particularly hard (although I do suggest finding a YouTube video to see how to do it, I could NOT figure it out from written instructions when I first started) but it used up SO MUCH more thread than I ever anticipated. Doing a kit, you get everything you need, but I didn’t know what I needed. Whoops. So I had some last minute panic about running out of thread (literally the night before Threshold Day). So a lot of the color variation is a matter of necessarily rather than my plan. But it worked out well.

If you look closely, the moss on the left has a lot more color variation than the moss on the right, and that is because I was running out of thread. But it’s not too noticeable (hopefully). I do love how the moss looks though! French knots are usually used for little details, but the mass of them gives it so much texture. I love it.

I will say, if you are trying it for the first time, don’t start by doing your own design. Follow a kit and figure out what you are doing first. And don’t be afraid to look up YouTube videos when you can’t figure out how to do something. Video is a MUCH better teacher than words can ever be, in this context. But at the same time, there really isn’t anything that difficult about embroidery. You mostly just have to be patient. I find it quite relaxing.

#Threshold Day #embroidery

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tj-dragonblade · 1 year ago

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WIP Word Search Game

Tagged by @seiya-starsniper - thank you! This is genuinely one of my favorite tumblr tag-games.

The words are: blue, rich, sky, jacket, and heart

Blue - from the Greek Vacation AU

The wet blue-stained material of his shirt is clinging to him, and through it Dream can see a generous thicket of chest hair, dark and curly and tantalizing. His libido leaps, imagining combing both hands through it, rubbing his cheek against it, and he tamps down on such thoughts with effort. He came down to drink, to people-watch, to placate his sisters who lamented his reclusive habits; sex was not on the agenda, particularly with a man over whom he'd just thrown his drink.

Rich - from the vampire wip that would have been great for the MFT bingo card if only I'd had it closer to done

Dream's hair is long, artfully coiffed and tied back with a black silk ribbon in a very fetching bow. He's wearing a black frock coat and blouse, a slate grey waistcoat brocaded with vivid poppies and silver starlight, all his buttons glittering with ruby accents; there are brocade cuffs on the coat to match the waistcoat, black lace cuffs on his shirt beneath, and the cravat at his throat is a rich deep red. He's got tight black breeches fastened below the knee, black stockings, heeled shoes in black leather with rubies on the square silver buckles and Hob feels woefully under-dressed in his t-shirt and boxers.

Sky - from the mer-Hob AU that also would have been great for the bingo if it was closer to done

The sky is light and the waves are lapping high up on the sand; Dream wades out and dives in, swims to the cave and hoists himself up to the rocky floor that's just barely above the waterline. He leaves his legs dangling in the ocean, sets his waterproof tote beside him. And then he waits.

Jacket - from the Impromptu Fishbowl Therapy wip

Hob suddenly has a jacket, where he did not before; his dream has provided it solely for the purpose of removing it and offering it to Dream. Dream accepts, lets Hob swirl the jacket around his naked shoulders, lets it re-shape into his usual robes as it settles around him, clothing him in a kindness that had not been available when he had escaped his prison in actuality those months ago.

Heart - from the werewolf fic that will be posting very soon since the bingo deadline got extended

Dream threads his other hand into Hob's hair as well, guides Hob's eager mouth up the length of his throat and over his chin, tightens his grip and pulls Hob's head back until their eyes meet. "You cannot harm me, Hob Gadling, nor can you. Hurt me, in any way that matters." Hob's eyes are dark with lust, with the shadow of his impending transformation, and something in Dream thrills to the sight. "I would have you share this new facet of yourself with me, that I might know all of the ever-changing man who lays claim to my heart."

Tagging, no obligation: @valeriianz , @chaosheadspace , @lenreli , @staroftheendless , @delta-pavonis

Your words are: please, light, want, dark, and red

#tagmemes #TJs Writing #wip: Greek vacation AU #wip: vampire dream #wip: merhob #wip: fishbowl therapy #wip: werehob

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ziracona · 2 years ago

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- The Goddess of Time -

The capital city of Roankqa is quite the sight.

Even having lived here all my life, I never really get used to seeing the chiseled, shining white stone peaks when I get home from a visit away, and that’s before actually seeing the city itself.

They call the mountain range ‘The Brocades,’ because the low white cliffs are dotted with some of the most beautiful cities imaginable, and they have been for as long as anybody can remember. You can see them, even from a long was away, glistening like gold and silver thread on a white silk background. But nothing compares to seeing one of the cities up-close. Especially Roankqa.

I can only imagine coming here for the first time after having lived in the boonies.

Roankqa is famous for a lot of things. The architecture, the history, the government seat, the ancient library archives. But, maybe our most—if not notable, then well, widely-sought—feature, would be our city’s Goddess of Time.

It’s not notable to have a goddess of course. Even one of a cool or big domain like time. I mean, every city has a god. Or did—since a lot of gods have passed now. And all the big cities had a god of something impressive like ‘death’ or ‘war’ or ‘nature.’ But ours? Ours is special.

That’s not me bragging—she really is. We are literally the only city in the world that has a god that, well. Does tricks.

That’s a weird way to put it, but, it’s not inaccurate.

Gods generally speaking, are things of the past; they fought, they lost, they used us, now they’re big bonfires in chains, powering cities for us. But, our Lady of Time is special. I’ve personally seen her maybe two-dozen times in my life—not always in a proper visit, sometimes just with friends, but it’s always been…I guess, in a word, ‘remarkable’.

Visits alone are pretty rare to be offered for a city’s god—usually only very specific staff goes into a power station; you can even get arrested some places for going into one on accident—but here, in Roankqa, like a third of our city commerce is based around it. See, long ago, back when we first beat our city god in battle, and locked her away to siphon the power off of, our city officials realized the Goddess of Time was still useful to us as more than just kindling.

Nobody knows why, and other gods must not, because no other city does this, but, the Lady of Time still uses her powers for us. Even now. Even though she’s locked up in a power station, slowly being burned up to give us all energy, she still does it. I’ve thought about that a lot, honestly. Like, no one could want to work with a society that made you a bonfire, right? But she does. She’s never stopped, even in chains and slowly dying. My only guess really is that…well, maybe it’s like being an inherent force; maybe if you are what you are, you just…can’t turn it off. No matter the forces in play.

Whatever her reason, even now, our resident captive god still offers us glances into our future.

In the deep heart of the city, past all the shops, and the library, and the towering government halls, the mansions, and the houses, and galleries all carved into and from our white marble peak, lies the Tomb. They keep the Goddess in there.

And, for a price, you can meet her face to face, and get a look at your own future.

Sometimes.

I went there for the first time as a child of…I don’t know, maybe four. I remember it though. You buy a ticket, and sit in a line for hours, on this little path littered with cushions on the sides. People sell you water. And you spend the time talking or reading or doing whatever you can, and eventually, you see the end of this massive, endless hall that felt until that moment like a bad dream that won’t ever end. There’s a curtain at the end, flowing dark blue, almost black, like the night sky, and speckled with crystals like stars.

An attendant motions you in, and you go—one person, five, however many came together, and you step trough. And at the end of this endless hallway, the final room is tiny. Like, the size of the top of a blooming fruit tree. You sit or kneel, on a cushion, and there she is, waiting. The room itself is dark, despite being white marble. Lit only by rune magic carved into the walls, which makes everything faintly purple and black and white. And she’s opposite you, locked behind a thick transparent wall, legs crossed, unmoving, but awake.

There’s a wall, built around her. A window just her size, just big enough to see her through, and none of the room past her. She’s about the size of a human. Smaller, I’m sure even, than some of the ones who come to see her. But she doesn’t feel weak because of that. Her skin is pitch black, like the absence of light, and her hair and lips and eyes are such a bright white it’s hard to look at them. Somehow, every shadow she casts on herself is a deep purple, and her silhouette falls in such a way every part of her looks like an hourglass. Her side bangs and ponytail form the top of one above her head, and her long hair curls up behind her back to complete the bottom of the shape. Her chest and hips, even sitting. Her face even has a bit of that shape to it. And in her chest where breasts and a stomach should be, she has a hollow, with an hourglass in it, pouring pitch black sand that never seems to run out.

I was mesmerized and terrified and lovestruck in the way a puppy is to the first human it sees, the second I saw her. Before I knew what she was, and thought she was just another human like my mother, that might welcome me into her arms and tell me a story.

I guess in a way, she did.

It hurts to look into the Lady of Time’s eyes, but you do it. And her face never changes; she is famous for that. For a always looking sad, and frozen, lost in time herself. And sometime you look, and nothing looks back. And you have to accept that, and move on. Going in, you know you’re playing a lottery with your ticket. But sometimes, eye like an endless void, she looks back.

And you see the world, some time in the future. If you ask her a question, you see an answer, or something that helps you find one. Sometimes, you see things that save your life. Sometimes, you see things that you wish you could forget. Sometimes, you see things that help you avert a tragedy. Sometimes, you meet the vision you saw on a path you only took to avoid it.

But people want knowledge. Want power, want answers, want hope. So we keep going back.

My first visit, my parents told me to ask what I should do. And I was four, so I stared at this big woman in front of me who looked like things I couldn’t understand, and sadder than anything I’d ever seen, and I asked the wrong question.

You only get one.

I was lucky though, because my parents didn’t know I asked the wrong one.

I said, “What do I do?” and I meant, “What’s wrong?” or “Do you want to hold my hand?” I think. Not “What life path should I go after.”

And I got a vision.

Of me, standing up, and walking to the glass, and my parents dragging me back when I touched it, and attendants coming in and yelling at me, and being back home, getting spanked with a ladle for it. And it felt so real, that it ended and I cried and fell back behind my own mother, not understanding.

And the statue of a woman behind the wall looked straight forward past me.

My panicked parents asked me what I’d seen, what happened. I was afraid. I told them something like ‘you were hitting me for being bad.’ And they laughed and were relieved, and told me it was a vision to remind me to not behave badly, so fortune would favor me.

And I was rewarded, and we went home.

When I was older, I looked back and thought, ‘Oh. She was just answering the question I asked very literally.’ Then I got a little older, and I began to think, ‘No. Actually I think maybe my parents were right. It was a warning.’

But for the life of me I couldn’t find a way not to do it.

Roankqa is…a very traditional city.

We say we aren’t. We’re ‘innovators,’ and ‘creators, and ‘forward-thinking’—we’re full of shit.

Tradition matters more than any living thing here. Social consciousness matters, appearance matters. Everything does. I don’t really understand exactly how the community can be so proud of generations of tradition and the way things have always been done, and call itself a forefront of forward-thinkers and hub of societal innovation, but, they do.

They do…

I am eighteen. About to graduate from my scholar’s program, and venture forth into my new life as an adult member of society. It, it’s not as cool as it sounds—the whole scholar program thing is mostly honorary. I mean, it’s not always, but it is for someone like me.

Which sucks, you know? It does.

I uh. I studied geology. For the last ten years of my life, actually. Other things too—math, every science I could, history, language, arts, magics, law, ethics, religious history. But my program was geology.

My family didn’t love that choice, but, it was just acceptable enough to slide under the wire. It makes me ‘eccentric,’ to strangers, and to them, but it’s not quite out-of-line enough to be bad. Like…I was warned as a four year old not to be.

It should have been something like sociology, or history, religion, politics. But after a little dressing it up as a fascination with the beauty of the world, I was given permission. And by life, I love it. You can’t imagine how much. Igneous, Arcanous, Sedimentary, Metamorphic, Mutatious. There’s history, in the stones. Things everyone alive has forgotten about, and it’s so real—there’s no…interpretations, no misinformation, no guessing game with the thing in your palm. You just look at it and feel it and taste it. You really do taste it! God, I love licking rocks.

Sometimes, we’d get permission, to go on digs outside the city. There are places at the base of the Brocades, where people used to live, but we haven’t for a millennium. There’s such history there though, in the ruins of palaces and homes, in the untouched vallies. Sometimes a place was considered sacred, and you go, and chip off a tiny sliver of a wall, and take it back to your lab and under slides of magnifying glass you can see there’s literally magic seeped in—not innate magic, like caralcium, or polyadus, but magic imbued. Mutatious rocks are the most fascinating of all. If enough people love, or believe, and feel a place long enough, it can literally change the genetic makeup of a thing.

It’s…it’s incredible. It’s unbelievable. People can hate or fear or want or love a place so much, that nature itself shapes around that belief. And it can become something totally new.

I heard people used to have a really popular belief, back in the age of Gods, called ‘Kiriacous,’or ‘Kiriaconism’. The belief that things became what they’d been meant to be, when something like this happened. That when tragedy befell someone over and over, they’d been fated to be cursed, and had reached their true state of being. Or when a grove became holy, and the belief it was special changed the matter around it so it truly was, that the grove had always been special, and it had just needed a little time to reach its truest self.

I kind of love that idea. That things will work out. That we reach what we’re meant to be, and there’s something out there, even if it’s not always us, that can tell what we’re meant to be. It’s…reassuring.

But, I’m not sure if I believe it. The opposing scientific view used to be called ‘Giriasonism’. The belief that things were ‘Giriacious’. The words sound almost the same, which was annoying when I first tried to memorize them, but, now I like it—it’s like they’re two sides of the same thing. ‘Giriasionism’ is the belief that there is no intended state for anything in the universe at all. No mistake, no right. That the only thing that determines the ‘correct’ or ‘final’ or ‘true’ path for a person, or object, or place, is the thing itself. You could be born blind, and healed by a miracle, and a Kiriacious view would say the real you had always been seeing, it just took a while for truth to find you, but the Giriacious view would say the truest you wasn’t necessarily the blind you or the seeing you. Maybe it was both, but only when they were happening, maybe it was the blind you, maybe it was neither, and there’s something still coming, and that only you could say for sure, and that…sometimes people never find their ‘true’ or ‘right’ path, and sometimes there are thousands of ‘perfect’ ways for them to be, but they only pick one.

I kind of like that too. It’s not exactly reassuring—it’s kind of scary. But…as reassuring as Kiriaconism is, it’s reassuring because you have no agency really. Things will be as they should. Giriasonism is the opposite of reassuring, because you know it’ll maybe never work out, but at least it says ‘Only you can say if it’s true or not. If it’s right or not. If it did.’ And having agency…that’s worth a lot.

Or, it would be, if I ever had any. Maybe that’s the reason it appeals to me—because I don’t know how good it actually is or isn’t.

Anyway, I have no idea what’s true, but it’s fun to think about.

And…maybe neither is. Maybe it doesn’t matter. The grove is holy, the rock is magical. Those are inarguable facts. Maybe how they got that way doesn’t matter, so long as the grove is happy holy, and not hurting anybody or itself, and the rock feels good to hold when it’s filled with magic, and is just as special that way. That’s…how I like to think about it anyway. Maybe nature doesn’t need a reason or an excuse. Maybe it just is, or it isn’t, like a math proposition. And most of the time, it is.

I’m going to miss that, once I go out into the world in a few weeks. Seeing rocks.

I mean, I live in a mansion carved into a rock, and there are always rocks around no matter where you go. So, not ‘rocks’ but, you know, studying them.

I really shouldn’t complain, I guess. I feel like such a shit for doing it. I’ve got a lot going for me, and I know it. My family is decently well off—we have a small mansion, but in the good part of town. They’re merchants. I take vacations, and I’ve never gone hungry or cold. I’ve never been afraid of being without a home. We aren’t ‘rich’, but, on a sliding scale, we’re closer to that than we are to poor. My parents are strict, but they don’t beat me. My health is okay. I mean, once a month I’m literally laid flat for a day or two by my horrible internal organs having cysts they shouldn’t, but everyone with them suffers some amount of pain.

Anyway. I’m writing all of this down because I guess I wanted some kind of record? I asked Kiari what I should do, because of how I was feeling. She’s always been a better friend to me than anyone else. And, she said journaling things out before doing anything drastic is good, because you think better that way.

I don’t know if it’s helping with that, but I guess it feels good. To speak, even just to a paper that will only be read after I’m gone.

I expect Mom and Dad to find this. I wish Torphar would instead, because it might help him. I know he doesn’t want to get married any more than I do, and if he found it first, maybe they’d listen to him, and he’d get a second chance. That would make everything almost worth it. But, I can’t give it to him, or he’ll be blamed by everyone for not acting in time, even if I time it so there’s no way he’d have had a shot, and I won’t do that to him. He’s not a bad guy, as miserable as we’d make each other. It’s not him.

It's that everything is wrong with me.

Honestly, I wish a stranger would find it.

When I started this yesterday, I wrote it thinking I’d put it in a bottle and toss it in the sea, and maybe someone in Shiikasta, or Paulo, or the Kettle Islands would find it someday. But, that’s stupid, and I know it. It would be cruel I think, to leave people guessing with me gone. It’s cruel and selfish to go at all. Maybe I won’t.

I don’t really know yet. Maybe I’ll burn this. I guess we’ll see.

Poor Kiari. If I do, please tell it’s not her fault she didn’t figure out this was going on. If it wasn’t for her, I’d have jumped from the Brocades two years ago, the day I went to the Tomb and saw my future at sixteen. It’s really not her fault.

But hey, maybe I won’t. I’m a coward. So, I might not even have the guts to end my own pain, right? I sure haven’t yet.

Insane of me to think I’d write something a stranger would want to read haha. Yeah. …Anyway. Let’s see.

It’s not Torphar’s fault, to be clear again, by the way, if by some miracle I get the guts to jump and do. I know he doesn’t want to marry me, but he wouldn’t beat me. We could survive together. I’m just selfish. I wouldn’t have been satisfied with any man. I know he’d be okay to me, and no one kills themselves over a match who’d treat them okay.

It’s not about getting married at all, anyway. Although that does feel like a deadline. Graduate, childhood ends. Get married one week later. Go on to be a mother. A political sidearm. Have kids. Read books in my spare time. Die someday. That’s not so bad.

I just don’t see any hope in it.

It’s so hard to explain. I really, truly wish I could, Mom and Dad. I want you to understand, and I’ve always wanted to understand you better too. I know I’ve failed a lot. But I do care. Just, every time I’ve tried, you hate me more. So much I don’t know what to do. I know you think I’m doing it to piss you off, or rebel. But I’m not.

I’m…a rock. With too much magic seeped in. And…maybe it is my fault. Maybe I put the magic in, a little bit every year, every day, for too long, and I changed without ever realizing it. Maybe I was always destined to be this way. I don’t know—I don’t. But it’s too late to go back. I’ve undergone a chemical reaction. I’m a different state of matter. Mutateous rock that becomes disenchanted doesn’t become igneous, or sedimentary. It becomes De-Mutateous. A Mutateous rock with no life left in it, but the effects of the change it went through never go away. It’s still classified as a mutateous rock. And I know…that you’ll read this, and think ‘we never should have let you study geology. It put these ideas in your head! It’s all our fault!’ but it’s not. I swear, it’s not. I would have thought of myself as a text translated, and translated back, but never the original again. I would have felt like a domesticated animal set back into the wild. A painting painted over and altered, and painted again to be like it was. You couldn’t have stopped this.

I just wish you didn’t want to.

I wish you could hold me in your hand and see the rock as beautiful for the magic so much belief has put into it. Instead of as something horrific, and failed, to be afraid of.

I wish a lot I just didn’t feel this way myself. But I can’t change that, without killing a part of myself, and I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid the person writing this letter would go away, and a shell would take his place.

I’m really, really afraid you’d be happy with that.

I wish I could tell you things like this, and believe you’d hear them. That I’d get more than a sentence out. That you might someday understand.

But I don’t see any hope in that.

Shit.

Okay. Write it through, for Kiari. You do love her. She’s my best friend.

When I was sixteen, I went to the Tomb, with my friends, to celebrate my sixteenth birthday. It was a great day. The sky was beautiful, and clear. There was a storm coming the next day, so the wind whipped around me. I felt alive. I was with Kiari and Sheal and Rikki. We got a bag of grapes from a vendor, and we went to the Tomb, and bought tickets. Sat on the cushions like I have so many other times in my life now, and talked about what to ask. “Ask who would make a good partner!” “Ask what to pursue this year!” “Ask who to avoid as a partner!” We laughed and laughed. I felt alive, and happy about the future. It was a good day. You’d given me a book, on geology. Lots of things. Nice new dresses, one fit for the Presentation party I knew I was going to have soon, as a society member of 16. A figurine of a tigress, beautifully fashioned. A necklace that shone. Sweets, a new tapestry. And a book on geology. It was the first time, since I was little, you’d given me a gift to support that side of me. I’d…never felt happier. I thought you were starting to understand, and I was sixteen now, and it would all be okay. If you were ready to tell me to look further, it meant you were ready to love that part of me too. That was the best gift anyone could have given me. And when I looked up in amazement at the book, you hadn’t given me that little scowl of resigned acceptance, you’d had a real smile ready to give back. It meant everything.

I held that book, and thought about my future. It was my birthday, so even though the other girls found it boring, they let me tell them little sections in it. I felt so accepted and happy.

It took hours, like it always does, to make it to the Lady of Time, but it felt like minutes. I went in with my friends. We went in a line. It was my birthday, so instead of drawing lots, I got to go first.

I sat in the tiny dark room of faint runelight and looked into her eternally sad, unmoving, statuesque face, and I asked, “Will I feel like this a year from now?”

It wasn’t a good question. You don’t get helpful information from it, just peace, I guess. Or hope. But, I was so drunk on happiness. I was so sure the answer would be yes.

I got a vision. I thought I wouldn’t. Because she didn’t give me one right away, and before, it had always been right away. It took about twenty-four seconds, this time, of staring with fading hope, but resigned acceptance. And then the vision came. I was suddenly looking into a mirror.

I had my hair back into a tight bun where you couldn’t see it, behind my head, so it looked short. Just bangs. I was wearing my father’s shirt, and it hung so I had almost no shape at all. I was looking for something in that mirror, and I felt happiness and hope at my fingertips as I reached them out to touch the person I saw.

I think I had always known. Deep down. But I didn’t know what I knew, until I saw it in someone else. In a me that hadn’t happened yet.

I did then, though, and I felt my heart stop.

In the vision, the door opened, and my mother stepped in with a smile on her face, and then she saw me, and the expression changed.

In the vision, I was in front of the mirror still, but I knew it was a different day. I was wearing the dress for my Presentation day. I was beautiful. My hair cascaded from a high pile, and my breasts were held up by the gown and looked soft, and large. My makeup was perfect. I had never looked more stunning. And I was smiling at the reflection. But I could see the version of me with the bun and my father’s shirt in this one, beneath the surface, like the disenchanted lines in a rock that had been mutateous. I could feel him beneath the reflection, suffocating in a sadness I didn’t understand.

But I do now. It’s the sadness of not being wanted. Of everyone you love, and who loves you, wanting you to be someone you’re not. Of knowing the people you hold dearest, would be happiest if you killed the version of you the baby they held has grown into, and replaced him with something else. Wondering, if since you love them, maybe you should do it.

I didn’t know that yet. I just knew why she was sad, not the flavor of the sadness.

It scared me.

My mother came in this time too, and she was smiling, and the smile widened. She came up and put her arms around my shoulders and said something. I think, from the movement of her lips, she said, ‘You look perfect.’

It felt like being stabbed, to the girl in the mirror. I felt her crack. But she smiled and pushed him away, and left with her mother. And he died a little bit more, for somebody else.

And the vision shifted again, and I saw myself standing at a point above cliffs, in the Brocades, one I’d walked to to paint with Kiari when I was younger. The wind was whipping around me. My hair was choppy, like I’d taken a knife to it myself. My eyes had a look in them I didn’t understand. And I knew I was going to jump, somehow. I wasn’t even close to the edge, but there was something already no longer alive in the eyes of my face, and I knew what was going to happen like it was a memory. Or a dream I’d had many times before. There was a mark on my cheek like I’d been struck, and I knew who’d done it, but I knew she couldn’t have done it, because my mother had never hit me. And she never would. Right?

Then it ended, and I was staring at this thing opposite me, this god.

It was looking back, face sad and motionless as always. For a second, I felt like I was looking in a mirror still.

I felt a panic I’d never known before, like I’d been cursed. Like I’d read a fortune that had locked me into a future I could have avoided if I’d never looked.

I got up and ran.

My friends must have called out to me, but I didn’t hear it. I just ran. And I ran, and ran, and ran again, trying to lose them, without ever thinking about the fact they had all given up their six hour wait for a look at the future to rush out after me.

I ran until I saw a stall selling mirrors. One of the long, low ones that goes deep into the cliff face. I walked in, out of breath and shaking, having cried I guess, because my face was wet and my nose was clogged with snot, but I didn’t remember doing it.

I went into the back, where no one else was, and I stepped in front of a mirror. There was a little lantern burning. There was no one to see me, in an alcove. Except myself. I took a ribbon out of my hair, and tied it all back into a bun behind my head, and I tugged my shirt forward till it was hanging as loose as I could make it go. I rubbed off the shade behind my eyes, until it was just a faint brown smudge. I tried crossing my arms across my chest and pushing, but that didn’t do enough, so I put a hand over each breast, beneath my shirt, and pulled them back, like a lover, until they were as flat as they could be. And I looked myself in the face, like the girl in the vision of a future I didn’t want to see.

I don’t know why I did it. If I was hoping to be wrong, or right. I don’t think I was thinking at all.

I can’t describe enough how it felt.

I felt like I was seeing myself for the first time, since I’d been a smiling toddler, and like my heart had splintered into bits around me. I felt like I knew I was about to die, and like I’d realized how to finally be fully alive for the first time just in time for that death.

All in amounts I don’t know how to say.

I stood there and cried quietly, so no one would come look.

I thought ‘What do I do?’. What do you do with such terrible information? We don’t do that here. Nobody does. You follow your honored role. You follow tradition, and become the you that your parents worked so hard to make you.’ You don’t step outside of the lines, and you don’t get hurt. And suddenly I was in a trap where stepping outside and staying inside the lines would both crush me beneath a heel.

When I was only nine, there had been a little girl in my grade who had kissed another girl on the cheek for a solstice, and asked if she would marry her someday. The girl she said it to pulled back and shouted something at her about being wrong or gross, and the rest of us joined in when we heard that and told her to leave her alone. I felt like I was doing something protective and good that day.

I don’t know what happened to her. I know her family left the city. I only saw her one time after. She was in a cart, with her mother. Leaving the market. I’d never seen eyes so dead.

I think…I thought at the time, and still think now, this is happening to me as payment for that day. If it could somehow bring relief to that little girl whose name I don’t even remember anymore, maybe that would make it all worth it. Maybe I deserve everything that’s happened to me.

Maybe we all do.

I tried talking to you about this a few times, Mom. I’m sure you remember at least one of them.

The day before my Presentation, when we were laying out my dress and talking, I told you I wasn’t sure if I would be comfortable in it, and you asked what I meant. I said it showed so much of my breasts, and you reassured me it wasn’t immodest. I said that wasn’t what I meant. That…they just made me uncomfortable myself to look at, or think about. You asked what I meant, and I said they felt strange and wrong. You asked what I meant. I said once, you’d had a mole on your neck. It got large. We were afraid it might be sickness. It wasn’t, but you still hated it. You hated the way it made you feel to see it, or touch it. You started wearing scarfs to cover it up. And eventually, you found a doctor and had it removed, so you could be at peace with the way it had made you feel.

You told me it was ridiculous to feel that way about something beautiful. I said I didn’t feel like they were gross, just like they weren’t mine. Like I was not in my body when I looked at them, but accidentally someone else’s, and that was uncomfortable to me. And that I…I wanted to enjoy my Presentation, and to not be thinking about that, so maybe we could do something. Even just add underclothes with more surface, or a chest veil.

I thought that would be a safe way to broach the topic a little. You got angry, and told me I needed to get rid of such foolish ideas, and learn to love myself. I tried to say I did, but you wouldn’t hear it. You slammed the door and left.

I tried, for you, that night. I looked at my breasts in the mirror a long time. I held them, and felt them, and said nice things to myself. I told myself they were mine, and beautiful, and to be proud of. They were soft, and a good size, and looked nice in dresses you bought. I tried to feel different. And I did like them. But they didn’t feel like me. I couldn’t make them. I tried, for you. So hard, you have no idea how many times I have tried. But I’m not good enough. I can’t.

I accidentally pressed one so hard trying to get used to the feeling of it in a good way, I left a little bruise on top the shape of my thumb. You were furious with me. You were convinced I’d done it to spite you—to have an excuse to cover them in the dress, no matter how much I cried and tried to promise you I hadn’t. You wouldn’t believe me. I stayed up all night trying to make a body part mine, because of how much I loved you, and you smacked me for the first time that morning, because you couldn’t believe I’d been thinking of anything but hate.

I wore a veil, to cover the bruise. I did not feel covered. I felt quiet, and dead inside.

You didn’t speak to me the whole night.

I’m tired now, from thinking about this again, but don’t worry. I won’t do anything yet. It would be cruel to end on a note like this. You’d think it was your fault. And it’s not. It’s me.

I still love you. Even if I’m not the me I wish I was. I hope, someday, that will still be able to count for something.

I have tried, many times, to talk to friends a little. Or family. To hint, to see. It has almost always been bad, but not always.

I won’t talk about the bad times today. Kiari wanted me to try to find hope if it was there, just hiding, so I will, and it wouldn’t be fair not to talk about her.

That first day, when I was sixteen, looking at myself in a mirror like I was suddenly alive for the first time, and a dead girl walking, Kiari found me. I should have known. She’s so fast, in races. I don’t know what she saw. Not much I think, more than me standing like that in a mirror shop, looking back at myself, but she certainly saw that. I saw her in the reflection, and felt horror. I saw the vision in my head, and my mother’s reaction to me. Kiari’s face had the same surprise on it. I turned around, and I must have looked so scared.

She didn’t shout, though, or look disgusted. She just hesitated, and then walked up to me, and said, “Can I ask…?”

I wasn’t even sure which thing she was asking. So, I didn’t answer.

She didn’t ask, because I didn’t say yes. She just saw I had been crying, and she hugged me, and held me there, breathing. After a few long seconds, she said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but no matter what it is, I don’t care. I love you.”

I don’t think I believed her.

That was so heartless of me. My best friend in the world saw me at my most jeopardized, and embraced me, and I couldn’t believe she really meant she loved me. What in this life does that say about me?

For some reason, I felt terrified by her words, and frantic. I broke away and ran. I don’t know what I was thinking anymore. Maybe…that I wanted a good last memory. I was out of my head. I wasn’t thinking at all. Something started to echo in me like ‘It’s unavoidable. I’ll just get it over with now. Now before it’s too late. Before it’s worse. Before I’m already dead.’

And I ran, and ran, until I was at the lookout from my vision. I swear, if I’d had a knife I would have probably chopped that hair off to try to meet my fate before the jump. But I didn’t. So I stood there. The bun had fallen out when running. My hair whipped around me. My birthday clothes hung loose, and dirty. I always liked things that fit loose, like a block. That made me sick and afraid now that I understood it.

I knew I couldn’t live like that. I wasn’t allowed to, even by myself. I walked to the edge and looked out and tried to think, tried to find an answer, but there was nothing there but me and the storm that wouldn’t be there for another few hours.

I thought, “Only Kiari knows something was wrong. If I go over, they’ll think I fell. I was so happy this morning. I’ll go over backwards. No one jumps backwards. They’ll think I fell. And then they’ll be sad, but no one will have to blame themselves like they would for a suicide. That’ll make it okay.”

I turned away from the cliff and started to back up with my eyes shut, because I didn’t want to see it. I thought about that little girl when I was nine, and the dead look on her face. I thought about a thousand comments that had passed me by my whole life. I thought about rocks, and magic, and the way at least the version of me in that first vision had been happy, and I could think about that for a few seconds now, even if the vision was a death sentence.

Then I heard Kiari screaming. She was calling my name and sobbing, out of breath. I knew she must have been running. And I could have jumped, but I couldn’t have done it in front of her. I knew she’d never heal. So I opened my eyes and stopped, and she was pleading with me, edging slowly closer with her arms out, soaked in sweat down her pits from racing after me for the last hour, snot coming down her nose, hair ratty and getting in her mouth as the wind tore around us.

She was saying, “Please! Please don’t I’m begging you! Whatever it is, we can fix it together! I promise! No matter how bad what you saw! If you’re going to get sick, we can find a doctor! I’ll quit studying linguistics; I’ll study medicine, and I’ll save you! I promise! I know I can do it! If there’s a disaster or a war, we can stop it, or we can run away! You and me! We’ll protect your family if something’s going to happen to them! If you did something bad, we’ll make sure it doesn’t happen! If you already have, I’ll help you hide it, and no one will ever find out! I love you no matter what it is! I promise! I promise you! Please, please come back!”

I stood there looking at her, feeling empty. I knew I wouldn’t jump in front of her, but I still couldn’t believe it somehow. I felt like she was saying it to a person who didn’t exist, so it wouldn’t matter once she knew the truth.

And then she’d held up my book. I don’t know if I left it in the Tomb, or dropped it sometime running away, but she’d taken it, and carried it. It was clutched in her hand, and as dirty as she was, my book was spotless. She held it out towards me like a lifeline. “Who else c-can I ask about alterium and how it—how it changes the saline of water to a drinkable level, something no other natural substance does? I still don’t even know how it does that! Who’s going to show me how to find chalk of a makeup I can use for art, out in the wild? Who’s going to be able to take me to one of those old shrines, and bring home a rock with old magic in it, so I can feel close to them even we’re far apart? Who can read me all these words I can’t pronounce, and tell me the difference between De-Mutagenic and Un-Mutagenic again without making me feel stupid for having forgot? Who?”

And I knew she’d listened, then. The whole six stupid hours they’d been kind enough to let me prattle on about my stupid hobby girls weren’t supposed to do, or like. And she wanted a rock, maybe. Or wanted me to be happy enough to say she wanted one.

I believed her then, and I walked up to her and we wrapped our arms around each other. She cried, and I told her I was sorry. I didn’t know what else to say.

We sat together, far away from the edge, watching the sky, and she asked me to tell her what was wrong.

I was afraid to tell her, even then. I said, “I saw in my vision that…I’m not exactly the person everyone thinks I am. And I think I always knew it, but, now I can’t hide from it anymore like I could before. And I don’t think I can keep living if I try to become it.”

I had forgotten she saw me, before, with the mirrors. I remembered too late, and realized she must know, then. At least close.

She was very quiet, for a long time. And then she said, “I’m sorry.” And she looked at me. Her eyes were so dark in that light they were almost black, like ebony glistening under a torch. She was so alive. I wanted to be like her. “But, please, try. I don’t care who you are. So long as you’re you.” And she tapped the center of my ribs. “The person who came and gave me a hug. Any version of you is better than none at all, and the best version is whatever one makes you happy. So long as you’re any you, I’ll always love you. I promise.”

I didn’t know what to say. She turned and leaned against me and we curled up and sat there for the rest of the night.

We talked about a lot of things. Some secrets are hers, and I won’t write them down. I’ll take them to my grave. Some were mine, but aren’t for any ears but hers. Some were about this, some about other parts of life, some about rocks, and art, and old languages.

She made me feel alive.

You were so scared when I got home, I felt bad about it. But, it made me happy too, because I thought, ‘They love me. They were so worried about me, they must love me. So, they’ll love any version of me better than none at all.’

I had hope.

I don’t anymore.

I wish that Kiari wasn’t leaving, but she doesn’t have any more choice than I do. I know she worries about me, but I can’t ask her to stay. Her brother is sick, and he might die, and if he does, she deserves as much time with him as she can have. If that takes a month, a year, a decade. We can’t know, and we can’t hedge our bets on the lives of people who love and need us. I know she’ll write. I know she’ll take her little glowing green rock we got the next week, and hold it, and love me.

I feel like such a terrible person that that isn’t enough.

So, for her, I tried to love myself today. I tried to find hope again, and learn to hold onto it. I don’t want to be selfish and bad. I don’t even really want to die. It just gets harder every day to cope with the idea of being alive.

So, I went to the Tomb again.

I hadn’t been since that day when I was sixteen.

Maybe that seems like a stupid decision. Maybe it is. ‘But why back to her? She caused this!’

Did she? She showed me something that would have happened anyway. She just…sped it up. I figured, I’m all out of hope. The worst she can do is give me nothing.

So, I went.

I bought a bag of grapes, like a ritual, and brough my geology book that’s covered in two years of notes now, and I waited my seven hours this time, and I got to see her.

She looked sad and stoney as always, like something that had never been alive, like she’s so famous for. The woeful goddess of Roankqa, who knows everything and is powerless to stop even her own fate. The goddess behind the glass wall. The goddess in the cage, in the zoo, being asked for favors as we suck the life from her day by day, and somehow stuck giving them to us, even as it kills her; I can only guess, because she can’t change what she is, even if it kills her. Our cruelly fated goddess of time and fate.

Maybe it’s like they say. Maybe a thousand years ago, when we fought the gods and won, she was evil. Maybe she did something terrible. Or many things. Maybe like me, at that little girl whose name I don’t remember, she was part of a mob once. Maybe she did something that deserves payment. But it gets hard for me, now, to feel like you can’t have finished paying for most crimes after a thousand years in a cage, being sucked dry for people who will always hate you. Life, if that’s not enough to absolve you, what ever could be?

Anyway. I knelt, and I looked at her. I was a little afraid, but a little familiar. A part of me thought, ‘Go on, hit me with your best shot. You can’t make me more suicidal than last time.’ But I didn’t say it. I wondered, if she can see your future and your past when you come in, if that meant she knew all the things I’d done wrong. That I was a mob, that I had almost killed myself in front of a friend. That I was selfish, and bad, and a failure. I hoped everyone else was so awful, she didn’t have any energy left to care about me.

And this time, I had thought about the question a lot—before I was even in the line. And this time I asked, “Goddess of Time, is there…any future for me, that I could actually reach, where I’m happy? Actually happy? Where I have…hope?”

Because I promised Kiari I would try. And for her, I always will.

The goddess looked back at me with that sad face that never changes, and I got the vision after eight seconds this time.

In the vision, I saw myself, standing on a hill somewhere I’d never been. The land wasn’t flat, but it was flatter than the mountains. It was sedimentary rock. Limestone, I thought, beneath my feet. Moss on it. It must have been far from here. Somewhere new. There were tall grasses blowing in the wind. I had my hair cropped short, with a tiny braid in one side. There was nothing on my face but a scar, and my clothes were men’s clothes, not my father’s. Men’s clothing that fit. My breasts seemed to have vanished, and the shape in my pants had changed. I was looking at a version of myself that felt right, for the first time since I was a toddler. He was proud, and happy, standing on that rock, and holding a rolled map in his hand. He had a heavy backpack on, but he was singing quietly to himself, and his voice was deeper than mine, but it was mine. I wanted to be him. I wanted to listen to him sing, and talk about limestone. I wanted to reach out and touch his face.

But I tried, and the vision ended.

I looked up. I hadn’t realized I was crying, but I must have, and I felt sick with the happiness and longing for the future I’d seen, and scared, for this thing to have seen my secret again, so blatantly. I felt like alarms would sound, and I’d be dragged out as some perverted…deviant.

But when I looked up into her face, she looked back. Not like before, where the white eyes hurt, and you saw the future. She looked back with eyes that were white like chalk, and soft like it too, not bright like a star, and she smiled at me.

The goddess of time and fate and all their sorrows looked into my face, and for the first time in history, she changed her face, and smiled.

She looked into me, and she held my gaze, and looked…proud of me.

I have never, ever in my life, felt the way that look made me feel.

It was like someone had seen the worst thing about me, and said, “This is one of the best things about you. And I’m not afraid. I’m so excited for where you’re going to go.”

I didn’t know what to do.

She held the smile for a moment, watching me, and then her face returned slowly to the way it had been, like a statue.

I almost went up and touched the glass, like I almost had as a child. I wanted her to look at me again.

But, I remembered the guards outside, and I did not.

I just…said, “Thank you,” and I came home. And wrote this.

I don’t know what else I’ll do.

I graduated. I have eight days, tomorrow, until the wedding. I’m still alive.

Kiari would be proud of me. I hope to life itself that she’s happy, and her brother will be okay. I know she’s worried about me. I’ll write her. Try to make her worry a little less. Ask her how she is, how Tahl is. I hope she writes back soon. I love her and I miss her so much.

Graduation was strange. They give you a little plaque thing, with your name and focus chiseled into it, made from the same marble as the cliffs. I hold it like a brick and think about throwing it through my window.

It’s meant to go on a desk, as you work. Why do they even give these to the girls? They know we’re not going to use them.

Maybe they go on a trophy shelf.

I licked mine, though, to taste the marble, and it sure was marble, and izzirtu, I felt better about that after. I’ll be me a little, even if there’s no real point. It feels good.

I’ve been to see the goddess a few times, now. I don’t know why. I don’t have great questions to ask. But, I’ve got some money saved up, so why not blow it?

I always bring my book, and get grapes. Sometimes, I get the little blue rock I got the night Kiari got hers, and I talk to it as I wait. I wonder, if I believe forever that it stores my words, and sends them to hers to hear them like a prayer, if someday I can change its nature? Probably not, haha, but it’s a nice thought, and why not try?

People think I’m very weird for doing this, but hey, I’m ‘some silly little teenage girl.’ Who cares what I do! I’m supposed to be stupid and weird, at least for another eight days, until I’m a woman and a wife.

Except I’ll never really be able to be either of those things.

Poor Torphar. This is just as unfair to him as it is to me. Maybe more, since I think I’m the one with the burden to change it, or stop it from happening. I wish I wasn’t a coward. I wish it was easier to change even the parts of you you don’t think belong there forever.

When I see the goddess, I ask her things that are so meaningless. Like ‘What’s the coolest kind of rock I haven’t gotten to see yet?’ or ‘If I did cut off my hair, is that little braid really the best look?’ I…I’ve almost gotten informal, as insane as that is to think of. But. She talks back. Well, no, she’s never said anything. But she interacts. It’s crazy. I’ve never seen a muscle twitch on her before, but the last time I walked in, she smiled when she saw me! Before I’d even asked anything.

It's just her and me, totally alone in that room. No guards. They only come in if an alarm goes off. ‘Complete Privacy,’ as advertised. I put up my hair in a bun, and she tilts her head and waits, expecting it now. It’s almost like…a friendly visit. And she’s still so beautiful to me, like she was the day I first saw her. She waits, like a familiar ritual, and when I have it up, I kneel and I ask her something, and she always answers. Fast, now. Never immediate—which is funny—it’s like she thinks about it, which, isn’t how this is supposed to be. She smiled deeper when I asked the one about my hair, like she found it funny. I didn’t know a god could have a sense of humor. I didn’t know they really felt anything at all.

But, she does. She’s nice to me. Insane to think, but the nicest person left in this miserable city is the fucking god we have locked in a tomb. The only person out there who thinks it’s better for me exist as some version of me, even if it’s not the one they wanted, so long as it’s me and I’m happy—well, is Kiari. But the only other one is this dying goddess, locked behind glass like a traveling sideshow attraction.

The second-to-last time I went, I felt awkward, because I saw her twice in one day, and it felt so much like a human conversation, I felt like I was hogging it. And I panicked, and asked her about herself instead. Like an idiot. I said, “What do you like?” like some fucking idiot on a first date. That’s not even a question about the future!!! So stupid! But she answered me just the same, with a vision. Only, it wasn’t the future, it was the past—which—I didn’t even know was a thing she showed people. But, she did. And I saw Kiari reach out for myself, and me not jumping. I saw the world speed by, and the sky and the infinite stars beyond it from down here, and a thing I can’t describe, like the solar system but as energy everywhere around us, sparkling like gemstones in a cavern or stars in the sky, minnows in a stream. I saw her in a temple, and people talking with her, kneeling, asking questions. I realized she must like to answer. There must be a part of it even now that is comforting, familiar. Even as it kills her. A part of who she is. I saw herself. Herself looking down into a long pool and smiling at her form. I saw fruit trees in blossom, and fates changing, fates staying, fireworks in the sky, a little dog, a nest, a herd of horses galloping in a field. I felt like I’d seen a whole cosmos flash by in a millisecond. And I saw myself again, coming in and asking questions. I saw myself as a toddler, asking how I could help make her not sad. And the vision stopped, and I looked up, and she was looking down at me and smiling, like she always does now, for me, and only for me.

It had never occurred to me once she might remember that.

But she must have. For fourteen years.

I’ve been holding onto so little for two and barely stayed alive. Either she has no choice, or she must be made of something I’m not. Or, maybe she’s holding on like this too, and every day is a struggle.

You know, I went to the library and looked her up—not my school’s library, but the old one. The Grand Historical Archives, in the old city. I found records. I spent almost the whole day pouring over them.

I know, I know there’s no point. My life is about to change forever, and I can’t escape it. But there was, somehow, just in knowing. So, I went anyway.

And you know what I found?

I found out that she’s just like me.

Of all the…impossible, wonderful things in this world. Hah. I’ve been calling myself a Mutagenic rock, but I’m half the thing she is. See, our oldest records, they go back a long time. Back to almost three-thousand years ago. And sure, there’s not a lot, but what there is? It…tells a story.

I didn’t even know our Goddess had a name, but, she does. The Lady of Time, she’s called ‘Emvery.’ I think it’s a lovely name. I think it suits her.

Three-thousand years ago, though, a different people lived here. They worshipped a god of time who was strong. And a little over two-thousand years in the past, my ancestors came over from the islands. We intermingled, and married, and our people became one, but the culture changed. Our people had been very, very matriarchal, which, considering Roankqa now? Ridiculous in a very sad way, to me. But, anyway, my ancestors were. And, when the cultures merged, basically all the gods in Roankqa were male. And my ancestors were sort of distressed by this, and felt out of place .And they thought, maybe it would be cool if one of their new gods was a woman too. To be like home. So they asked them. There’s this crazy legend. A group of like, eight matriarchs from the islands went up to the temples, one to each temple, and asked eight of the pantheon gods if they might be a woman actually, in some insane kind of hopefulness. And the gods were all very surprised by this, and said, ‘uhm, no?’ except sort of for one, who said, ‘I’m nothing,’ and laughed and ran away—and that’s as direct a quote as the story could give. I guess that’s just what ‘trickster’ gods were like. And then there was Emvery. She wasn’t one of the gods they asked. They had wanted to be polite, so, while they felt out of their element with this huge pantheon of male gods, they had only asked more minor ones, out of respect to the clans they were merging with. Emvery, she was a major god. She was the strongest one. So, they didn’t even think to ask her.

But, she heard about it. She watched them ask, and watched her people answer, and she ‘thought long and hard about their question and looked up at the moon.’ I wrote this part down verbatim, because I thought it was so beautiful. Oh, except I took her name out—her old one. She asks later in the poem for people not to use it anymore, so I’m just going to call her Emvery the whole time out of respect. Anyway, it goes like this:

“Emvery heard the people of the islands sigh and look at the waters and their old home far away, and pitied them. He wondered why such a cosmetic change had mattered so strongly to eight of his brothers, that none would alter such a little thing for their people’s joy. But as he wondered, the question itself began to hang about his neck like a chain, and he thought long and hard about their question, and looked up at the moon. He studied the cosmos, and time like a river around him, and wondered, ‘Would I rather be a woman? Why am I a man?’ No one had thought to ask him, and it made him rather sad, as much as he could be sad. He was a man, because the first human who had met him, had called him ‘he,’ and he had held no issue with that to fight for it. It was simply a word. But the more he looked into time, and the women inside it, the more he realized his brothers had said no because it was not so simple a question at all. It was a cosmetic, and it would not make them not the great gods they were, but he had forgotten in the simplicity of the question, that a cosmetic can hold a person’s soul if they choose it to. A human can pour their heart into the locket of a lover, and feel complete only with it on, or cut their hair and with it the past. And he realized that a god, too, could choose to pour themself into a shape they desired, and give a meaning to that that would not so easily wash away again. And there was a richness in that he desired with all his heart, looking at the expanse of time in the eyes of a woman, and he became she in that moment, and carved out her own new shape with loving arms, the curves of an hourglass, a loving ornament to hold time itself and all the hopes of something that had only just learned how to hope, and she stepped back onto the earth in the form of a woman, with a heart that had chosen to be the heart of one, and for that to mean something, and so it did, and Emvery was born. She said ‘Call me (my old name) no longer. He is a memory. A part of me in the past that I return to in the night, and hold like a child a toy, and whisper the wonderful secrets of the days I live now, so he may love me too. I am Emvery, and I have found the Answer.’”

I cried for what must have been two hours, reading that again and again. I can’t believe something so old would feel what I’m feeling now. I can’t believe she would have thought about Kiriaconism and Giriasonism in her own words almost three thousand years ago. I can’t believe a goddess would choose to tie herself to something forever to feel more alive, because she looked in a mirror and something she couldn’t forget looked back. ‘I have found the Answer.’

I called her that today when I went to see her, ‘Emvery.’ I’ve never seen her look so happy. She was right. You can put yourself into something like that, like a locket, and it becomes you. I have thought of a name for myself, in the life I live in my head, and I think it would be nice to tell her. To have someone know. Even if it’s only her and me. Two seems a lot more than one. Like a cosmos more to me, right now.

The idea of moving in eight days is suffocating me, though. I try not to think about it.

But… I can’t hide from that much longer. And without Emvery or Kiari? Alone, with myself, weak, and uncertain? I don’t have my own answer yet. I have…fragments, and I…I am trying to rebuild them into a recognizable shape, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to build. I feel…like I’ve started too late. Like I’m too stupid, too inept, to get it done. Like I’m too old, I’m too young, I’m not good enough. But, I still try. I want to find it. Even if I find it too late. At least I can look back and know I chased something. And that makes me less of a coward. And I want to change that about myself.

Maybe I’ll stay up and look at the stars with Kiari’s rock, and talk, and hope to see something myself in them.

A lot has changed. I have so little time to write any of this down! I feel like I’m going to vomit my heart up through my chest. But, for you, Kiari, I’m going to do it. Fast. Please, excuse my many mistakes, like you’re so used to, as the best friend a boy could have ever had.

Eight days to my wedding. I went to see the goddess again this morning, after staying up all night, talking to my rock and the sky.

I felt sick already. I felt crazy. But, I went. I took my grapes like a ritual, and my book, and a little bag in case there was no going back.

Those eight hours of waiting, I thought about a lot of things. I thought about what I’ve done, who I am, what I’m going to do. I still have so few answers. But, I thought last night, looking up at the stars, about you. About how much you’ve changed and saved me. And I thought about not wanting to let you down. I thought about Emvery, too, and how it’s been a thousand years since she’s seen the sky through anything but someone else’s memories, and how much she must suffer every day. How painful it is that the memory of a toddler thinking about reaching out to her, stayed with her for fourteen years. About the way I’ve treated her as a parlor trick. About the way she smiled at me. And has never smiled at anyone else. Or, if she has. If someone else found a connection behind closed doors they didn’t report for the fame, they left her there, alone, to go back to that empty stare, and be visited like a mistress, or a prisoner in a cell. I thought about that little girl when I was nine, and how sorry I am, and how hard I’m going to try to find out her name and see if she’s still alive.

I thought about who I want to be. The shape I want to fill in the universe. I thought I’m going to die inside in eight days, at that wedding, so if I’m doomed to die at eighteen in every path ahead of me, which is the path I want to die on? A choice, even with no certainty, feels like a very precious thing to me. It’s comfort. Of feeling like maybe I won’t die a coward after all.

So…and I think you’ll like this, Kiari. Today, I got to the end of the line, and I went in. I put up my hair while Emvery waited, and I said, “Hello again.” She smiled back, silent as always. Eyes soft and white like chalk. And I said, “I have a question today that’s really important, so please, think hard, and tell me the truth.”

Her face changed a little, to worry almost, if that emotion could be empty.

And I said, “If I take my grandfather’s grandfather's god-fighting mace I have in this bag, and I swing it with all my might at that window, can I manage to crack it before the guards come and run me through the back? Is there even a chance; do you see any future at all, where that works, and I take you by the hand, and we run out of this city and never come back? And if so. Even if we don’t live long. If we make it to the islands, or all the way south even to Leeshi and their rolling hills and piles of limestone land, but they track us down after a month, and they kill me as a traitor, and drag you back, do you think you might want it? Because I do. More than I can believe. If I can be alive, and me, and free, even for a few weeks with you, then…I think I want that more than anything else in this life. But I won’t do any of it if you don’t want it too. So. I need to ask you, for a future, one last time. Do you see any hope in that future, for both of us? And if you do, is it a hope you could want to try for it? Even if it’s not a sure thing? With me?”

And I held out my hand.

I had a vision instantly. I was on that limestone hill, under a tree this time, with fruit blossoms, like she remembered. And I wasn’t alone. I was holding the map again, but open, and this small goddess of ebony and chalk was beside me looking at it, and we both looked more happy and free than I could possibly believe.

When the vision ended, her hand was pressed to the glass on her side, like mine had been in that first vision when I was four. She looked at me with hope in that expressionless, heartbroken face.

Kiari, I am at the edge of the city now, and I am alive. We are alive. I will write you again someday when I can, when it is safe for us both. Know I love you and speak to your rock ever night. I will go back to the very beginning of this whole journal, before I send it too, and add an addendum so you don’t have to wonder for pages if this is some insanely cruel suicide note, and know your friend is fighting hard for his happy ending. And he is called Davi now. I don’t have time to edit it yet, or send it, but I promise, at the first safe port, I will, and I know we’re going to make it that far. I know it, Kiari. I promise you.

I’ll try to write more then too—tell you I’m okay. Maybe a drawing, so you can see how my hair is, once I’ve cut it. But, if I don’t have time for a while, and this is the manuscript, then let me end this by saying two things. I am alive because you loved me, and I will fight to keep that gift now, and to love you better. The other is that I wanted you, the first person who ever believed in me, even before I believed in me, to be the first to know. I did it.

I really did, Kiari.

I found the Answer.

#original fiction #short stories #fantasy stories #The Age of Men #The Goddess of Time #content warning for suicidal thoughts & hard emotions dealing w being trans in a community that is against that (but w a happy ending)#me writing #the ... is tumblr keeps EATING the last like 3-4 lines of everything I post and I no longer trust it for long form works >.>#now edited #short story #fantasy story

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xenokattz · 1 year ago

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I continue to feel terrible for being so very, very late with the last chapter pf The Pearl (actually 1 chapter bookended by 2 interludes) so here's a snippet for y'all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

K’uk’ulkan moved to Attuma’s side again, facing M’Baku but looking at Shuri. Kolel stepped to his right, holding a cylindrical basket high as her shoulder and threaded through with gold wire and jade. K’uk’ulkan took the basket, nodding quickly at his cousin, and carried the basket before Shuri.

“The panther is sacred to us,” he said. “She is the animal of the gods of the night and of fire, of war and childbirth, a symbol of transformation with both the chaos and the prosperity it brings. You, Shuri, Black Panther of Wakanda, will be Queen Panther of Talokan. And as such, you deserve a pixom befitting your station.”

He lifted the top half of the basket. On a stand within the remaining half was one of the most exquisite headdress Shuri had ever seen. Made of alternating plates of darkened gold and tuunich ek’, it was shaped like a black panther roaring. Its eyes were fire opals, brilliant under arched brows. Hanging from thick loops at the temples, solid curved plates of darkened tuunich ek’ created cheekpieces that resembled a panther’s open mouth. Sharp mother of pearl teeth tipped the jaws with smaller ones embedded in a row along the top border of the cheekpieces. Three rows of feathers burst from behind the panther’s ears: a row each just behind the cheekpieces and a crest reaching past her thighs, all made of star obsidian, dark blue tuunich ek’, and pale pale jade. All carved so delicately they were nearly translucent.

The crowd murmured their approval in Talokanil and the various languages of Wakanda. Shuri herself had no words for once. There was so much thought put into the design. The gold edges on the panther mimicked the gold and silver lines of her costume. The subtle dark streaks of tuunich ek’ and jade making up the lines of the panther’s face resembled the murals she painted in her room. Even the choice of star obsidian with its tiny white spots recalled her traditional make up and the dots on her Black Panther mask.

“You designed this,” she said, looking at Kanul.

He smiled. “Yes.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

She stroked the snout of the panther. Bast knew she was not a spiritual person but she could feel Kanul’s touch in every edge and every dip of the pixom. Her throat tightened. She reached out blindly. He found her hand and held it to his chest.

“I have one more gift,” he said.

“I cannot possibly have room for more!” said Shuri, laughing to choke back her tears.

Kolel stepped forward and handed K’uk’ulkan a thin obsidian blade, the type Shuri knew the Talokanil used for bloodletting. He, in turn, gave her the blade. When she would have kept her palm flat, he curled her fingers around the handle as he pressed his cheek against hers. “I took your mother from you,” he whispered in her ear. “Take the blood you think such an atrocity warrants. I give it to you, even if it means giving you my life.”

“I do not want or need your blood,” siad Shuri.

Kanul kissed her cheek. “I cannot be forgiven for such a thing, Princess, even by you. I am halach uinik. I am held to a higher standard than all of Talokan. I have taken the life of a head of state, of your family. The law demands balance.”

“Whose law? Not Wakanda’s.”

“Talokanil law.” He guided her hand over his chest. “My conscience. I will heal. Take your blood.”

Shuri closed her eyes. She pictured her mother. What would Mama have worn today for her gift presentation? No doubt something extremely impressive and forbidding: her golden isicholo and a dark coloured gown whose patterns were created by beads made of semi-precious stones. She would have a white line on her chin and dots on her brow all the way to her ears. She would act as if no gift was good enough even though moments before, she would have hugged Shuri so tightly with tears in her eyes. Father would have watched it all with a benign expression, revealing nothing until the tasting of the elements. He would have cried then, Shuri imagined, and then she would cry as well which would set Mama off. And T’Challa– If T’Challa were here, he would be gently encouraging. Smiling, always with that gentle smile, and an open hand to welcome Kanul into the family, as was his duty as her eldest sibling.

“You took the life of the only person left of my family then,” said Shuri, keeping her voice pitched for his ears only.

Kanul nodded gravely. She drew the point of the knife across his chest, bringing up a dark, raised welt but not piercing his skin.

“I demand you shed your blood if needed to protect the only person left of my family now.” At his questioning expression, Shuri whispered right into his ear. “See the boy with the big smile and the green clasp on his cloak? He is my brother’s son. Swear to me that you will do everything in your power to ensure he lives until he is an old, old man.”

Kanul drew back, cupping her face in his hands, staring at the tears threatening to wet her lashes. He nodded imperceptibly. “My life for his, Shuri.”

“I accept your gifts,” said Shuri in a louder voice. “We will marry.”

“If you are not going to stab him, can I?” asked M’Baku.

#nashuri #shuri x namor #namor x shuri #namuri #seaprincess #black panther wakanda forever

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sugarrspice · 2 years ago

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For a request: possessive Antiaverage. Sorry for the format, anon; I tried to work on this while our power was out and wound up losing both the first draft and the ask. Your format was fine, there's no real official rules here!

warning: off-screen brutality, minor hypnotization at the start.

He's drifting. That much, he knows. Someone's speaking, distantly, their words a gentle lilt.

Come closer.

Through the comfortable haze, he hums, and takes another step further. He doesn't know them- doesn't think he does, at least, but it doesn't matter, not now. All that matters is this- this peace. Even their words taste sweet, and he wants more.

He steps forward, again. There's a faint impression of teeth, in front of him, rows upon rows, arranged in neat, concentric circles; a gentle coo--

A shrill screech rips through the comfortable silence, and Chase reels back, clapping a hand over his ringing ears, the trance shattered. A shadow hurls itself over his shoulder, and Chase determinedly turns away from the wet sound of something tearing. He doesn't need to lose his dinner, tonight- not that he thinks he had any. Or maybe he did. He kind of- it's a blur, after he'd stepped over the threshold of that restaurant, his date waving him over to their table. They had very, very blue eyes, that much he remembers. A lovely voice- a singer, they'd said, on their profile.

And now he's in a back alley, sans his wallet and fucking keys.

The growling cuts off right as there's one last wet squelch, and Chase stares at his hands. In, and out. Deep breaths, Chase, in for four.

Claws scrape across the concrete; his ears pop, briefly, at the sudden displacement of air. Deep breaths. Out for six. He's not panicking, he's great at just- shoving all of those feelings down for when he's out of the very dark, very sketchy alley.

"I'm beginning to see why you need company," Anti says dryly. Something about the way he's popping his t's; Chase frowns as he darts a sideways look at Anti, abruptly torn out of his spiral. He's not expecting for the fae to be as close as he is, eyes bright and silvered under the waxing moon. His heart, hammering as it is, skips a beat. "Go out for a date, trust the fae-marked to stumble across the first starving siren."

Right. One thing at a time. "A siren," he says, because he's got great priorities, and because if he focuses on starving, then he has to think about the fact that he was probably the dinner and he'd just stopped that thread of panic. And then: "Does that mean you just murdered someone?"

He's not as upset about this as he thought he would be, honestly. It's not- it's not a situation he's thought about often, or- no, actually, that's the shock talking, he thinks. Anti cocks his head- like a bird, Chase thinks, and that's probably the hysteria, talking- and smirks.

"Should check to make sure your meal's not got something bigger swimming around it."

Which. Isn't a no. Nor is it a I won't do it again.

The normal reaction to that is probably something like oh my god, or you can't just kill people.

Chase just stands there, hands jammed into his pockets, turning over the promise burned into those words, and says, apropos of nothing, "you're a little edgy for a knight in shining armor."

Anti, with apparently infinite patience, stares at him, considering this. "Usually," he says, finally, "the knights come to slay the fey folk."

Chase snorts, and starts making his way out of the alley, because it is genuinely making the back of his neck crawl. That, and the proximity of knowing that if he looks behind him, there's going to be a cooling corpse, and- as good as Chase is at compartmentalization, he's not that good. Anti falls into step beside him, and Chase glances sideways; he starts at the sight, the weak yellow fluroescence of the streetlamp above them illuminating the fact that Anti's arms are black with iridescent blood from the elbows down.

"Anti, Jesus fuck," he hisses, and shucks off his jacket, throwing it at the fae. "Put that on before someone arrests you."

"I'll be impressed if they have a precinct competent enough to arrest me," Anti murmurs, looking amused, but he does tug the jacket on. And. Okay.

Chase knows he's got a few screws loose, if the night hadn't already proven that. But- there's a dark sense of pleasure, coiling in his gut. Anti, in his jacket, somehow making the thick fleece seem sharp. Anti, in his jacket, covered in blood, for him.

Quite suddenly, he realizes that Anti's staring back at him, almost expectantly. His eyes don't look so silvered in the night, now. They're pitch-dark, thin rings of pale green around slitted pupils blown wide.

Chase's breath catches in the moment suspended between them; Anti blinks, then, and it shatters. Chase looks away, abruptly, and sucks in a shaky breath.

That's something for the priest, he thinks.

"Wouldn't be too hard," he says instead, "if you're gonna walk around looking like a murder victim."

"Murderer," Anti corrects, and Chase squawks, flapping his hands in his direction.

"Shut up!"

Anti only laughs at him, the bastard. It ratchets the purring thing in his chest tighter, and- not thinking about it. Not thinking about it. Not talking about it. Anti's not asking about why he's not freaking out, he's not thinking about why he's not freaking about, they're fine, this is fine-

He darts one more look at Anti, who's got his arms hidden in the fleece of the jacket, popped the collar to hide the blood streaking across his face as best as he can. He's still walking like he's- like he's hunting something, and Chase has to look away very quickly, at that, before he can start thinking stupid things like I want him to look at me like that or oh, maybe I do have a type.

He knows better than to say thank you.

He also knows that Anti has a weakness for spiced tea, and that there will be fresh cups waiting when Anti looks away. Little things.

#antiaverage #anti x chase #egoshipping #Apologies for how long this took; our power is finally back for good.#spice writes #fae au

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thebiscuiteternal · 2 years ago

Note

since you said crossovers were okay can we see some of that fashion buddies crossover you mentioned awhile back?

(Man, copypasting and editing this on my phone turned out to be a pain in the ass.)

----------

There are rumblings of a strange new monster wandering about the jianghu. It appears to be a woman dressed in scandalous black clothing with gold armor, except it can't be an actual woman because the scout reports say that she can grow taller than the trees or smaller than a bird, that she can fly on insect wings and shoot lightning from her hands.

A joke, the great sects think. A tale created and spread by drunkards.

Until a group of Lan disciples are the next to cross her path.

---

Janet van Dyne is having a very, very bad week. She's lost count of the number of magical or technological portals she's been tossed through in her lifetime, so at first she'd been grateful to at least have ended up on Earth this time.

And then the first group of people she had come across had promptly run screaming.

What Mandarin she's picked up on both her jobs is no help, since no one gives her time to speak before they attack, and like hell she's just going to stand there and let herself be stabbed.

Which has only led to this. Staring at a drawing of a snarling face under the hooded visor of her costume.

She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose to stave off a headache, then considers her options.

She's been (guiltily) stealing food in her small form already... maybe if she could nick some clothing, it would be easier to hide...

The only problem being that she would also need to steal a basin so she could particle-treat them to change size with her (no naked escapes, thank you very much), and that would be noticeable.

She's still deciding what to do when two young men, a grouchy looking one Steve's size in greens and greys and the other more placid one in the white and blue of the last group to try and kill her, enter the inn through the doorframe she's currently hiding on.

And they have swords like that last group.

Shit.

Time to go.

She slips out of a gap between boards and heads for the edge of town, but only a little ways away from the inn, she starts feeling inexplicably exhausted.

Maybe the sleep deprivation is catching up to her. Holes in trees and cracks in walls aren't exactly comfortable.

Without meaning to, her flight path starts drifting lower as the sleepiness gets worse.

-and then she's startled back to fully awake when she's snared right out of the air by a net with glowing threads.

"Fu-" <<Hey! Let me out!>>

The kid holding the net looks a year or two younger than Nadia and Ying, and... oh, damn, he's wearing the same colors as tall, dark, and grumpy back at the inn. That can't be a coincidence.

<<You don't look all that scary for a monster,>> he says, tilting his head.

Oh, thank God. Finally, someone who talks first instead of going right for stabby things.

<<That's because I'm not a monster,>> she replies, retracting her visor into her hood and yanking it back to uncover her hair, ears, and face.

<<But you are magical?>>

She briefly debates how much she should explain, then settles on keeping it simple. <<I was a science experiment.>>

That seems to be good enough, as the boy puts the net down on a table that passers-by are unlikely to notice, letting her start untangling herself.

He sits down and rests his chin on his fists with a grin she knows all too well promises mischief. <<So does that mean you don't want to use your giant size to crush thousands of innocents into soup?>>

<<Alright, one: That's morbid. And gross... Are people really saying that?>>

<<Among other horrors.>>

She groans. <<Great. No. Literally the only two things I want right now are a bath and some sleep.>>

Before he can answer, there's a commanding bark of "Huaisang!" from the street, and the kid winces.

<<Friend of yours?>>

<<My older brother,>> he replies, then scratches his cheek in thought. <<Can you hide in my sleeve?>

<<Your collar would be easier on both of us,>> Jan says. She's still wary, but seeing as he seems willing to risk trusting her, she'll go along.

She flutters up to settle between the third and fourth layers, hiding under his hair and tucking her wings in to curl herself up small.

<<All set?>>

She hopes she's not making a huge mistake. <<Let's go.>>

#mdzs #marvel #nie huaisang #janet van dyne #the wasp #fanfic #long post

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masterofrecords · 1 year ago

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Angstober day 16: Wake Up Call

Ughhhh okay I don't actually remember if this is how it happened and my brain is way too mush to go hunt for references in my own campaign. Wrote it yesterday but I guess I hoped I'd have enough energy today to recheck it (I didn't)

Don't Get Involved

Don’t get involved, the strange detectives told Simon, after witnessing him disappear into thin air, after seeing how magic was second nature to him. You’ve stumbled into dangerous people.

It didn’t seem that dangerous, at first. More odd than anything – people searching the walls and cellars of an old house, someone digging up the earth in the old memorial park.

The detectives also told Simon to send word if he’d seen anything weird. So Simon watched, and watched, even when he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

Still, when all the suspicious people left, Simon knew something was wrong.

He’d packed lightly, hopeful enough that his mother would put him up back in the city. He asked casual questions, he followed the trail, and for several sweet, glorious days, he thought he was doing a good job of it.

It didn’t last.

“So he’s the one who’s been watching you?” The man in the white mask spoke evenly, almost as if bored. Simon’s shoulders ached from the way they were turned out to keep him on his knees, and he suddenly felt very, very afraid.

“He’s a sneaky bastard,” the man Simon had been following huffed. “We only caught him on the way here.”

The man in the mask grabbed Simon’s hair to turn his head up. Behind the mask, the eyes were shining an eerie, unnatural blue, and then the man suddenly tore Simon’s cloak away, only to drop it after picking up the small black brooch Simon had been keeping hidden under the collar, shaped like two crescent moons entwined with each other.

Simon jerked, trying to get away from the hands restraining him. He couldn’t claim the brooch to be his, exactly, having found it in a secret place that had whispered its existence into Simon’s head, but it felt important.

It felt like something that Simon was supposed to have.

“How fortuitous,” the man sad, still without a hint of happiness or even sarcasm. “So much searching, and you deliver it to me on a silver platter.”

He turned away and threw over his shoulder. “Search him. Who knows, maybe he isn’t as much of a nobody as he seems.”

Simon watched as his leathers and boot-trees were strewn around, carelessly thrown against the stones of the road. He barely struggled as someone patted around his pockets, poking through every hole and inspecting every scrap of paper or thread found there.

“Obscura?..”

At his goon’s voice, the man in the mask turned again. For the first time, his voice sounded mildly interested. “What of them?”

“He had a card with their address.”

The man in the mask came up to them and took the card. Simon remembered being given it, along with a bunch of others, by that lady detective – just in case, she said, for an emergency.

The masked man crushed the card between his fingers and turned to Simon. “Most fortuitous, indeed.” Then two fingers were pressing into Simon’s forehead and there were dark hazel eyes boring into his.

“Show me what you know,” the man said. Something probed into Simon’s mind, and he felt a whine form in his throat. What he knew? Simon didn’t know anything.

The probing turned into a relentless pressure. Simon still resisted, just out of the principle of things, and he breathed out a sigh of relief when it finally subsided.

Then something exploded in his mind, as if his brain was collapsing on itself. And a cool voice, soft, without malice, “Show me what you know.”

Blurred images of watching someone from the rooftops. A cafe. Glimpses of white hair, of weapons, the clinking of glass.

Someone’s concerned voice.

Don’t get involved.

So that was what she’d meant.

#angstober2023 #masterofrecords angsts #masterofreocrds writes #day 16

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sheliesshattered · 10 months ago

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In my last couple of Batuu bounding prep posts, I've referenced my latest sewing project for that upcoming trip (3 weeks from now!!) but I've been buzzing along on it so well that I haven't done more than pause to take a picture now and then while I work. It's getting close to finished, so I figured it was time for a post about it!

Last sewing update, I was working on my blue linen vest, drafting the pattern and fitting the lining. The issue with the bust seam that was driving me crazy turned out to be a mistake with my notch markings, which didn't transfer correctly between patterns, so the two edges were mismatched. Once I figured that out, I was able to correct the error, get that bust seam sewn, and try on the lining for fit.

There are a couple of small things I want to change before I cut out the exterior layer of the linen, but the major thing that fitting revealed was that I needed to decide on which shirt I'm going to wear under it -- or at least, the thickest shirt I'm likely to wear under it. I tried a couple of things in my closet to see what color and texture looked best with the blue linen of the vest and the gray and black herringbone of the hooded wrap. The white shirt was too bright, the black shirt was too dark, the gray shirt too flat, the green waffle knit okay but still not quite right.

And while I was going in and out of my closet looking for options, I kept seeing the Solstice dress I sewed in December, with its pretty blue-gray cotton sweatshirt knit fleece. Since all the shirts I tried on just weren't working, I put on the Solstice dress instead and put the linen vest and the hooded wrap on with it. The color was perfect, just a lovely mid point between the blue of the vest and the gray of the hooded wrap. The dress itself wouldn't work, but maybe a shirt made out of that fabric?

The only problem was, I didn't have very much fabric left over after making the Solstice dress and the wide-legged pants I layer underneath it on especially cold days. I had a couple of pieces that were a yard or yard and a half long, but only one scrap with that sort of length that was 14" wide. Everything else was in the 6" to 12" wide range, and all with curvy uneven edges left over from the princess seams of the dress. I thought about maybe ordering another yard of the same stuff, but that would mean waiting for it to ship, then washing and drying it before I could even start on this shirt. And everything else I'm sewing for this Batuu day are all stash-busters, using fabric I already had on hand, nothing but a zipper and some thread bought new.

So I decided not to order more, and just draft my pattern around the blue-gray sweatshirt knit fabric that I do have on hand -- and thus the 'scrappy sweatshirt' was born. After looking through all the scraps I had, I drafted a pattern based on a fitted rashguard I made in 2021, which had princess seams (because that's the only way to get something actually fitted on me, lol), and a narrow contrast stripe on the body under the arm and a matching one on the underside of the sleeve. I used the neckline from the Batuu vest so those V-neck angles will match, made a couple of adjustments to the bust shaping, then cut out the pattern and started looking for scraps big enough for all the pieces I needed -- 14" wide center front and center back, shaped side front and side back pieces, narrow rectangular side pieces, and six pieces total for the long sleeves.

I decided to do lapped seams throughout the project, for a couple of reasons: First, I know from sewing the Solstice dress that regular old plain seams end up being a bit bulky in this fabric, especially on places like the bust seam where both sides of the seam allowance like to fold to one side, creating an area that's three layers of heavy knit fleece stacked together. Since this shirt will be going under a fitted vest, the less bulk the better. And secondly, since I was working with so little fabric, I knew that I'd get more mileage out of what I do have with lapped seams rather than plain seams. With a plain seam, I lose 1cm on each side of the seam, but with a lapped seam it's only about 1cm total -- and with fabric scraps this narrow, every centimeter counts, lol.

I tried a couple of techniques on some scraps that were too small to be much use in any other way, and decided on a tiny raw edge on the exterior, with one line of stitching, and 1cm of seam allowance on the pieces that go underneath in the lapping process. I had to use chalk to mark out that 1cm from the edge distance on every under piece, and then draw on markings for any notches, but besides that being a bit tedious, the seams went together nice and easily, and I very quickly had a front and back of three pieces each, connected at the shoulders with an under-lapped piece about 2.5" wide.

I cut similar 2.5" wide strips for the side seams and for the tops of the sleeves (since I'd had to split the sleeves down the middle just to be able to find enough fabric to cut them out of). The sides of the body went on easy as can be, exactly the right length -- and then I started in on the sleeves and realized that I had cut four strips to the shorter length of the body, rather than two at that length and two more at the ~5" longer length for the sleeves.

I had one moment of feeling like I'd screwed the whole thing up and wondering if I could possibly find enough fabric to re-cut those long thin on-grain strips. And then I realized, wait, this is the scrappy sweatshirt project, and the unusual piecing of the whole thing is half the point. So rather than even try to find enough fabric to cut out new sleeve stripes, I decided to do some intense (and decorative) piecing on the wrist end of the sleeve. The hooded wrap covers to about my elbows, and the vest will cover the main body of the shirt, so really that lower section of the sleeve is the thing that will be most noticeable, anyway.

I cut out 16 little rectangles at the same 2.5" width, and about 3.2cm tall (literally just the width of my metal ruler I use as a cutting guide, lol) and marked the 1cm overlap so I could start sewing them together. My plan has been to do an edge facing in that same ~3.2cm length at the neckline, hip-level hem, and sleeve hem, so making those all match seemed like a good idea.

I really like the final effect of this funny little shingled detail, especially for something that came out of a mistake in my pattern drafting and the restrictions of my very limited fabric. Once I had the shingles all added to the end of the long strip, I sewed them into the center of the sleeve, what will be the outside of the arm, with that same under-lapped style I'd done at the shoulders and the side panel of the body of the sweatshirt. It's a little bit similar to the pleated panel I'm adding to Jack's jacket, but without the pleating and with more raw edges.

With those panels set in, I then trued up both sleeves so that they match each other and the long seam is the same length on both sides, then added that 3.2cm wide hem treatment, for this final look:

The shingles end just below my elbow, so even with the relatively tight fit of these sleeves and the extra stiffness from all that stitching, I'll still have full comfortable range of movement. The strip at the hem is cut with the grain of the knit running perpendicular to the sleeve, which means it won't curl up or fray as much as the knit going the usual up-and-down direction.

The only place I couldn't do a lapped seam is in turning the sleeve into a tube -- or, I could have, but I would have had to handsew it, and I am so not about that right now, not with three weeks to go and Jack's jacket still needing handsewing too, lol. So I did a regular old plain seam with the raw edges facing inwards, but it's so normal looking that it really just melts into the background of all these other interesting looking lapped seams and raw edges.

So to repeat the first pic in this post, here's the current state of the sweatshirt, with my little leather gloves as an accent:

Tomorrow's tasks will be to attach the sleeves to the shoulders with another lapped seam (after possibly bringing in the edges of the shoulder top under-lap a little bit, so it matches the sleeves perfectly). Once I can try it on with the sleeves attached, I'll mark any changes I want to make to the neckline, then do the same hem facing treatment there as I did on the sleeves, with the narrow on-grain strip. The very last thing will be to even out and level the lower edge of the sweatshirt, and apply a similar hem treatment there, too.

I'm hoping to be able to get through all those steps tomorrow, and officially be able to call this piece of my Batuu outfit done. Then I'll be able to wear it while I do a final fitting of the vest lining, make any changes to the vest pattern based on those changes, and cut out the exterior fabric. After that point, I'm hoping the vest will come together pretty quickly, and we'll see if I have any time for adding little detail bits like functioning pockets or loops for code cylinders.

At the very least I would love to have a pocket specifically for my pilot's license, just so I can keep it both handy and safe from getting scratched up. But that's the sort of thing I can think about once the sweatshirt and the vest and the pleating stripes on Jack's jacket are all done. Three weeks isn't a ton of time, but on the other hand, three weeks ago I hadn't yet started on the pleating for Jack's jacket, much less these two other scratch builds. So if I can keep up a good rate of progress, I think I'll be able to get through all the projects and detail work I want to finish before our Batuu day.

And with that, I should wrap this post up and go get some sleep, lol.

#my sewing #scrappy sweatshirt project #Batuu vest #Batuu Bounding #2024 mood

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icaruseater · 1 year ago

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The Most Pretentious Word Ever

You’ve probably seen it presented “aesthetically”: black and white stock footage of people going about their lives and beautiful sprawling landscapes accompanied by dreamy guitar plucks or soft piano. Other videos are less aesthetic, but more real: regular people holding their phones telling the camera that they’ve just discovered a new word. One video with almost 2 million likes shows a man holding back tears as he reads it aloud:

Sonder. The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.

Well, that’s the shortened definition, anyway. The one you’re most likely to see printed on the back of a t-shirt at Hot Topic. The man in tears also reads the second part: “An epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.”

Something about the word has always felt a little off to me. It has struck me as fake-deep and contrived, but I could never quite put my finger on why. It doesn’t help that I’ve never seen anyone actually use the word, just people fawning over how deep it is. The remixed definitions can sometimes insist upon themselves, with some people changing the beginning to “the profound feeling of realizing that everyone has a life as complex as one's own”. Why is a word calling itself profound in its own definition?

Furthermore, the wording of the actual definition was troubling to me. The realization that everyone is living a life as vivid and complex as your own. How selfish, I thought, to be so unaware of the complexities of life that such a thing is worded like an epiphany. That's just empathy, I thought.

This tossed around in my mind one restless night until I finally faced the aggravating blue light of my phone screen to Google it. This led me down a bit of a rabbit hole of the English vocabulary and my own philosophy on language.

The Search Results

The first thing I discovered is that sonder is not what some would consider a “real word”. By that I mean it’s not in the dictionary. Of course, there are plenty of words (particularly slang) that do not appear in the dictionary, but this was still somewhat shocking to me because pretty much every post I’ve seen on sonder presents it as if it were an excerpt from one. This is perhaps because the word was invented by John Koenig, author of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, where he makes up words to describe various phenomena. He’s stated that part of the purpose of his dictionary is to “fill a hole in language”.

Well, I thought, that settles it. Rabbit hole over, nothing else to discover, we can all go home now.

But when I scrolled a little further, I realized something puzzling: no one knows how to use sonder in a sentence. I quickly found that I wasn’t alone in thinking this. I came across a Reddit thread titled “Is sonder the best-ever new word?” where the top comment read: “I like the concept very much. It's humanistic, it's mystical, kind of psychedelic [psychedelic? really??], but I've never heard it spoken in a sentence, or read it in a published work of fiction. I don't know how to use it in an intelligible sentence. Does anyone?” Here’s some examples I found:

“I lay in bed so deep in my thoughts, the darkness was all around me while, slowly, the sonder started to kick in. I then realized that not only me, but all seven point fifty three billion people in this world which they are constantly living despite my personal lack of awareness of it.”

“As the poet concludes his final verse, the crowd ripples with sonder: tears can be seen and gasps heard before those gathered break into applause. His words seemingly have struck a few chords in the hearts of all those present.”

“I had a sonder, a realization that the random girl sitting next to me inside of Starbucks might have a fantastic life or she might be dealing with a very ill family member.”

The attempts I read further convinced me that this whole thing might just be some big pretentious charade. All this hullabaloo about how deep the word is, yet nearly every example sentence I saw was derivative, trite, weak. Many of them can't help but essentially restate the definition, which makes me think that perhaps they themselves innately doubt that the word can stand on its own two feet. Even the sentences that mostly avoid re-stating the definition were uncompelling.

Input From Profesionals

My search continued as I came across a CBC article about sonder and Koenig’s Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows in general. A good point made by Lera Boroditsky, a cognitive scientist professor at the University of California San Diego, is that shortened methods to communicate emotions are actually good for language. While it may seem limiting to some, putting a name to an emotion can help us better understand it. Koenig appears to concur with this, as the article states that “therapists have emailed him explaining how just being able to name something, can offer people power — even solace.”

Meanwhile Geoffrey Pullum, a professor of Linguistics at the University of Edinburgh, appears to dislike the outlook of Koenig’s dictionary towards language. In the article, Pullum conveys his argument by discussing the difference between how you say machine gun in English versus how it is said in French, mitrailleuse. "It would be absurd to think that if you speak only English you can't form the concept of a machine gun; yet that is essentially the error people are making when they say (for example) that the German word schadenfreude cannot be translated into English."

I understand where Pullum is coming from. My mother's first language is Spanish, and she will occasionally insist that some words “can’t be translated” (she did this most recently with the word terca). But after throwing out some examples, we can always find a way to communicate the same idea in English, even if there isn’t a one-to-one translation for it.

The Beauty of Words

The conversations with my mother and Pullum’s point got me thinking about the English vocabulary. Perhaps it is by design that there isn’t actually a single word to describe the “epiphany” that sonder represents. It is clear after just looking up sonder on TikTok that a lot of people think the word is beautiful- but it's true beauty is in the definition, not the word itself. This might seem like an obvious thing to say, but I suppose I am questioning the aesthetic sensibilities of people who find the word beautiful. Why not just take as many words as you need to explain what or how you’re feeling? Is it really better (or even more beautiful) to have the experience all summed up in one convenient little word? The fact that the true beauty and appeal of this word lies in the picture it paints in its definition only aids my point. It feels almost corporate, the act of putting it all into one word, it's almost like the linguistic equivalent of meal-prepping to me. Convenient, for sure, perhaps even smart for the modern man, but taking away so much of the enjoyment and personality of writing. I think part of the beauty of language is how we string together words to maneuver through our own stories and emotions, and if we condense everything neatly with a nice lil bow, that really takes away the liveliness of language.

I began to think of sonder as a sort of KAWS figure or Funko Pop of words: like it was designed simply to be gazed upon, posted on your social media, but not actually interacted with in any meaningful way.

But that's not really true, is it? Does a word have to be usable in a sentence for it to be valuable? Is it really such a bad thing for it to exist on its own as an Instagram post? Despite how I might feel about sonder, it clearly does impact some people meaningfully. The singer Brent Faiyaz got the word tattooed on his face and named his band after it. I saw somebody wearing a shirt with sonder (and its definition, of course) on the back. I saw a young-ish guy at my job with SONDER tattooed in bold black font going all the way down his arm, and seeing it got such a reaction outta me that it's basically the reason I started looking into the word. I remember thinking (after seeing the guy’s tattoo but before doing my research) “could such a fake-deep word really mean so much to people?”. The answer, obviously, is yes. And what was said in the article is true: being able to put a word to a feeling can be extremely helpful for some people. As an Urban Dictionary definition states: “Sometimes you're hurting so bad and you feel you're the only one. But after all your hardships you start to realize that everybody is so unique and you aren't the only one.” Perhaps not the most well-written couple of sentences, but the message is loud and clear: people resonate with sonder, regardless of whether it can stand alone.

In conclusion: do I like sonder now? Well, yes and no. I appreciate how strongly other people feel about the word (I think the act of loving a word in itself is kinda lovely, cute and romantic, what can I say) and if what Koenig said earlier about therapists reaching out to him is true, that's amazing.

But overall, I think an expression just as (if not more) beautiful can be made by using a collection from your own vocabulary. There is nothing quite like reading a passage that takes your breath away, and the act of optimizing that by condensing it into one word feels quite robotic. The English language is not less good or in need of “fixing” because there isn’t always a single word to describe such complex emotions, rather see the language as a toolkit: your set of brushes and paint pots that you may then use to orchestrate a story all your own. :)

REFS

Brend, Y. (2022, January 23). What does it mean to “sonder?” author invents new words that resonate during the pandemic | CBC radio. CBCnews. https://www.cbc.ca/radio/sunday/the-sunday-magazine-for-january-9-2022-1.6307530/what-does-it-mean-to-sonder-author-invents-new-words-that-resonate-during-the-pandemic-1.6321644#:~:text=Sonder%3A%20the%20realization%20that%20each,sipping%20coffee%20in%20the%20background

How to use “sonder” in a sentence. WordHippo. (n.d.). https://www.wordhippo.com/what-is/sentences-with-the-word/sonder.html

Is sonder the best-ever new word?. Reddit. (n.d.). https://www.reddit.com/r/words/comments/housk7/is_sonder_the_bestever_new_word/

Koenig, J. (2012, July 22). Sonder. Tumblr. https://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/post/23536922667/sonder

Sonder. Urban Dictionary. (n.d.). https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=sonder

What are the correct ways of using the word “sonder”? Quora. (n.d.). https://www.quora.com/What-are-the-correct-ways-of-using-the-word-sonder#:~:text=For%20example%2C%20%22I%20am%20struck,rigid%20posture%20and%20furrowed%20brow

#hi everyone #writing #article #my writing #nonfiction #language #Words #linguistics #my articles #writers on tumblr #writer #pretentious #happy to post my writing again :)

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necropathys · 1 year ago

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2, 7, 8, 13!

2.) Where do you get your fic ideas?

usually other fics, or thread's i'll see on twt/discord! mostly other fics though, I'll see elements/concepts brought up by one and want to put my own spin on it.

Do you listen to music while you write? If yes, what have you been listening to recently?

i answered this ask already here! ^^

7.) Post a snippet from a wip.

im going to have to readmore these haha

"I've had to kill before," Blue huffed, irritated at the assumption. "Maybe not to the sheer extent as you two, but I'm not that much of a Pacifist. There are some times when violence is truly the only feasible option. Considering some places in the Multiverse Ink has spat us out in..." He gripped, trailing off as he remembered some of the horrifying locations that Ink had drawn them into.

Killer snickered at his words, likely imagining scenarios in his mind. It didn't stop the quick telling of a knife in his left hand, the practiced maneuvers almost distracting in their complexity. Still, the warrior knew that Killer would be ready to strike out if necessary in an instant.

"Still, there's a big difference in the willingness to defend oneself if push came to shove and inciting violence in the unsuspecting." Cross informed him with an air of patience. "And the rush of LoVe from doing so is quite different, I have to warn you."

The Swap Sans didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he simply nodded, taking in the information for what is was.

"Speaking of which," Killer remarked with a grin, motioning up ahead in the path. "Would you like to do the honors and start us off, baby Blue?"

It was difficult for Blue to discern in the darkness of the ruins, but eventually he saw what his ally was referring to. A pair of monsters, walking peacefully in their direction, chatting quietly to one another. A reflection of their own group's actions.

Blue swallowed, nerves suddenly swarming up his spine and settling in his ribcage like a weight. The thought of just attacking the pair unaware, without actual personal cause felt simply wrong.

Terribly, terribly, wrong.

"Don't get cold feet now," Killer purred, suddenly far too close in his personal space for comfort. He could feel the other's breath ghosting onto his cervical spine from where he was standing, no doubt leaned forward and leering down at the smaller warrior. "It'll be so simple to get them now—or perhaps you want us to hold them still for you?" He cooed, before continuing on as Blue stilled completely, eyelights shrunken in horror. "Or maybe you don't want to kill them at all? Just injure them enough so they're left to suffer for the rest of their days?" He asked, a chilling chuckle following his words. "Kinda fucked up, if you ask me. But, really—"

"Enough, Killer." Cross barked, effectly cutting off silencing the skeleton behind Blue in an instant.

8.) Post an out-of-context spoiler from a wip.

"Eat," Nightmare repeated as though gently reminding him of a forgotten task. As if he had simply left behind an item, and was told to retrieve it.

Dust drew it close to his mouth and bit into the flesh without hesitation. It tasted rancid and sour, like nothing he had ever tasted. Like nothing he could ever imagine tasting. It burned like lava straight from the pits of Hotlsnd against his conjured tongue. It burned his very teeth and bones with its juice as it slithered in its mouth, trying to make its way into his throat.

Before Dust could even gag on the flavor, on the sensation, a hand pressed firmly against his mouth, sealing it shut.

"Swallow," Nightmare commanded, his single orbit intense and bright. It felt like the only light in his room now, any other light sources swallowed by Nightmares twisting and writhing form.

Tendrils coiled around his form, slithering up from impossible angles to curl around Dudt in the pantomime of an embrace. Nightmare's mouth dripped, his teeth giving way to the raw glow of magic behind the black expanse of his corruption.

"It will stop if you swallow," Nightmare crooned, his voice sounding only vaguely like its normal state. It sounded like a hundred people harmonizing at once behind the strong echo of Nightmare's normal tone.

It sounded like a promise.

#shandycandy278 #wahh thank you so much for the ask shandy #fanfiction writing asks #necro asks #spoilers #wip #spoiling all the goods ive been hording for a while whoops

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middleearthpixie · 2 years ago

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After the Fire ~ Chapter Thirty-Four

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a grievously wounded Thorin is brought back to the kingdom of Erebor, which is still mostly in ruins. Although he’s survived the wounds he received at the end of Azog’s blade, his recovery is far from complete. Grief, regret, anger, all are making his journey that much more difficult and the physical recovery isn’t quite the most difficult challenge he faces.

Jasna Stoneham is no stranger to loss, as she is a survivor of Smaug’s wrath upon Esgaroth. When she is asked to help the dwarves healers of Erebor, her instinct is to say no, but she needs the job, and so agrees to it. However, no one told her that of all the patients, she would be responsible for the king himself, Thorin Oakenshield.

Unfortunately, the road to recovery isn’t necessary a smooth one, but if there’s one thing Thorin will learn, it’s that Jasna is just as stubborn as he is and for every step back he takes, she is there to push him three steps forward. And Jasna will soon find out that there is a gentle, softer side to the dwarf king, one that very few people have ever seen and one he fights to keep hidden from her as well. But like his recovery, that is also easier said than done.

The Elder Council convenes…

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Jasna Stoneham

Characters: Jasna, Thorin, Balin, Thadrid, Nafas, Dáin, Skalmar,

Warnings: Morning sex

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,581

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @immortal-dreams @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @sorisooyaa @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here.

There was something to be said about sleeping in the king’s bed. It was soft. It was comfortable.

It had Thorin in it.

Jasna lay on her side, propped on her elbow, as she gazed down at her king. He lay on his back, his silver-streaked black hair fanned beneath him, and his jaw was just slack enough that when he inhaled, he snored softly. She smiled at the sound, remembering the first time she’d heard that same sound, when he was in the infirmary.

And now I am in his bed. She smiled, reaching down to trace along the silvery threads in his beard. It was mostly dark, almost as dark as the hair spread across the pillows, but on the right side of his chin, there was a predominantly silver patch. The hair was soft, but bristly, and it baffled her how that was even possible. She’d noticed his beard was not nearly as long or elaborately decorated as the others’ and she wondered about that. She’d been in Erebor and around dwarves long enough to know they took great pride in their beards, in their hair, and while she knew their customs regarding hair ornamentation, she wasn't quite as schooled in their beards.

“Bored, mesmel?”

His whisper floated up to startle her and she still her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered back. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t, actually. I was getting there on my own.” His eyes opened and he turned his head toward her, his blue eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy even as he offered up a smile. “Have you been awake long?”

“Only a few minutes.” She resumed her tracing. “Why is your beard so much shorter and without any adornments?”

“I used to wear it longer.” The linens rustled as he eased up onto his side to face her, sliding a hand beneath his pillow. “But when Smaug came, I got a bit too close and the heat from his breath singed it off and I lost what ornaments I had in it as a result. So, I left it that way, as a reminder, a bit of a memorial perhaps.”

“Will you keep it this way?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really given it much thought. Erebor’s mine—at least for now—and it’s getting back on its feet. I’m to be married soon,” he smiled at her as he said this, “and will have a family of my own, if Mahal wills it, so perhaps I can let go of the past to a certain degree.”

“A family, dwarf?”

He smiled. “A child a year, I think.”

“Bite your t-t-tongue,” she told him with a laugh. “I am not having a baby a year. You’re mad to even joke about it.”

The linens rustled once more as he eased himself over her and she smiled, easing her arms about his neck, and when he came flush against her, he murmured, “But the way one gets children is something I think we both enjoy.”

“Be that as it may,” she whispered back, “I am not having a child a year.”

His lips brushed hers. “We could get started now. On that family, I mean.”

“Thorin!”

He offered up an innocent grin. “What? I just—”

“Thorin?” A knock accompanied Balin’s voice. “The delegates have all arrived.”

Jasna’s gut kinked sharply and Thorin let out low growl as his head fell forward into the curve of her neck. “I’ll be there in a minute, Balin,” he called, his voice somewhat muffled.

“Thorin?” Another knock. “Are you in there?”

Thorin swore softly beneath his breath as he slid from her and into his trousers. “Do not move. I’ll be right back.”

She sighed softly, swallowing hard as he padded out of the room. The council would convene soon and they would call her before them. What if they heard her stutter and decided she was far too stupid to be allowed anywhere near the throne? Or the king, for that matter?

“You need only concentrate on your words,” she muttered to herself, sinking back into the pillows. “Speak slowly and you will be fine. You’ve dealt with Mr. Templeton. Surely no dwarf can be any worse. You won’t have any trouble.”

Or so she tried to tell herself. The truth was, she was terrified she would cost Thorin his throne, cost him his kingdom.

Her mother’s words echoed through her head as she lay there, staring up at the dark stone ceiling of the king’s chambers. If that should happen, Thorin could very easily resent her for it.

He came back into the room, looking far more serious than she’d seen him look in a long time. “Thorin, wh-what is it?”

“I have to go and greet the council members.” He sank onto the edge of the bed with a soft sigh.

She sat up, scooting over to let her hands come to rest on his massive shoulders. The muscles beneath his skin were tense, and without thinking, she curled her fingers against that muscle, kneading it to loosen that tension. A heavy sigh bubbled to his lips and he leaned into her kneading, his head falling forward as he whispered, “Oh… that feels nice…”

She smiled, kneading the muscle more firmly now. “B-b-but is it helping?”

“You have no idea, mesmel.”

Heat wafted from his skin, and she slid her fingers down over the scars along his right shoulder. “How did you get these?”

“Blades. Before I faced off with Azog, there were quite a few orcs between me and him. And some are from past battles as well—orcs, trolls, goblins, Men.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“You have no idea.”

She smiled and swept a kiss over the longest of the blade scars. Then moved toward the middle of his back, then to the warg bite scars. And with each pass of her lips, his breathing grew a little more ragged, a little smokier about the edges.

“Jasna…” he breathed, covering her hand on his right shoulder with his. “Oh, love… what you do to me…”

She smiled, kissing him again. Hearing his breath hitch, feeling how it quickened, the way his fingers tightened about hers were all so heady to her. She slid her other arm about his midsection, her fingers sliding through the hair curling away from his chest, as she moved inward now, toward his neck. His head lolled to the side as she moved up and when she reached his ear, he whispered, “I do so love you, you know…”

“I love you, too, dwarf,” she whispered back, bushing her lips over his ear, smiling as he moaned softly.

“Mesmel,” he breathed, his voice low and husky, “we don’t have time for—oh, Mahal, that feels so nice…”

“Do you wish me to stop?”

“Not at all…”

She smiled against his skin, nipping him gently before brushing her lips across his shoulder once more. He twisted to catch her about the waist and tugged her astride him, sighing into her mouth as her thighs settled on either side of his hips. He pulled her flush against him, wrapping his arms about her as his lips seized hers in a fiery kiss that left her head spinning.

She wound her arms about his neck, her fingers threading into his thick hair. Instinct took over as she rocked against him, sighing into his mouth at the sensations rippling though her where their bodies met, where his hardness ground up into her softness.

His hands slid along her sides, cupping both breasts to fondle at the same time, his thumbs slipping slowly about her nipples. His tongue slipped between her lips, hot and silken, to glide along hers, to tease it. He drew it back into his mouth, gently sucking at it to fire her blood further. She melted against him, skimming a hand down over his solid belly, to the waist of his trousers. The button slipped easily through its loop, the fabric parted, and she eased her hand into his trousers, into his heat.

The breath left his body in a heated rush as she stroked him slowly, let her fingers just graze along his sleek male flesh. Her fingers curled about him as she caressed him from root to tip and when she guided him to her, he moaned softly into her mouth as she slowly sheathed him.

“Jasna,” he whispered as she rocked against him, “oh, amrâlimê…”

She linked her fingers at his nape and leaned away to meet his heavy-lidded, azure-eyed gaze. “I do love you,” she whispered, rolling her hips toward him once more.

“And I, you,” he growled back, a smile playing at his lips.

The fullness of him inside her spurred her to move faster, to arch her hips to send him deeper. He shuddered beneath her, his hands tightening on her hips, moving her a bit faster against him. She obliged, leaning in to capture his lips once more in a fiery kiss.

He met her easily, but little by little, her control slipped away, her body spurring her to move faster, to ride him harder. His fingers bit into her, moved her faster still. His breath came in harsh blasts against her, her name rose to his lips in a husky growl and they peaked together, his climax feeding hers. As she sank against him, he once more wrapped tender arms about her, pressed a kiss into her temple, and whispered, “Amrâlimê…”

She smiled, breathless as she pressed her cheek into his soft hair. “Amrâlimê, Mr. Durin.”

He just held her, cradled against his chest, as he slipped from her and their breathing slowed. Pressing a kiss into her temple, he whispered, “I’m going to be late now, you realize.”

“Am I supposed to apologize, my king?” She lifted her head to meet his gaze, shaking her head as she added, “For I am n-n-not about to.”

“Oh, no, not at all.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “But, I do have to go, mesmel.”

“I know.” She eased down from his lap, smiling as he tightened his arms about her to pull her to him once more. “Thorin, you have to go.”

“I know, but I like how you feel against me,” he looked up at her, his eyes soft and tender, his voice low and gravelly. His fingers danced along her back, up toward her shoulder blades and then back down to her hips. “You are so very beautiful, Jasna. Do you know that? I am a lucky dwarf, to call you mine.”

Heat flooded her at the emotion in his voice, swirling in those beautiful blue eyes. Never did she think any man would ever utter sentiments like those, never mind someone like Thorin Durin, who outwardly seemed so hard and gruff.

She curved her palms against his cheeks. “I am the l-lucky one,” she murmured, smiling as she added, “I will m-m-marry a k-k-king.”

He chuckled softly. “That remains to be seen.”

“I’m still the l-l-l-lucky one, Thorin. Whether you are a king or not.”

He slowly rose, but didn't release her. “I should go, but I have no desire to leave you.”

“I need to get to the infirmary,” she told him. “I can only imagine the look on Óin’s face, sh-should I tell him I’m late because I was making love with you.”

“Tell him anyway. I’m curious as to how badly he blushes.”

She chuckled. “I think he w-would rather not th-th-think about it.”

He reluctantly let her pull away from him. “You’re probably right. I know the answer, but, let me escort you back to the infirmary?”

She shook her head. “As much as I would like to say yes, I don’t think it would be wise.”

He sighed softly. “I knew you’d say that.”

“You know me well, dwarf.”

He leaned in and swept a teasing kiss across her lips. “I will find you later, mesmel.”

“You know where I’ll be.”

Balin was still in the corridor outside Thorin’s chambers when Thorin emerged, leaning against the wall, looking more than a little perturbed.

“I thought you’d gone back to sleep,” Balin remarked, pushing up and away from the wall. “The delegates are waiting and you will not win any favor by making them continue to wait.”

“I had to get washed and dressed and they’ll get over any irritation at my tardiness.”

They made their way back above and into the War Room, so dubbed because it was where all military maneuvers, both in war and peace time, were planned out. The room was empty, the long rectangular table of obsidian refinished to an almost mirror-like polish, with new chairs set about its perimeter. It was there that he’d plead his case for changing the archaic laws and hope Jasna could win over a notoriously hard-hearted faction of dwarves.

“You look nervous, laddie. Are you?”

“Of course I am,” Thorin admitted, moving to his chair at the head of the table. “They will determine my fate and I am powerless to do much about it.”

“If anyone will win them over, as I’ve said, it’s Miss Stoneham.”

“I hope so.” Thorin tugged out his chair and sank into it. “They should have been here last eve, to see her with Wyn’s widow.”

“I heard she was of great comfort to her.”

“She was. I saw it. Óin confirmed it. She has a gift. And I—”

“Cousin!” Dáin’s boisterous voice rang out, bounced off the obsidian and jade walls around them. “What the deuce did ye drag us all here for because I canna believe for a moment it has anything to do wi’ a woman!”

Thorin stood, moving around the table to embrace his cousin. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but it does, actually.”

“What?”

“Do you remember the woman working in the infirmary with Óin and Narnerra?”

“Aye, of course I do! She took care of my thumb and showed me what a jackanapes Ormir is. What about her?”

Leaning against the table, Thorin clasped his hands and let them come to rest against his thighs. “I’ve fallen for her, is what about her.”

“Fallen for her, eh?” Dáin’s blue eyes glinted with mischief beneath his heavy rust-colored brows. “Are ye tellin’ me, that hard heart of yers isna so hard now?”

Grinning, Thorin nodded. “I am. I wish to marry her, Dáin. I will marry her. I just need a little legal matter cleared up in order to do so.”

Dáin’s smile faded. “Ah… the law regarding who the king can and canna marry. Well, ye know ye can count on me ta vote in yer favor. The lass is more than worthy as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thank you, Cousin,” Thorin said softly. “I appreciate that.”

“Ah, but isna me ye have to convince. I’ve met the lady. I know how highly in regard she is held here. But…”

Thorin sighed, nodding. “I know. The others don’t know and might not be so open-minded.”

“Exactly. But, we’ll want to speak wi’ her, too. She knows that, right?”

Thorin nodded. “She does. And she’s nervous.”

“The stammer, right?”

“It worsens when she’s nervous,” Balin broke in softly.

“And when she is frustrated,” Thorin added. “Both of which feed off one another and I won’t be allowed in when they wish to question her.”

“I can be here, though,” Balin told him. “And I will be more than happy to remain with her as long as she needs me to, if she wishes to have me here at all.”

“I appreciate that,” Thorin told him. “And I can ask her.”

“I’m sure Óin or Narnerra will also be willing to sit with her.”

Thorin nodded. “Again, I’ll speak to them and to Jasna. The decision is hers in the end.”

The door opened again and six more dwarves filed in. Thorin did not know their names, but as each one entered, they bobbed their heads and greeted him with the respect due his title. He pushed up and away from the table as the others took their seats and all just looked up at him.

Dáin also skirted the table to sink into his chair and Thorin glanced over at Balin, then cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming and welcome to Erebor. As you know, I’ve petitioned the council in order to amend dwarven law regarding the marriage of royals to non-royals.”

“Skalmar of the Ironfist clan, Your Majesty. May I?”

Thorin nodded. “Of course.”

“Good. Now, we understand what you wish us to agree to, but what we are curious about is why you wish to amend this. It is my understanding you were to marry a Miss Shael Whitbow of Ered Luin.”

Thorin nodded. “I know many thought that, but the truth of the matter is that she and I were never a couple and never formally betrothed.” Thorin held Skalmar’s stare easily. “And I’ve met someone else I wish to marry instead. Only, she is not of dwarven extraction.”

Skalmar’s eyes widened. “And what is she?”

“She is of Man. A woman who at one point lived in Esgaroth, but now calls Dale home. The daughter of a florist and a fisherman.”

“When did she relocate to Dale?” another dwarf asked. And at Thorin’s pointed look, the dwarf’s cheeks grew ruddy as he added, “Thadrid of the Stonefoot clan, Your Majesty. I beg your pardon.”

“She and her mother relocated in the days following Smaug’s destruction of Dale.”

“I see,” Thadrid replied calmly. “I assume you mean, when you and your kin unleashed the dragon prior to the Battle of the Five Armies?”

His gut curdled a bit at that even as he nodded. “I do, yes.”

“Your Majesty? Nafas of the Blacklocks clan.” He waited a beat. “So, you mean to tell us a woman whose home was destroyed as a result of your actions, has found her way into Erebor and has also found a possible way to the throne?”

Thorin bristled at the insinuation, but remained outwardly calm. “If you suggest she did so with an ulterior motive, allow me to disabuse you of that notion.”

“So, how,” Thadrid broke in, “did she come to be here?”

“Our healers, Óin and Narnerra, requested extra help following the battle, as we were overrun with casualties. There are very few trained healers between here and Mirkwood or here and Rivendell and there was no time to request aid from either kingdom. Miss Stoneham was a medical student with enough knowledge to make her an asset and so Óin asked that she join us.”

“I see.” Thadrid exchanged looks with Skalmar. “And how was she supervised amongst the dwarves?”

“You would have to ask Óin or Narnerra,” Thorin replied easily, “As I was one of the dwarves under her care. I was, and my nephews were as well.”

“So, this daughter of Man,” Nafas said, “was left in charge of the entire Durin royal family?”

“In charge? No.” Thorin shook his head. “She remained under Óin’s watchful eye, as she is still in training. But, as you can see, even if she had been left in charge, I stand before you almost entirely healed. Kíli and Fíli have also been discharged from the infirmary. Fíli currently is working with Miss Stoneham now to regain full use of his legs. I daresay if Miss Stoneham had ill intentions toward any of us, she had ample opportunity to act upon them. More than once.”

“So, tell me,” Skalmar said, “how did she come to be more than a healer to you?”

Thorin smiled. “I spent quite a bit of time in her company and over time, I’ve come to know her. And I know I can trust her with my life, because I have. She has proven herself time and again.”

The dwarf council members began whispering amongst themselves and Thorin sighed softly as he moved back to his chair. “I know the law was written to protect our people from outsiders and I understand why it was written. But, I find if archaic and rather offensive, since being of Man, or of any race not dwarven, does not by definition make a soul unworthy. She has saved countless dwarven lives with her skills and just last eve, offered comfort to a dwarrowdam who’d just lost her husband to an accident in the forces. She is kind and gifted and gentle and generous and would be an asset to our people as their queen. And all I ask is that the law be amended to allow the king to use his own judgment in choosing his mate.”

The whispering continued for several more minutes, then Skalmar looked up. “We would like to speak with your Miss Stoneham.”

Thorin nodded, his gut curdling even more at the tonelessness of Skalmar’s request. “Of course. Excuse me.”

He moved to the door and with a soft sigh, stepped out of the War Room. As the door closed behind him, he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes as he offered up a silent prayer to Mahal to allow him to choose the woman he wished to marry, and to have the council see why she would be a fine queen for Erebor.

#Richard Armitage #The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #Thorin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Romance #Everybody Lives AU #The Hobbit BOTFA

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