#also leaf is she/they root is he/it and bough is they/them!!

[cowcowwow]

THE TREE TRIPLETS,,,

[nearen]

Prompt #7: Morsel

tw: child endangerment, death

“Stick with me, pup,” she’d told him. “I’ll look out fer ya.”

Her name was Violet. Violet was older than him. Not by much, but she talked like she knew all there was to know, so she must. She also had a head’s height on him, with chiselled shoulders carved for archery and arms broad as boughs. She’d taken a shine to him, so staying under her wing was smart for practical purposes.

He was a waifish scrap of a lad when the band took him off his mother’s hands. Barely looked his age then, and he was only grazing ten. The price he fetched? A good meal, but not for him. He went hungry that night, huddled alone in a cramped cage to keep him from bolting.

Not that he would’ve.

Violet shared her watery stew with him next moonrise. Antelope, mostly gristle, seasoned with nettle leaf. It was awful, and he relished every bite.

The next sun, they let her take him to the river to wash off the grime and the lice. She’d had to swallow a shriek when she moved the locks behind his ear and his scalp crawled. Apologising with every breath, she spent the next bell carefully shaving away matted hair at the root with a paring knife while he sat unshivering in the icy water, knees pulled up to his chest.

With nowhere to hide, his itchy passengers were rinsed away. Ticks were twisted ‘n’ plucked, leeches peeled off. She scrubbed him down and bundled him up in her own spare clothes, leagues too large. He said nothing the whole time, staring at her while she asked all kinds of questions and made up the answers when he wouldn’t give one.

“What was yer village like? Why did yer mum give ya up? Didn’t she want yer? Did ya do somethin’ bad? D’ya have any brothers? Sisters? Did they die? D’ya talk at all. C’mon, say somethin’. Did they take out yer tongue?” She grabbed his chin and made him open his mouth to check. He let her.

“Pff. Y’can talk. Say somethin’. ‘Ey. What’s yer name? Y’must know yer name. I’ll call ya… eh, pebble. ‘Cause rocks never say nothin’ but yer too small t’ be a rock. So yer a pebble. Like what y’get stuck in yer shoe.” She glanced at his bare feet, caked in river clay. “Oh, right. Y’need shoes. Should have some that’ll fit at the hideout. Let’s go, pebble.”

Violet took his hand and started to walk, but he dug his heels in, his hazel eyes pointed downwards. He muttered lowly, under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Osric. I’m Osric.”

The girl cracked a smile. “Y’can talk. Knew it. I’m Violet. Like the flower. I was born while they was in bloom. It’s too late t’ see ‘em now. Turnin’ cold. But when spring comes, I’ll take ya t’ pick ‘em. What’s yer name mean?”

She walked him back to ‘the hideout’, a cluster of huts and tents lodged into the rocky, wooded hills of the South Shroud, not unlike a true hornet’s nest. The hive that dwelt there was led by a wildwood woman who styled herself their queen. All Osric had known until then was life with his siblings and his mother, but the queen wasn’t his mother, and the wasps weren’t his kin. The hive wasn’t his home.

Violet felt like a friend, though. Maybe his first.

They wasted little time putting him to work. They’d taken him in for his potential uses, not out of the kindess of their hearts. He was small and slight, which meant he was the one getting shoved into a cellar through the window to unlock doors, or helping them empty larders. He’d climb into wagons to relieve them of their goods, waded through forests of legs in crowded markets to lighten pockets.

Osric was good at it, all of it. Too good, and that was the problem. It didn’t take long for his impulses to land him in trouble. Violet was the first to find things that didn’t belong to him hidden away under his blanket. A search of his pockets turned up more.

“Y’don’t take these,” she’d warned him, waving a bejewelled bracelet in his face. “Food, I get. They don’t give ya enough.” He worked harder than half the hive, and he still only ate what he could steal and squirrel away. They wanted to keep him small. Useful. “But what would ya even do with this?”

She’d laughed. It was always kind of funny, the first time. The first few times. They tried the bracelet on his slender wrist and it looked silly, hanging there like a loose, shimmering shackle. He didn’t know what to tell her, so he just shrugged. He hadn’t even remembered picking it up or where he got it. Violet knew whose it was, so she took it back before it was missed. But it wasn’t the last time she had to cover for him, and even her patience started to wane.

“D’ya want t’ get into trouble? I’ve told ya before. Y’don’t steal from yer fellow wasps. They’re not playin’ around, Os. They’ll have ya fer this if they catch ya.” He stared at her, like he always did. It was like he got it, but if he got it, why’d he keep doing it? Her face changed. “This is why yer mother got shut of ya. En’t it.”

It hurt. He could tell she was only angry because she cared. Violet’s anger was different from his mother’s. She didn’t want to see him hurt, or tossed out to fend for himself.

“Won’t happen again,” he swore. She hit him, and he fell back into the grass. He lay there, stunned. But he understood why. It was her way of saying she didn’t believe him. Because he broke his last promise, and he was going to break this one too.

They went fishing as the colder moons set in. She taught him things he didn’t know, like how to fashion together a makeshift rod, and the kinds of bugs that were better as bait for this or that kind of fish. He didn’t have much patience for it, and he usually ended up in the river, fishing for crayfish with his bare hands.

Violet showed him how to cook their catch, starting with how to make a fire. The rocks that made the base, first. “It needs t’ breathe,” she told him. Then the right tinder, and finally how to make a spark by striking firestone. “Cook it through,” she scolded. “Fish’ll make ya sick if the middle’s not done.”

She taught him how to set snares for small game, and the mechanism for basic traps. He wanted to learn how to hunt with a bow like she did, but he wasn’t strong enough to draw back the string. His arrows nicked off the outer bark of the tree they used for target practice while hers lodged themselves ilms deep. It made her laugh until she cried every time his shot went wide, and he started doing it on purpose just to see her smile.

He didn’t get it back then; why she did all that. He figured they were just having fun together. That she was proud to teach him all the things she knew and show him how clever she was—and she was.

The take got harder. It always did through the winter moons, Violet told him. This one was leaner than most, though. Bad weather set in and buried the roads in fulms of snow. They had to travel further, and the risks were greater.

Osric was sent out to scout. He didn’t mind the cold much and it meant he got lucky finding something to eat every once in a while. A warm glow amidst the trees alerted to him to a camp’s presence. The guards were few in number and half-asleep. He snuck in, clambering onto the back of a cart laden with salted fish and meat. He ate until he felt sick, then more, until his stomach hurt. It was tempting, too tempting to doze off right there in amongst all the bundles when he was done, but he willed himself to retreat—pockets stuffed with as much as he could carry—back to the nearest outpost.

He hid his haul before reporting in, but he smuggled some mackerel for Violet. Her favourite.

The ‘stingers’, they called them, were assembled. Archers all, and Violet was among them. Following Osric’s lead, they retraced his steps back to the camp to assess numbers and the viability of their task.

It was near dawn by then, but it wouldn’t get light until late morn this season. The boy had an idea of what was going to happen when he reported in, but he’d never been there for it before. They hadn’t needed to mobilise the stingers since he was taken on. His talents had helped to keep them well-enough supplied.

But they’d missed too many meals.

They took to the trees, found their positions: Clear sight of the guards and the tents they watched over. The boy stayed on the ground, with Violet. She was down there to give chase if they sought cover. A body dropped, its fall softened by the snow. Osric watched it turn red with clinical interest.

The next shot must have missed its mark. A man’s scream pierced Osric’s ears. He sounded so pained that it made his stomach lurch, and he regretted his earlier gluttony. Figures poured out of the tents, more than he’d banked on. They were in their smallclothes but had bows in their hands, and were in various stages of hastily slinging quivers over their shoulders.

A woman dressed in a long, woollen robe with a wooden staff took stock and said—

“Leave this to me.” The staff spun, palm over wrist, and Osric flinched back and ducked low as a fierce gale billowed out from her position, scattering supplies and raising up the snow off the ground into a whirling blizzard.

“Fuck!” he heard Violet cry, but he couldn’t see her. Cold winds blew right through him, chilling him to his core. He heard dull thuds and ivory cracks from the west and north, where the stingers had been poised to strike. Blinded and panicked, he pulled up his hood to shield his head and ran.

“Violet!” he bleated, but he heard his own voice die in the gale. He leant against a tree to gather his bearings, and a whistling thunk carried an arrow deep into the bark, ilms from his ear. Peeling away, he scrambled through thick brush that snared and scratched bare skin. He grabbed a skinny sapling for support and doubled over. Each panicked gasp was being stolen from him. I can’t breathe, he realised, cold dread pouring down his back.

He couldn’t muster a scream when a powerful arm closed around his torso, thrashing in vain against their strength. He was thrown over a shoulder, and jostled as his captor ran. Drifting in and out, Osric felt the winds die, watched the snow start to settle.

“Yer safe,” was the next thing he heard, and he trusted the voice that told him so. She set him down in a snowdrift and knelt over him protectively while she surveyed the woods. “Can’t say if we lost any. We’re s’posed t’ regroup at th’ outpost if somethin’ happens. But only if we’re not bein’ followed.”

Shivering, Osric sat up and buried his face in her chest for a moment, gripping her shoulder. Fear still prickled the inside of his skin, and he shook from the itch. “I dun wanna do this again, I hate it,” he choked, breath shuddering. “I wanna go home.” He didn’t know where home was. Just that it wasn’t here.

“I know, pup.” Taking his hand, Violet rose. “C’mon. Stick with me.” Osric climbed to his feet, unsteady as a fawn. He registered the whistle too late. The arrow’s path scored his cheek and struck her chest.

─ • ─

Come spring, her namesake was in bloom. Pretty purple petals that flourished where sunlight spilled into the forest. He gathered a bunch and brought them to her.

[whifferdills]

Asclepius Good Omens TV, Aziraphale/Crowley, Gabriel is there. the Garden of Eden/aka Dr Who Cerulean AU. technically gen but also horny, u know how it is. ~1.8k words

read on the AO3

One of these days there would be words invented to describe this emotion, chief among them 'anxious', but for now Aziraphale settled on feeling slightly out of sorts. "It's an honor," Gabriel insisted. "I cannot stress enough how important of a job this is." "Job," Aziraphale repeated uncertainly. Uncertainty, how...unbefitting, for an Angel. He hoped it didn't show.

A window cracked open between them: the Garden, in miniature, verdant and lush. The sands outside. Gabriel gestured. "Take your time," he said, somewhat impatiently. "And when it's over?" Aziraphale tucked his wings close together. The flush of him knitted inexpertly down; a plain tunic as cover. "Easy-peasy." Gabriel grinned with at least five of his mouths, wheels spinning in cold precision. "Just make like a tree and leaf."

It's simple, ish. Certainly fewer moving parts than other forms. How difficult could it be, really, to be a tree. He settles into his roots and wraps himself in bark. Solid, unyielding. An appropriate amount of leaves shaken out and left to bask in the harsh sunlight. He makes shade in which things might grow; where fledgling humanity might take a nap, or stare blankly into space. He waits. Sometimes humanity sits, and sometimes humanity stands. Sometimes they walk in circles, or accidentally bump into each other. He basks in his love for them; he even finds things to admire about them. Their physicality, their simplicity, how they seem assured of the ground beneath their feet. The grace of them, pure and uncomplicated. The underbrush rustles, sometimes. He can't tell how far into the day it's been before he catches a glimpse of eyes, glowing reflective in the dark. Nor how long after that it is before the creature emerges, slithering languidly towards him. Black and red and almost imposing. Intelligent, possibly. The Serpent manages to look as bored as Aziraphale feels. Boredom, surely that's not right - this is a very important job, after all. He settles back into his roots and waits. Humanity isn't afraid, not yet. The Serpent wriggles past where they're sprawled carelessly on the moss, undulating over them and. On to him. Oh. Well. He's not bored anymore, at least. The thing is - the thing is. He's never been touched before, you see. Not knowingly, not with intent. The smoothness of the scales sliding over his trunk, the pressure of lean muscle curling around his branches - there is no breeze but his leaves shudder anyway, growing a touch greener, a hair broader. And the Serpent pauses, and looks up at him inquisitively. "You've forgotten the apple," it says. Oh. Oh! Of course. Aziraphale concentrates very hard, and stretches all of his Angelic energy throughout himself, from root-end to leaf-tip, and with a proverbial grunt produces a single, dismal crabapple. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," says the Serpent.

This will be known as "panic", later on - Aziraphale flicks the Serpent off (it bounces into the wilderness with a yelp) and slips first into ephemerality and then into his practiced Earthly form and then runs. Not particularly swiftly or gracefully, but with some urgency. He runs and he runs and then he stumbles, tilted headfirst until he hits the wall. The stone is hot and unforgiving against his palms, the air is too still, this body is too small - "Stay away," he calls out, voice unacceptably shaky. He turns, swallows, puffs his wings out and produces the Sword with a barely-earned flourish. The Serpent slips out of a thorn bush, unperturbed. "I have a sword," Aziraphale says. "I can see that," the Serpent responds. "Oh, for Hell's sake - " It rears up, and slips easily into personhood. Demonhood. Human-shaped, anyway, not that there's much to go on as of yet. "S'everthing alright?" Aziraphale does his best to look impressive. "Stand back, foul Demon." He has the temerity to laugh. "Oh, come off it. We're both here for the same reason. We're basically co-workers. You do the tree, I do the snake, the humans do the You Know, we go our separate ways. It's not that deep." "Not that -" Aziraphale huffs, but lowers his sword. Stage-whispering: "This is where it starts! This is God's Plan!"

"If that helps," says the demon.

"It's her Ineffable Plan and I am being Counted On and. And I'm not - I'm not doing a very good job of it, am I?" The demon, this creature - it is unfair how pretty a monster can be, he'll write a sternly-worded letter one of these days - this red and black and temptingly beautiful boy steps forward. Charming, tentative, tentatively charming and vice-versa. "Performance anxiety, happens to the best of us. I'm Crawley, by the way." "Aziraphale," says Aziraphale reluctantly, his own name sounding odd in these ears. He slips the Sword back into his pocket. He hadn't really meant to use it, anyway. How could he? Here, of all places, how could he? "Aziraphale," Crawley repeats, and it sounds even stranger - but that's a demon's voice for you. "Shall we try again? You can pop back whenever you're ready. Promise I won't look." Aziraphale glares, and Crawley dramatically covers his eyes with his hands, and they try again.

The humans are asleep, as they usually are, as there's nothing much else for them to do. Crawley sits on the ground, sifting thorns out of his coal-black feathers and burrs from his fire-red hair, gangly-legged and comfortable in Aziraphale's shade. "I can draw you a picture, if you like." Crawley adds a petal of something pink to the small pile of thorns. "You're looking for round, red, juicy - " Aziraphale is silent and settled back in his roots, but the thrum of exasperation is deliberate and hopefully clearly felt. "An Angel, inventing an Earthly pleasure from whole cloth, so a demon can tempt God's own creation into...what, exactly?" Another petal, this time white. "Are you sure your side knows what it's doing?" He waves his hand over the pile of petals and burrs and thorns and it sinks into the dirt. The roots of the Tree stretch beneath him in response. He puts his hand on the base of the trunk, the bark rough under his fingertips, and under that a clumsy, boundless love. White-hot and holy and like a sword being plunged through him. He clenches his fist and then shifts, the snake rising in his place. The humans stir, move together guilelessly. The smaller one is watching him. He slides up, wraps around the boughs. Bends the branches, curling closer to where green is budding, where fruit is swelling, ripening, reddening. She's still watching him. She's almost curious. Nearly, nearly. It won't happen now, but soon enough. He opens his mouth and sinks his fangs into an apple, listening to the leaves chatter above him.

"You're getting better at this, Angel." Aziraphale stifles a smile. It's not that he's proud, of course; it's not that he's weak to the flattery of a demon. "Oh. Thank you, I suppose. You're - quite wily. Very good at the evil... wiles." "Still needs work, though," Crawley continues blithely. "Something's missing. A certain je ne sais quoi. Can angels eat?"

"We don't need to, no." Aziraphale frowns, feeling wrong-footed and slightly ruffled in the feathers. Crawley slips to Serpent long enough to writhe up Aziraphale's calf, along his thigh and around his belly before dropping Back with a snap of the fingers and the whip of wings spreading wide. "It's not about need, Angel. Haven't you been paying attention? It's about want." He somehow manages to saunter backwards, the thicket parting for him. Aziraphale stands very still and watches him go. "Are you trying to tempt me?" "Is it working?" A pause, a consideration. Aziraphale follows wordlessly, the path closing behind them.

Paradise, down by the river. An angel tiptoes in a demon's footsteps, across the water and through the mud and the tangled vines. "Is it evil?" Aziraphale approaches cautiously, primly. "It's a blackberry bush," Crawley says. "Yes, I made it, so technically...Not everything is - nevermind. Just. Try?" "Are you teaching me how to be tempting? Or tempted? Or - " "Yes! No! Does it matter?" Crawley sighs, runs his hands through his unnecessarily luxurious hair. "One way or another we need to get through this, and I don't know about your side, but mine is getting just a smidge impatient." He plucks a berry from the bush and cups it gently, a strange and not particularly demonic energy buzzing around him. Aziraphale frowns, lips pursed. He reaches out gingerly, takes the offering from Crawley's outstretched hand. Their skin almost touches; Crawley almost flinches. He considers the fruit, and considers how it sits differently in his own hand, in the flushed rose-gold plumpness his form is aching towards. Might as well, he supposes. He shrugs, and grins, and pops the blackberry into his mouth. Takes the time to savor, to, well, enjoy. Bright, sweet, Earth-y, more-ish. He grins again, lips and teeth stained purple. "I do hope," Crawley says in a discomfitingly private voice, "that this time Upstairs has sent someone who understands that if humanity's Fall is to be chosen by them then the mechanism ought to be desirable." Flicking his gaze between the bush and the demon, Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, he hasn't decided what yet, and then the sky catches fire.

Bye, Crawley thinks as he drops back into the undergrowth. Not worth it. Bye-bye.

"HOW'S IT GOING, CHAMP?" Gabriel screams from on high. His wheels are distinctly lilac in hue, his swords shimmering and sharpened for war. The window looks enormous from down here. Aziraphale starts, steps in front of his very first breakfast and an adorably teeny snake with what might be guilt, if guilt exists before it's been properly invented. "Um, ah, that is to say - " "WE WERE JUST HOPING TO MEET THE PROJECTIONS FOR THIS QUARTER, KINDA BANKIN' ON YOU SEALING THE DEAL HERE." "Yes, well - "

The wheels align and stop with a mighty, heavenly clang. "GREAT! WE'LL BE IN TOUCH! GOOD LUCK! BREAK A LEG! HA HA!" Gabriel stares down unblinking as the window crackles and drifts back into the aether.

Aziraphale settles into his roots and lets his branches grow, his boughs sway. God's love and her Word in the sunlight, in the shade beneath him. The human is watching, again. Earth on the verge. This is important, this is how it starts. Almost time, now, to leave the Garden. Crawley grins, pulling thorns from his hair, before he shifts. The Tree bends beneath him - he moves to where the green is budding, where the apple is growing, round and red. He sinks his teeth through the skin of it, into the flesh. Juice on his chin and leaves moving in the still air. "Knew you had it in you," he says. He leans in, pushes the apple low enough to pluck. He beckons; they wait. Humanity will come when she's ready. And after, well. They'll burn that bridge when they come to it.

[fanfoolishness]

A Candle Bright (Alistair x Brosca)

A Satinalia tale for @moonlightbrunette as part of the SC Holiday Exchange, involving Alistair, Dis Brosca, the Origins crew, a lot of mud, and a little... mistletoe?

***

Dis Brosca let out a small sigh of relief as they crested the hill overlooking Redcliffe, its largest windmill coming into view.  Thin wisps of cook-smoke filtered up from the houses below, and a distinct sense of calm came over her as she noticed fishing boats going to and fro on the lake, horses and carts moving in the streets.  It was very different from their first arrival, where the town had felt tense and anxious long before they had spoken to any of the villagers.

“They seem to be recovering well,” said Wynne approvingly, gazing down the half-mile path to the village square.  “I see they have repaired much of the damage done by the dead. In so short a time, too. I am glad for them.”

“Sure, sure, good for them,” said Oghren, who had not visited Redcliffe before.  “Real question is, how’s the ale here?”

“It’s not bad, but we’re only here for the night, Oghren,” said Dis, her breath clouding in the cold air with every word.  “No Dust Town dancing.”

“What’s that, then?”

“When a stupid noble gets so drunk he wanders into Dust Town and gets robbed by every man, woman and child.  Like he’s dancing with all of us, right?”

Oghren groaned.  “You dusters can ruin anything fun,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“We try.  Can’t let you nobles be the only ones to step on people.”

“Disgraced noble, runt, and don’t you forget it.”

Alistair glanced down at them both as they walked.  “You know, I’m never quite certain if one of you is going to stab the other.  Does this banter count as friendly?”

“For dwarves, it does,” assured Oghren.  

“Absolutely,” said Dis, nodding.

"If you two say so,” he said as they descended into the outskirts of town.  “Looks rather nicer than before, doesn’t it? Like I remember as a boy. And oh -- just look at it!  They’ve even started with the Satinalia decorations!”

“The what?” Dis mouthed to Oghren, who looked as befuddled as she felt.  She noticed that there were odd things strung up on the fences along the road -- paper lanterns not yet lit, boughs of thick dark green plants, bunches of red and white berries and gold ribbons tied to posts here and there.  Some kind of ritual, perhaps? It didn’t look exactly magical, though.

“And what is Satinalia?” asked Morrigan from behind them.  Dis considered. Not magical, then. If Morrigan didn’t know either, perhaps it was something to do with the Chantry.  

Sten turned to Shale.  “I am also not aware of the meaning of this word.”

“As if I would know half the things the fleshy little ones speak of,” scoffed Shale.

“Their chatter is largely forgettable.  I recommend paying it little mind,” said Sten.

Leliana, bringing up the rear with Dhargus and Zevran, let out a soft gasp.  “You mean that you do not know the stories of Satinalia? In Orlais, it is a time of beautiful celebration and reflection, a time to spend with friend and family alike.”  The mabari woofed, a mournful dirge of a bark.

“Perhaps that is how they celebrate in Orlais, but ah, the revelry of Antiva City,” mused Zevran.  “Do you know that in Antiva, men and women flood the streets completely in the nude? The debauchery is truly something to behold!  And behold one does. There is great merriment and joy in that week. Of course, there is also much shame and atonement in the week following!  It is a glorious time of the year.”

“So the tales of Antivan celebrations are true,” said Wynne, arching an eyebrow slyly.  “I’ve always wondered.”

“Was there any doubt, my dear enchanter?”

“Is somebody going to explain what Satinalia actually is ?” asked Dis, neatly sidestepping a large mud puddle that Ogren tramped through obliviously, nearly splattering Morrigan.  

While avoiding Oghren’s mud splatters, Dis still managed to catch sight of the decorations extending to the houses on either side of the path.  Red candles on tin plates clustered on their small doorsteps, and boughs of evergreen hung over their front doors.

“It’s a festival!” said Alistair.  “To mark the start of winter. Winter’s such a dreary affair that you’ve got to have something to brighten it up a bit, haven’t you?  Hence the candles and the decorations. There’s gifts and feasting too. Last year with the Wardens we gave each other games and books and all sorts of things to keep from being too bored when there aren’t any Darkspawn around.  Of course, this year we haven’t got that problem….”

“There is quite a bit more to the tradition than simple gift-giving and celebrating the start of winter,” said Wynne.  “The religious significance has roots in ancient Tevinter.”

“That is true, but the meaning has changed with time.  The celebration of Satinalia goes back hundreds of years.  The story is quite a fascinating one, I know many ballads that I can sing for you if you like --”

“Red, if you’re singing, and I’m listening, we need ale,” said Oghren.

Shale groaned.  “If that is where it and its companions are heading, I will await outside.  I have noticed humans get disturbingly upset when a golem smashes through the front door.  Ugh, they can be so shrill! I do not understand how something so small can make such noise.”

“Your understanding of the human condition is touching, my friend,” said Wynne.  Shale let out a gravelly chortle.

“Going to have to agree with Oghren here.  The inn sounds good,” said Dis, who was shivering by this point in the chill air.  “For not having snow on the ground, it’s cold as a Paragon’s balls in here.”

“Cold?” questioned Zevran.  “What a peculiar expression.  In the usual way of things, they should be quite warm.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Zevran.  Anyway, the only Paragons I’ve ever seen before Branka were made of stone, so….”

“Ah!  Of course!”

***

Three ales, six hundred years of history, four ballads, and half a game-and-veg pie later, Dis thought she had Satinalia down pretty well.  She hefted herself off her chair and made her way to the innkeeper’s bar, pouch of coppers in hand. She took a few long looks at the decorations lining the area, nodding to herself.

She returned feeling inordinately pleased, and laid down her new treasures on the long table before her companions.  “Take your pick,” she declared.

“You persuaded the innkeeper to sell you his decorations?” mused Wynne.

“Yep!”

“How lovely!” said Leliana.  “You must be feeling very festive.”  She reached out and took a circlet of soft green-needled twigs, resting it atop her red hair.  

“I fail to see the point of such trinkets, but your enthusiasm is almost… charming,” said Morrigan cautiously, reaching out and pinning a sprig of shiny holly to her feathered sleeve.  “I suppose it is harmless enough.”

Sten coolly regarded a pair of leaf-shaped cookies wrapped in waxcloth, sneaking them to his side of the table when he thought no one was looking.   Wynne took a necklace of red berries strung together, Zevran a brushy green circlet like Leliana’s, and Alistair a sprig of evergreen. He struggled with a moment getting its pin into the thick leather of his tabard.  

“Let me,” Dis said from her seat beside him, and Alistair handed her the pin.  She carefully poked the needle through the leather, leaning her hands against his chest.  Which felt remarkably solid. Her hands lingered on his chest for a moment longer than perhaps they needed.

Was that pink in his cheeks?  She pulled away from him, clearing her throat, and focused on the objects in front of her.  She grabbed a tin crown painted gold. There were a few patches the paint hadn’t fully covered, but it still looked shiny and bright.

“So is this for the town fool?” Dis asked.  “Isn’t that part of it, Leliana?”

“Yes,” said Leliana.  “Traditionally each village nominates the town fool to rule for a day.  It is a very silly custom of the celebration, but one of its most beloved.”

“Who wants to be the fool?” asked Dis.

“Alistair may not want to be, but one cannot deny he is the natural choice,” said Morrigan with a small, satisfied smile.

“Oh, very nice,” said Alistair, pretending to be miffed.  “I’d say you ought to play the fool, but a crown would look rubbish on such a mean-spirited person, anyway.”

“You all would make adequate fools,” offered Sten helpfully, swallowing a bite of cookie and ignoring his ale.

“Fool, eh?” said Oghren, cocking his head to one side.  “So you want me to wear what now?”

“Why, we have a volunteer!” said Wynne, raising her mug to him.

“Let us all hope he does not celebrate in the Antivan fashion,” murmured Zevran.  “Though the sight would make rather a good tale one day, would it not?”

Oghren ignored the elf.  The dwarf grabbed for the crown, jammed it firmly on his head, and leapt up onto his chair.  Even standing, he was only a little taller than the seated Sten and Alistair. He slammed a boot onto the table’s surface and grabbed his hips, sticking out his elbows and puffing his chest in a dashing pose.

“As king, I decree we order another round and plant our asses here for the night.  Who else is sick and tired of sleeping in the mud in a nug-blasted tent? And on Satinalia of all days!” he roared.

A hearty Hear hear, o King! filled the air, and the innkeeper bustled over, red in the face.

“Would you get off my table already?” he snapped.

“Ahhh, hold onto your pants,” said Oghren, hopping back down.  He could be surprisingly spry at times, a fact he proved with an only slightly wobbly twirl.  “Another round then. To Satinalia!”

“To Satinalia!”

The innkeeper sighed.  “Another round it is, but you lot do realize Satinalia’s not for another week, don’t you?”

“To Satinalia!”

The innkeeper shook his head and groaned, clearly wondering what he had done to deserve his fate.  Dis watched him go with a grin, finishing off the rest of her ale and grabbing a twist of white berries and shiny green leaves to fasten to a strap of her armor.

“Mistletoe, isn’t it?” Alistair murmured, gazing at her.  Was he blushing again? Maybe it was the ale.

“What sort of plant is it?  Do you eat it?” Dis asked, stretching her neck down to sniff at the berries.  Disappointingly, they had no particular odor, unlike the pleasant evergreen crowns and pins.

“Maker, no, you don’t eat it!  It’s poisonous,” said Alistair in a hurry.  “But it’s romantic in nature. Supposed to be an invitation for ah, ah, a kiss.”  Even the tips of his ears were scarlet. Ale didn’t do that.

“Oh!” said Dis, fighting a swooping sensation in her stomach.  “Well, perhaps I chose wisely,” she said before she could stop herself.

“Oh!” echoed Alistair, suddenly shoving his face back into his mug and refusing to look at her.  “It looks very nice on you.” A funny thing for him to say, given that he was staring at the table as hard as he could.  His ears were flaming.

“Gotta go!” Dis blurted.  “Need to tend to -- uh -- the dog!”  She got to her feet and dashed out of the inn, circling around to the back where Shale stood, Dhargus lolling at the golem’s feet.

She certainly hadn’t expected that turn of events.

She shivered in the chilly night air, heart racing.  What in stone was going on? It wasn’t like Alistair wasn’t attractive, but this… giddiness, this nervousness, she felt was entirely unlike her.  Why didn’t she just tell him she wanted a roll in the dust and then move on, like she’d always done?

Maybe this means more than that.  The thought came unbidden, but it felt heavy: it felt right. She blew on her hands, trying to warm them, and let the thought linger.

“Has it tired of its squishy games?” Shale asked, watching the starry skies.  “Come out to keep the poor golem company?”

“It was just getting rowdy in there,” Dis explained, relieved that Shale at least would no sooner pick up on her stammering and her flushed cheeks than hug a pigeon.  “Satinalia’s something else, I guess.”

“Of course.  I knew it could not be coming to visit me.  Ah.  Here comes another of its companions now.”

Alistair edged around the corner of the building, waving at her.  It was a little ridiculous, and at the same time intensely endearing.  “Are you all right?”

Dis bent down so that she wasn’t looking directly at Alistair, and petted Dhargus.  The dog promptly rolled into a mud puddle, his tongue hanging out the side of his gleefully open mouth.  “I just came out to check on him. Thought he might be lonely. Knew that Shale wouldn’t be,” she said, chuckling.

“It knows me so well,” said Shale fondly.

“Riiiight,” said Alistair, drawing closer.  He bent down as well to pet the dog, and she was acutely aware of the heat of him.  “Well, if you’re all right --” He hesitated, shoving his hands under his arms to warm them.  “It has gotten rather cold, hasn’t it?”

“I still don’t understand your weather.  What’s the point? Why does it get so cold?  Who thought rain was a good idea?” Dis rambled.  

“It’s got its uses.  Growing all the plants and food of the world, for one.  Tends to be a bit helpful for that.”

“I agree with the small one.  I despise the rain. I have been used as a shelter for shivering, sodden humans more than once,” said Shale in disdain.

Dis fell quiet for a moment, imaging herself and Alistair hiding from a storm.  Perhaps in a secluded cave somewhere without the others… perhaps there would be a need to remove one’s damp clothes to dry them before the fire… and perhaps there would be --

“That mistletoe does look lovely on you,” he whispered.  “It catches the moonlight.”

“I like your evergreen.  It smelled so fresh.  Nothing in Orzammar has ever thought of smelling like that.”

“I’m glad you think I smell nice.”

“You should be.”

They were close, now, far too close, both still crouching over the dog, their faces nearly at the same height for once.  She could see all the freckles dotting his nose and cheeks, the clarity of his hazel eyes, a small scar near his forehead she’d never noticed before.  She could reach out and close the distance between them, could finish this foolishness decisively with a kiss. She began to close her eyes --

THWAP!

“Oh ho!” cried Shale in delight.  “I’ve smashed the dreadful thing most thoroughly!”

Alistair startled, falling over on his side with his hand in the mud puddle.  Dhargus barked and rolled out of the way. “What the -- hang on, then, there aren’t any pigeons at night.  You smashed an owl!”

Shale looked down at the white feathers littering the ground, then shrugged.  “Do owls defecate on unsuspecting golems as they fly?”

“I suppose they could…”

“Well, so it understands.”

Dis sat there on her heels, fighting back laughter that threatened to burst out of her in gales.  She stood back up to her full height, then held out a calloused hand. “Come on then, Alistair. Let’s leave Shale to it, and get you cleaned up.”

Alistair shook his head, wearing a rueful expression as she helped him clamber up.  Once up, he towered over her as usual, wiping off the mud that had splattered all over him.  “Perhaps Morrigan was right after all. Do you think Oghren would relinquish his crown?”

“Not without bloodshed,” Dis said with certainty.  “But it could be pretty funny watching you two fight for it.”

“Fighting on Satinalia?  Or, well, the week before Satinalia?  Whatever would they say?”

“I dunno.  Sounds like a pretty good way to spend the holiday to me.”

“You’ve a strange idea of decorum, you realize.”

“Ahh, you like that about me.”

They came back to the door of the inn, which was festooned in garlands of evergreen and mistletoe.  Alistair reached over her to open the door, then paused for a moment, biting his lip as his hand rested against the door.  He looked down at her, smiling, the look in his eyes soft. “Yes, I do.”

Oh, sod it all.  She reached up, grabbed the edge of his collar, pulled him down to her height, and she kissed him.

It was clumsy, fleeting, warm, sweet, eager.  It was perfect. It was over too soon.

Alistair straightened back up slowly, his normally olive face ruddy as anything.  He opened his mouth. Tried to speak. Couldn’t come up with anything. Closed his mouth again.

“I like you too, if you’re wondering,” said Dis, trying not to giggle.  Dusters didn’t giggle. Dusters didn’t kiss humans and wear mistletoe and smell evergreens beneath the stars.  But she did.  And she thought it suited her.  “Come on then. Back to the party?”

“I -- uh, right,” said Alistair.  “Yes. Very good. I -- you said you liked me?”

“Maybe Oghren does need to step down from the throne.”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Alistair said.  “I’m not really this, what’s the word, inarticulate.  Just consider this me finding my bearings after a very pleasant surprise.”

“I can do that.”

He pushed open the door, and golden light and loud chatter spilled outward from the common room, filling the night air.  He grinned down at her.

“Happy Satinalia, Dis.”

“A happy Satinalia to you too, Alistair.”  

And they went back inside to the court of their king, the secret of the kiss burning between them, brighter than any candle.

[llyneira]

Aidoneus and Neotera

My mother is the goddess of grain, agriculture, harvest, growth, and nourishment. I was the her daughter in all things. Hecate brought my mother the earth from Zancle in Sicily to get her with child. The earth had been pierced by the bloody spear that castrated the God of Sky. The blood of the sky mixed with the body of Earth had brought forth the Giants, the avenging Furies, and the ash-tree nymphs so Hecate and my mother had thought they could get a child by mixing the bloody earth with the waters of their wombs. I grew from the bloody earth and the water of Demeter’s womb. Hera’s husband was pleased to take credit for my birth. He had believed the lie easily; he was often too drunk to know what he’d done.

I was born of Demeter’s body but I grew with Hecate’s spirit.  Demeter saw that I was a goddess of spring and rebirth but she overlooked that I was a goddess of compost and decay. My mother Demeter loved me too much and shielded me from every sadness or disappointment. Hecate saw the duality of my nature with her fathomless eyes and taught me about the uses of roots, stems, leaves, and flowers. I loved the poisonous blooms more for the danger that was their virtue. Demeter saw my love of gardening and overlooked the deadliness of the plants I favored.

I wanted to explore more than the eternal springtime realm but Demeter held me closer the more I suffocated. I was gasping for my own time, my own space, my own life. I devised a plan and enlisted the help of Gaia to give me seeds spelled to transport me to other realms when I picked the blooms. I travelled to many realms, unbeknownst to Demeter, before I finally picked the narcissus flower.

The ground where the flower had grown trembled and opened. I took the passage that led me to the underworld.

I found a realm of mist and shadows, different from my own eternal spring. I waded across a river, stopping on the other side to twist the water out of my clothes. I found a path and followed it.

Eventually, I came to a small village centered around the largest Elm tree I had ever seen. Something translucent and white, like the cocoon of a moth, clung to the underside of every leaf. There was no breeze but still something whispered between the branches about dreams that had led mortals astray.

As I contemplated the tree veiled and hooded figures left the few houses, crossing to the center of the town square where I stood. I was confronted with the guardians of the underworld’s gate.

Grief came for me first; I’d never felt such sorrow and loss but it soon deepened into a tearless emptiness. Anxiety came for me next; every nervous worry and self-critical thought I had ever had returned to haunt me. My upbringing had left me unprepared for the onslaught.

Disease and Old Age came for me next; I was the daughter of goddesses but they brought me low all the same. My chest filled and I bent over with great, wracking coughs. I felt a sudden pain in my hip and I collapsed in pain.

Agony came for me with the pain burst through my leg; shooting up my side and spreading like fire and screaming out of my mouth. Fear came for me as I lay on the ground; I was terrified that these curses would never be lifted. Still it did not stop.

I had never gone without sustenance and libations. I had never known any hunger but this was a foul emptiness. I knew a great and terrible desperation, the sort that made me crave even the decayed meat of long dead flesh.

Sleep and Death came for me together, offering respite at a great cost. I eyed Sleep with distrust and I rejected Death altogether.

“You must go back then,” said Death.

I lay in terrible pain, fear, weak, sick to my stomach, filled with self doubt, and overcome by my deepest sorrow. I still would not surrender. My voice was hoarse from screaming and my throat thick with sickness but I found my voice.

“I am no mortal woman,” I struggled to say, “I am the daughter of Demeter, beloved of Hecate.”

My voice had deepened as I spoke, clearer with every pronouncement.

“I am Neotera,” I told them forcefully, “Goddess of black soil, root, and stem. I have more darkness in me than anyone knows. I will go wherever I desire to go.”

They left me. The tortures faded away and I stood. I was myself again but I also felt like more. The girl who had curled at her mother’s breast was not the woman who stood back up.

I passed through the gates and wandered the underworld, deeper and deeper, until I came to the place where the root of the earth grew and the bottom of the sea moved, serene and black, above me.

I found a temple, surrounded on three sides by trees with cypress trees planted in front of the columns of the temple. I entered the temple but saw no one else. I took the vibrant crown of flowers from my hair and left it as an offering.

I explored the temple and found a paved courtyard grandly overflowing with greenery. There were more trees here, boughs heavy with pomegranates and pears, apples glowing red, dark olives, and succulent figs. The large garden included an outdoor reading nook with a small library.

The reading nook was occupied by a man. He was so engrossed in the book he was curled around that he didn’t seem to notice me at first. His hair was black as pitch, skin pale like the moon, and lips stained red with juice from pomegranate seeds. The empty shell of the pomegranate lay forgotten on a jewel encrusted table. A three headed dog was splayed across the tiles in front of the cushioned seat, four feet twitching in a rhythm like running.

“You are not one of the dead,” he said, lifting his brown eyes to my stare.

“No,” I replied, softly, “I am daughter of Demeter. I am called Neotera.”

He nodded, thoughtfully.

“I am Aidoneus, lord of those among whom I dwell. Welcome to my realm, young bringer of fruit,” Aidoneus gave me a stern and unyielding stare, “You will be required to stay here if you consume any of the food that grows here. Otherwise, you are welcome to explore my realm.”

My eyes widened, “I won’t take any of your fruits, then.”

He murmured an assent and returned his attention to his book.

I returned to my realm of eternal spring. Hecate and Gaia had kept Demeter distracted, as they did, so she had not noticed my absence. I was uncomfortable with the brightness of the light once I returned. It seemed too much, too harsh.

I sweetly asked Gaia for more Narcissus seeds, my demeanor a mask of innocence because Demeter was listening. Gaia agreed and I tended my patch of eternal spring, changed by my recent travels. Demeter was as willfully blind to the changes in me as she had been when my body had changed from a child to a woman.

I returned to the underworld several times, each time waiting impatiently until the narcissus flower bloomed.

Eventually I came upon the man from the garden again. He was inside the temple, heading away from the courtyard, when I found him. He had a dark cloak around his shoulders and his face was set with grim determination.

He gave me the greeting he always gave me: “You are welcome to explore my realm. You will be required to stay if you consume any of the food that grows here.”

“I remember,” I told him.

“I must see to my duties,” he told me, “I have the judgement of souls to preside over.”

“May I accompany you?” I asked, curious, “I’m curious.”

“Of course,” he took my arm and I walked at his side.

“You have two thrones?” I asked, when I saw his court.

“I hope one day to have a wife to rule beside me,” he answered, his voice empty of inflection, “I hear the stories of many souls. I have learned from mortals that life is better when it is shared.”

“The other God-Kings don’t allow their wives to be their equals,” I made the statement a query with my tone.

“They do not and they suffer for it, though they do not seem to see the relation,” he hesitated before adding, “I have also learned from mortals that marriage can only be happy when it is between two people who respect each other.”

I stood next to the ebony throne as I watched as the procession of the newly dead came through his great hall. It seemed an unending stream. I listened to the sighs and stories of the newly dead. Their lord was an unyielding stone in the face of their tears.

“You called for an end to court but there were still more souls,” I murmured, “Why not continue to sit in judgement until there are no more souls?”

He nodded, his tone restrained and chilly, “You are said to be a daughter of Zeus but you do not take after him.”

“No,” I said shortly, “I don’t.”

“There are always more souls,” he sighed, gloomy, “One hundred thousand souls journey through my gates each day. It takes time to hear the lamentations of each one. One day, the last soul will travel to my realm. Perhaps then I will be able to catch up on my reading.”

I shook my head at the strangeness of the thought.

“Why do the shades of heroes wander among the shades of those who have achieved less?” I asked him.

He seemed surprised, “What would you do?”

“I would divide up the realm,” I huffed at him, “At the start, I would create a place for mortals lived good lives, another place for mortals who made a ruin of their lives, and one for those who did nothing of any consequence.”

“How would I determine if they’ve lived a good life?” he asked.

“I would compel them to tell the truth. Ask them what they did while they lived that caused the most harm in the mortal realm. Ask them what they did while they lived that created the most good in the mortal realm,” I thought about it, “Ask them where they think they deserve to spend the rest of their afterlife. Let them defend their position.”

“I endeavor to be a fair and just ruler,” Aidoneus said slowly, considering, “I will consider your suggestion.”

The next time I returned to his realm of cool mists and quiet shadows Aidoneus held court again. I observed him in his rulings and I found them logical and well-thought out. Most of the time, I considered this to be correct. There were some awful, cruel mortals whose souls passed through the judgement of Aidoneus without him betraying any emotion. I gritted my teeth, resolved to hold my tongue, and thought I would do it better.

A man came before us and told us when he did the most good; it was a paltry action that hadn’t affected very many. The mortal’s self-serving nature was obvious. When he began to speak of what he’d done that had caused the most harm in the world, I was shocked. How had he not been stopped? He had grown to an old age, all the while a monster inside a human skin.

“My Lady,” one of the shades implored and I was startled, “I beg mercy and forgiveness for my crimes.”

I was shocked, “You have described the harm you have done. You used the strength and power you acquired in life, not to protect life, not to preserve life, but to cause pain and suffering to those who had no power to stop you.”

“I only sought for others to feel as terrible as I felt,” he defended his heinous actions, “I never truly succeeded. If only you knew how awful it was to be me.”

“How dare you,” I was livid, “How dare you try to play on my sympathies.”

“You are a Goddess, but you are first a woman,” the shade seemed offended, “It is your duty to be kind, forgiving, and helpful. I am asking you to have mercy on me. No actions taken in one short human life could be worth enduring an eternity of punishment.”

“I have no sympathy for you, vile creature,” my fists clenched as I resisted the urge to strike him, “Your wicked deeds should earn you an eternity of retribution. Your soul should endure the same torture that you inflicted on those who were smaller or weaker than yourself.”

“As she wills it, so shall it be,” Aidoneus pronounced immediately, every inch of him solemn as the grave.

I turned to him in surprise.

“She is not the Lord here,” the shade protested, as he grappled with shadows that took solid form around him.

“You chose to address her, rather than me, to play to her emotions,” Aidoneus pronounced, his face clear and unresponsive, “You will be judged then according to her emotions. It looks as if the only emotions you inspired in her were rage and disgust. You have earned your place among the cursed shades.”

Aidoneus closed his court after the shade was dragged away. The others filed out, whispering among what had just happened. Immediately, once we were alone I turned to the shining black throne.

“I apologize, Lord Aidoneus,” I said, my words tripping over themselves, “I should not have interfered in your court.”

“I do not accept your apology,” he told me, and my heart dropped into my stomach, “You have no reason to apologize. I get tired of making every decision for every mortal soul but it is my duty to see that each one is served, eventually. I didn’t have to think about his punishment or weigh the options. It was a relief. Your help is appreciated.”

I stared at him in disbelief, “Truly?”

“Truly,” he murmured, closing his eyes, “I can never relinquish this burden completely but I am entirely willing to share it, as well as the wealth and power that accompanies the responsibility.”

“I make emotional decisions,” I warned him, and he smiled.

“I noticed,” he rubbed his beard with one hand, “I pass my judgement according to rules that I decided on soon after I began this tedious task. I wanted the process to be fair and just. I decided that all souls must be condemned or elevated according to the same standards. I have been reluctant to change the rules. You suggested segregating the souls according to their achievements in life and I added to my rules accordingly.”

“You judge everyone the same, in an effort to treat them all equally,” I considered his position carefully.

“My rules are not perfect; there are moments when I look back and think a more emotional response might have been warranted,” he shrugged.

“Emotions are not illogical,” I said, carefully, “Emotions are telling us when a need is not being met. A mortal feels thirsty when they need a drink, hungry when they need food, and pain when a bone is broken. We feel sad when our souls are wounded. We feel happy when something is feeding our souls, healing us. There is a need to balance the needs of our minds, souls, and bodies.”

He nodded, frowning, “You said that very well.”

His endorsement made me take a risk with my next words.

“You might also consider that treating every soul equally is not necessarily treating every soul fairly,” I told him, frankly.

“What would you do differently?” he asked. I could not tell if he was offended.

“Some mortals face severe disadvantages,” I told him, my passion getting the better of me, “I have learned in my travels that some mortals are born tightly boxed into certain positions in life. It would hardly be fair to look down on a person who has constantly broken the law of men if the laws of men were causing that person harm.”

“You are thinking of the boy who admitted to hitting his mother because his father threatened to kill him if he didn’t,” Aidoneus sighed, “Some of the lives that flash before me are heartbreaking.”

“He did fight back eventually,” I murmured.

“Yes,” Aidoneus nodded, “His best choice led him here.”

My gaze sharpened as my mind jumped out of memory and into the present moment.

“Lord Aidoneus,” my lips curled in a snarl, “One day that boy’s father will come before you.”

“Yes,” I thought I saw his lips twitch, just barely.

“His father has already earned an eternity of suffering,” I suggested, “Don’t you agree?”

“Perhaps the father will change his ways after his son’s murder,” Aidoneus returned.

“Some crimes are unforgivable,” I vowed.

“It is my hope that when the boy’s father comes before the throne you will be there to mete out judgement,” Aidoneus sighed, “Until then, I think I would like to retire to my garden to read. Would you care to join me?”

“Yes,” I told him, honestly, “Demeter will miss me if I stay too long. I must not stay long.”

“Time does not pass here for the shades as it does for the living,” he stroked the top of one head of his dog, “Still, I will wait for your return.”

I smiled, pleased, “I will see you again when the next Narcissus flower blooms.”

It wasn’t meant to be however. 

Demeter decided that I had grown dangerously enamored of the Narcissus flower and told me to leave it be for a while. Some part of her must have felt me growing away from her. My mother began leaving me with attendants when she pursued her own distractions.

“Minthe,” I noticed one of the nymphs carrying a clay pot, “What is that?”

“It is a gift,” Minthe told me, shoving the pot at me, “The Lord of the Underworld asked me to give this to you on his behalf.”

I stared at the budding flower. It was a narcissus. I replanted the young flower carefully, away from the prying eyes of my mothers, and waited impatiently for it to bloom.

Something was different when I picked this narcissus. Rather than the ground opening up with a small crevice for me to slip through, as it normally did, a great large crack split the air and dragons the size of horses thundered out of the fractured ground. Behind the dragons was a large, ebony chariot with Aidoneus holding the reins. A tufted leather pixane made his shoulders look very broad and his dark cloak suddenly caught the wind.

The nymphs screamed, half in delight and half in fear. I laughed but the sound was lost as Aidoneus came closer. He slowed the chariot enough to pull me aboard as the nymphs scrambled back. They ran in the direction of my mothers and we disappeared beneath the earth.

“I hope you had fun,” I told him, wiping tears of laughter from my cheeks, “Demeter is going to make you pay for it.”

He shrugged, pretending not to care.

“It was worth it, as long as you want to be here,” he told me.

I looked at him, considering.

“What if I want to stay here?” I asked.

He looked at me searchingly, “You are welcome to explore my realm. Your divine immortality prevents anyone from keeping you here, unless you eat the food.”

I bit my lip, “I don’t want to be forced to stay.”

He nodded and looked away, contemplating the ocean floor above us. I put my hand on his shoulder, the earthen color of my skin lost in the deep brown of his cloak.

“I also don’t want to be forced to leave,” I told him, earnestly.

“Your vibrant spirit helps make the endless tedium of my work easier to bear. I asked my brother for your hand in marriage,” he told me, quietly, “He agreed and now I am able to ask you.”

I was silent, with my heart thundering in my chest like a storm.

“I want you to think about your answer,” he told me, “I want a marriage where we both give to each other that which is ours to give.”

“I am a God-King. I can not be commanded, but I swear to serve my wife in the ways that she requires of a husband. I promise that my wife will be served before me at my table. I promise that my wife will be the only one with whom I share my body intimately.”

“I would choose you above all others, if you would do the same. Will you be my wife, my queen, and my equal in every honor and respect?”

“Yes.”

Nothing was ever as easy as a simple yes. We were married by Zeus, quickly. Demeter found out that we had been married and protested, vehemently. Zeus had given permission for me to marry his brother and had officiated the ceremony, but my mother had not been consulted. She threw a fit of epic proportions, even for her.

Demeter withered the crops on the vines. When harvest came the fields were barren and the soil was cold. Mortals all over the world died from cold and starvation. Disease spread as mortals began to consume rotted grains and unlucky rats. In the north, cliffs of ice slowly began to encroach on land that had once been livable. The coasts were pushed farther out as the oceans receded to feed to northern blocks of ice.

“Why hasn’t anyone stopped her?” I asked Aidoneus, now my husband.

He was calm, splayed out across the large bed we shared. I paced and every time I made a point I was particularly furious about I threw my hands up in the air. His brown eyes followed me, as if I might disappear at any moment.

“She is my brother’s better,” Aidoneus shrugged, “If she makes all of life on earth extinct, we will be very rich indeed. She must stop eventually. If all life dies out in the mortal realm then she and all of the other deathless gods will wither away to wisps on the wind.”

“Death is inevitable,” I muttered, “Life, not so much.”

“Will you return if she continues to destroy the world?” he asked, casually

I knew better. He did not want me to go. He was a god of unbreakable rules and inevitable order. He had meant all of his promises to me. I did not know any Goddess whose husband had genuinely promised to be entirely faithful.

“I may not have a choice,” I answered him, “The other deathless gods know what is in store for them if all of the mortals die. They won’t stand for it.”

I eventually crawled into bed beside him and we fell asleep. I woke again, though. My mind could not rest. My mother was threatening my happiness and my mind would not settle. I dressed quietly and went to walk. I went to the temple courtyard where I first met my husband.

I realized I would not lose him, not even to save the world. I also realized, maybe I did not have to lose him. I wasn’t sure what Aidoneus would say about my plan but I did not want to wait for reason or logic.

I took one of the pomegranate fruits. I more than a quarter of the seeds before Aidoneus caught up to me.

“Neotera,” he frowned, quiet and stern, “Now you can never leave.”

“I certainly hope you’re right,” I told him, “I thought you’d be thrilled. Now they can’t make me do something that I don’t want to do.”

He sounded tired when he spoke next, “They have already forced you to do something you didn’t want to do.”

“I love your world and I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you, too, but you want all of the worlds. You love to travel, bringing change wherever you go,” he told me gently. It was the same voice he used with the youngest souls, the young children who came before him.

“I love the color and life you bring with you and I want to see you thrive. Going in the opposite direction as the ones who oppose you isn’t the way,” he cautioned me, “I didn’t want you to be forced into a position you wouldn’t have chosen on your own, even if it would seem to benefit me.”

Hermes came to see us the next morning. He was there to fetch me. Aidoneus and I ascended to the realm of the gods to attend the judgement of Zeus and the other gods. My husband and I were silent as my fate was argued and debated.

We were married but our marriage would not be undone by our separation, they said. We would just be two married people who never saw each other.

My mother outranked me, they said, so if Hades couldn’t force her to give me up then they wouldn’t interfere with Demeter.

They had a lot of excuses but the truth was Demeter’s power was great enough that they couldn’t fight her and be sure that they would win. No one could lead an army without food, except possibly my husband. He wouldn’t bring an army of the dead roaring out of the gates of hell. At least, I didn’t think he would.

Finally, Zeus said that I would have to be returned to my mother.

Aidoneus finally spoke, “She must remain in the underworld. She ate from the pomegranate tree in my garden.”

The room was silent. The laws about the food from the land of the dead were older than all of the gods here.

Suddenly, Demeter wailed and fell into Hecate’s arms. Hecate looked like she’d like to be anywhere else.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she cried, looking at me. I gave her the stone face that I had learned in the underworld.

“I’ve been a good mother,” Demeter said pleadingly, looking around at the silent gods and goddesses, “I’ve done everything a mother is supposed to do. I was good to her. I never tested her. I never punished her.”

You never let me make my own decisions, I wanted to shout at her. I was so done with all of this. You never let me be myself, I wanted to tell her. You never knew me except for the parts of me that were like you, I thought.

“I am a goddess in my own right and I deserve to make my own decisions,” I finally said, with adamantine resolve.

“You’re my daughter!” Demeter was furious.

“She’s my wife,” Aidoneus snapped back, with uncharacteristic vehemence, “Only one of those was her choice.”

The sudden silence was deafening.

“How many seeds from the pomegranate did you eat?” Zeus broke the silence first.

“There are about six hundred seeds in one,” Aidoneus replied, his eyes and his mind sharp, “She ate about a little more than a quarter of a pomegranate so around a hundred seventy five seeds, if I had to guess.”

I didn’t know what was happening. I looked at Aidoneus questioningly and he shook his head slightly.

“There are about three hundred fifty days in a year,” Zeus looked around.

The others were stone faced. I know I didn’t understand where he was going with this and I expected they didn’t know either.

“We can’t break the rule about her staying in the underworld, but we can bend it a bit,” Zeus smiled at Demeter consolingly but she had resorted to weeping into her cloak.

“Neotera will remain in the underworld one day for every pomegranate seed,” Zeus said.

“Neotera will be free to leave the underworld the rest of the year,” Aidoneus added.

“Yes, of course,” Zeus nodded. Either he didn’t notice the wording or he didn’t really care.

“She deserves another name,” Aidoneus added, “She is now Queen of the Underworld and Goddess of the Underworld.”

“You have destroyed my happiness,” Demeter told me.

“Call me Persephone. Destroyer,” I told them.

“Maybe you need another name, brother,” Zeus laughed.

“Call me Hades. Unseen,” my husband resumed his characteristic seriousness.

I laughed later that evening when he used his helm of darkness to come to me in the warm twilight. I giggled, he whispered, and we cuddled.

In the shadows, I learned that the dark he brought with him could make the harsh, unforgiving light of my mother’s world a little easier to bear.

[winterscream4]

Interlude II

Maggots.

Life for him, had been a toil, as for his mother before him. Still a fledgling he had watched her in combat, ripping meat and plum out of that pair of nasty crows. It was early December and the unforgiving arts of Boreas were upon them, burying the land beneath a spiraling blanket of snow and death. A nest, decay made architecture, stood over a thickly leafed fir, its rich canopy preventing the wind’s icy semen from coating its hundredfold boughs. The crows owned it. She didn’t. That simply had to change.

In caw and claw they defended their home right down to the last breath, scratching through her face till her left eyeball popped out, hanging like one of the ripe nipples of September vintage. In retaliation, the mother cornered one of them, shoving it against the pale ground in full force while slicing right across its neck, tearing the head from the spine in a single gnaw. In realization and perhaps even foresight of his immediate future, the black-feathered companion of the deceased, took a moment staring at the mother and she back at him. Two seasoned players locking eyes in recognition while the third’s head hanged from bleeding tissues smeared across the mother’s unwavering beak.

The little Barred owl was only three days old at the time and in that moment, he was initiated into one of the most fundamental laws, that all surviving denizens of King’s country forestlands and beyond come to know eventually.

By talons or by teeth. By bullet or as meat.

Never miss the chance to make display out of a slaughter.

Mother of course had reserved most of her lessons for the upcoming spring. Then she would teach the young inheritor of the apex avian predator crown, how to direct his inner savagery into effective hunting, how to utilize the velvet texture of his wings, for silent flight. Come early December, the gift bestowed by her victim’s surviving relative, festered into a blister of puss, blood and fungi that devoured her from within. Come Christmas she was dead.

Maggots.

They finally crawled out of the socket, once they were done feasting on her destroyed eye. The owlet had made it through for a few days, by picking on the red squirrels’ Christmas decoration. Mushrooms collected during the summer months and left to dry between branches, proper sustenance for the darker half of the year. No doubt, the squirrels fought for their property. True protestants they were about it, measuring the owlet’s worth by the size of his fortune. But his inheritance wasn’t that of savings, food or nest. When his species desired something, they seized it and ripped its neck open before taking flight to the highest branches where they’d watch their prey writhe its way to an agonizing death.

But the squirrels too had valuable lessons to teach.

Save your food. Not all days will be as lucky.

The owlet took their advice to heart as it hanged their amber-furred corpses from the very same foreshoots, where they kept their much-valued possessions.

But not every day was as lucky since, and soon the mushrooms were vomited out, as they were poor comfort for an aching stomach, and nothing but strips of hair and tissue garlanded round tiny skeletons was left of the squirrels.

Maggots.

They devour faster than they multiply.

It took the owlet a while to notice them writhing and slithering beneath his meekly sprouting plumage.

But come late February, they had popped their wire-shaped bodies from his orifices, dancing almost, as his delicate legs had begun to collapse. Old man Boreas, never failed to remind him of his presence, howling across the lichen covered beeches and the white-cloaked firs, beating, cutting, flaying the maggots’ new corporeal abode.

A butterfly would occasionally visit, during his final days, fluttering its wings in invitation, landing far enough from his beak to be clearly visible as it dominated the thorny branches above, but never close enough to become a life-saving meal.

Why was she there?

The owl’s fading instincts would ponder about it throughout its delirium.

Butterflies don’t eat flesh and they rarely fly during the winter months. Might she be there to comfort him? A psychopomp, a shepherd of souls perhaps, beckoning to the kin who shall soon join her?

No, that wasn’t it. There was no comfort in her presence. No warm welcome to the afterlife.

She had landed there to enjoy the show, to relish on the potential that were never realized. She was there to mock the mighty as they fell.

A familiar sound also ushered its presence. It could have been the trees responding Boreas’ breath, rocking and swaying their appendages casting his essence to the land, below. Or maybe it wasn’t, for such crepitations were heard by the owlet only before a branch was about to collap….

The wind died out.

Boreas copulation had reached its climax.

The earth had turned white by the wind’s frozen virility and the owlet, was smothering beneath it.

No light in there, but rather winter visible.

Something stirring…

Maggots…?

The owlet felt them rising up his flesh. Long, gnarly, covered in the same fecal matter that delivered them into this world. Indeed, earth’s horde of recyclers thrived in the absence of light, but the Owlet’s sharply endowed senses couldn’t amiss a marked difference in the stimuli they now provoked. Warm, inviting, ushering images in his developing brain, of a world were owls dwell free and prosperous and of itself still wrapped under the insulating wings of his mother, her eye and soul restored into unparallel vitality.

His instincts must have abandoned their purpose. Reckoning the inevitability of his circumstances, they merely soothed a gradual transition into quick decomposition, a welcoming embrace of hormones and neurotransmitters released to ease the journey from limbo to the great after. All that would have been all too valid explanations, was it not for his keen vision detecting a dim phosphorescent glow emitting from the roots that had entangled the entirety of his resigning husk. Their whispers were those of his mother... Calm...Stay....

Lies. Mother owl had survived as long as she did by knowing that solace was the vestige of the dead. Her multitude of sufferings had secured him a hatch, a nest, all those moments in her company...She had pushed against the infections that would have otherwise eradicated her long since. The last days of her life, were nothing but embracing pain and all that just to keep him safe. He could not afford to disappoint her.  Everything suddenly became clear, as if walking from a dream. The roots puncturing of his flesh, his own will to survive. The genuine rage he had inherited from mother, forced him into drilling through the snow with damaged beak and broken talons, screeching maniacally all the way. A message worth delivering to to the eyes of lurking predators and the biting gusts of Boreas. Never miss the chance to make a display out of a slaughter. Even if it is your own. 

For all desire quickly dissipated when hungry eyes witnessed a half-dead fetus coiled by violet, vein-like tendrils, rising in screams and wails, from the very heart of Winter…

[kythen]

Haikyuu!! - shine bright like a campfire (meaning, i want to set you on fire) [1/?]

Pairing: Kurodai

Summary: Kurodai Weekend Day 3 - Free Day: Crossover / Your chosen AU. Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp AU.

Daichi’s guide to having a good time as a campsite manager:

Befriend the animal campers

Fulfil their requests

Build their furniture

Avoid encounters with Kuroo Tetsurou

Have fun!

Also found here on AO3.

Word count: 2,127

It is a five-hour drive out to the edge of civilisation and Daichi finds himself nodding off by the fourth hour. He had set out before the sun had risen so that he would reach the campsite bright and early but he had also been up late packing, which means that he is yawning behind the wheel of his brand new camper.

Daichi blinks away the sleepy tears clouding his vision and a red blur pops up at the edge of his vision. It swerves dangerously close to Daichi, coming in fast at a high speed, and Daichi slams on the brakes before his camper gets clipped by the asshole cutting into his lane. Daichi sees red, both figuratively and literally, as the back of a bright red camper fills his windscreen, blocking his view of the road and narrowly avoiding a collision with Daichi's camper. Anger and indignation burns away all traces of Daichi's former sleepiness and he slams his hand down repeatedly on his horn, conveying a loud and clear message of how he feels about having his lane cut into so rudely for no good reason.

Daichi had been lucky there hadn’t been another vehicle behind him or his sudden braking manoeuvre would have been disastrous instead of just annoying. Even so, there had been an awful crash behind Daichi, coming from somewhere in his camper, and the smell of freshly spilt coffee fills the enclosed space, telling Daichi exactly what had happened back there. He had left his coffee tumbler on a table and by the sound and smell of it, it had thrown itself off the table and cracked open, flinging its contents all over Daichi’s nice, new wooden floors.

Daichi growls, glaring a hole into the back of the offending red camper as it speeds off like the driver hadn’t even noticed Daichi until it is nothing more than a smudge on the horizon.

“Asshole,” Daichi mutters under his breath.

---

“We are so glad to have you here,” Isabelle the secretary chirps as she shakes Daichi's hand firmly, a quick and businesslike up-and-down. “You’re going to be a great campsite manager. I just know it!”

“I’ll do my best,” Daichi tells her ruefully. She had been nice enough not to remark on the concentrated coffee scent lingering on Daichi but her nose has been twitching all throughout their conversation, putting her constantly on the verge of a sneeze. Dogs did have sensitive noses and Daichi feels like he should apologise to her.

Isabelle smiles brightly at him and claps her hands together. “Now, I’m still setting up your campsite for you so why don’t you go ahead and explore the area a bit.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Daichi asks, peering over her shoulder at the vacant plot of land slowly taking shape behind her.

“Oh no, I’ve got it all under control. It’ll be ready once you’re back!” Isabelle looks thoughtful. “But I wouldn’t say no to more craft materials if you come across them. I do want to craft a few more pieces of furniture for you if possible.”

“Where can I find those?”

“Trading is how we do business around here so have a look around in Breezy Hollow and see if anyone is about!”

---

Daichi drives with the windows rolled down. He had mopped the floor and thrown out his now broken tumbler but it still smells intensely like coffee in his camper and he is dizzy after having to drive for a solid hour while breathing it in.

Outside, it is autumn and it shows in the leaves on the trees and the ground, the entire road strewn with crispy, crunchy brown leaves. The light breeze feels nice on Daichi’s face and as he approaches Breezy Hollow, the fresh scent of fruit reaches his nose, clearing out the stale smell of coffee that had stubbornly clung to his camper and him.

Breezy Hollow is a good spot for someone new to the camp grounds like him and Daichi feels refreshed as he steps out of his camper and onto the leaf-strewn ground. Trees gather in a loose formation before him and Daichi wanders, keeping to the marked trails and noting the bits of civilisation littering the place, a swing seat here and a picnic table there. A fire crackles close by and Daichi heads towards it, curious about the other campers he could meet out here.

“Hello,” Daichi says as he steps into a clearing and spots a cat by a fire, huddled up in a blanket and warming a mug over the open flame. It doesn’t look terribly safe but the cat looks terribly grumpy so Daichi chooses not to point that out just yet.

“‘llo,” the cat mumbles a reply, his eyes barely wider than slits over his blanket. Wrapped up like that, the cat almost resembles his tent behind him, the both of them conical and comprising mostly of cloth. What Daichi can see of him is a mottled blond and brown mix of fur, his eyes the faintest hint of golden-brown as he squints at the contents of his mug before glancing up at Daichi. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“I am. I just arrived actually,” Daichi says, coming to stand by the cat’s fire. “I’m Daichi.”

“Kenma," the cat replies.

“Do you,” Daichi looks at the setup Kenma has out here in Breezy Hollow. The tent and fire are cozy but Daichi can sense that a distinctly minimal effort had been put into setting them up, just enough for Kenma to withstand the autumn chill with his fire and blanket. “Do you need anything?”

“An apple,” Kenma says.

Daichi glances at the apple tree growing magnificently behind Kenma. Autumn is the season for apples and the tree’s boughs are heavy with round, red fruit. The tree is also very much within walking distance. But it doesn’t look like Kenma is going to do anything about his apple craving when he looks just about as rooted to the ground as the apple tree is so Daichi walks the short distance to the tree for him.

“Here you go.” Daichi plops a shiny red apple into Kenma’s paw, his pockets full with two more.

“Thanks,” Kenma tells him, rooting around in his blanket for something. He hands over a bag of something and when Daichi peers in, he sees bells and what appears to be cotton. Kenma looks indifferent, taking his mug off the fire and inhaling its steam. He doesn’t look up at Daichi, keeping a firm grip on his apple as he says, “Welcome to the camp grounds.”

---

“Do you like it?” Isabelle asks Daichi expectantly as Daichi steps into his campsite.

Isabelle had made good use of the cotton Daichi had handed over to her and Daichi runs a hand over his brand-new sofa, turning his gaze towards the matching table and rug. Even though they are standing out here in the near wilderness, everything around him is homely, comfort stitched and built into every single inch of his campsite. It is more than Daichi had expected when he had taken on the post of a camp manager in the middle of nowhere and the smile that erupts on his face is born out of the genuine good feelings he has about this campsite, his bad start on the road be damned.

“It’s amazing,“ Daichi tells her. “I don’t know how to thank you for getting me all set up with the furniture and the grill and all. I was expecting just a tent.”

“We do have to find some way to keep new camp managers from running off after all,” Isabelle replies with a laugh. “Just thank me by inviting lots of campers to your campsite and being a good host.”

Daichi thinks of Kenma in Breezy Hollow and wonders if he would respond to an invitation to Daichi's campsite if he went back a second time. The apples were plentiful there and he could arm himself well with them before talking to Kenma again.

“I’ll do my best,” Daichi says.

Isabelle nods, looking convinced. “Now, if you need any help just drop by my mobile office at the marketplace or approach one of the camp managers at the other campsites. There’s one that is not too far from yours and the manager there is quite a veteran.”

Isabelle leaves with an enthusiastic backward wave and Daichi plonks himself down on the sofa, liking the way he sinks just right into the cushions. The selection of books on the nearby bookcase contains a full set of guidebooks on outdoor camping, covering topics from fruit to fish to bugs. The other side of his campsite holds a grill and plenty of room for preparation, except that Daichi doesn’t have anything to try it out with.

The handy map on his smartphone shows him two spots for fishing but before that, Daichi decides to head down to the marketplace just to see what they have to offer. He wants to find a replacement for his coffee tumbler and he is growing used to getting around in his camper. With the coffee scent gradually fading from his camper, it makes for a pleasant drive all the way to the marketplace.

Rows of campers and shop trucks line the area designated as the marketplace and Daichi is just about to pull into an empty lot when a flash of red appears in the corner of his eye. A sense of deja vu washes over Daichi as he slams on the brakes to avoid the camper that slides into the lot he had been making his way towards.

Daichi sees red and he doesn’t care if he is leaving his camper in the middle of the road as he storms out of the door, his anger and indignation from this morning reigniting as he marches right up to the door of the red camper.

“You,“ Daichi hisses as the driver emerges from his camper.

“Me?” the driver says, surprise painting his face as he opens his door to a furious Daichi and looks around for anyone else Daichi could possibly be referring to.

Like Daichi, he is human and he stands head and shoulders taller than Daichi while standing in his camper, made even taller by the tousled mess of his hair that Daichi would describe as the worst case of bedhead he has ever seen. He is long-limbed and broad-shouldered, filling up the lengthy space of the doorway as he leans against the doorframe and surveys the area above Daichi’s head. His eyes widen as he catches sight of Daichi’s black camper with its distinctive orange highlights. “Oh. It’s you.”

Daichi resists the urge to throttle him—one quick shove is all it would take to send him flying back into his camper and nobody would know—and settles for diplomacy. “Congratulations on realising that yours isn’t the only camper on the road. Maybe now you’ll start to drive like a civil person instead of being a goddamned road hazard."

The driver narrows his eyes at Daichi’s tone, his golden eyes sparking, but then his expression smooths out into a pleasant expression, which Daichi doesn’t trust one bit. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’ve never seen your camper around. I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot but I’m Kuroo. I manage one of the campsites here.”

Daichi hopes that Kuroo’s campsite is on the other end of the camp grounds and as far away from his campsite as possible. Kuroo is completely unfazed by this confrontation, smug even, as he smirks down at Daichi from his camper and Daichi opens his mouth to correct that.

A horn blares from behind Daichi and Daichi glances back to see a truck stuck behind his camper, the driver looking pointedly between Daichi and his camper left out in the middle of the road, blocking a whole stream of vehicles from entering the marketplace.

“You better shift your camper,” Kuroo advises him. “The marketplace shops are about to rotate.”

Daichi glares at him as the driver sounds his horn again impatiently. Just so that Kuroo doesn't think he has gotten away with this, Daichi jabs him in the chest with a finger and leans in close to say, “Stay out of my way. Just because your camper is red doesn’t mean that everyone is going to stop for you all the time.”

Kuroo widens his eyes and raises his hands in mock surrender, and Daichi turns on his heel and jogs back to his camper. The camp grounds are big and the campers many. During his time as a campsite manager here, Daichi hopes that he won't run into Kuroo again.

[joyfullynervouscreator]

Woodland Woes

This was inspiried by this beautiful painting, made by @kinko-white

The stars were beautiful so far above him; it was a clear night, only wisps of clouds to obscure the brilliance of Elbereth’s work. In his arm, the elfling slept quietly, unaware of the tears that travelled down his ada’s face as he stared West, as though he could catch sight of the one who was probably already past the Misty Mountains.

His hand clenched around the sceptre of his rule, white knuckles standing out against pale skin as he battled with himself; as always warring with the side of him that wanted to abandon those far below, those who were his to care for, his duty… all to follow the one he had promised his heart, the one who should have stood beside him, enjoying the cool night breeze and the glitter of stars. The promontory was his, his alone, now, though once it had been her favourite place in their home; new as the permanent dwelling was, this promontory had been here for untold scores of years and they had come here often, before elflings and wars and crowns got in the way, just to talk and be together, bathe in the starlight and stare across the vast forest. Rhonith’s kin had left it alone – he hadn’t thought to ask for it, but he appreciated the undisturbed feeling of this place even more now that he was alone to enjoy it; alone but for the sleeping elfling in his free arm, the little life he cherished as the last remnant of his wife, his Nínimeth, left behind when she began the long journey west. The red silk billowed when a playful breeze caught the hem, but Thranduil did not move. He was Thranduil now, only Thranduil. Almost all those who had known his other name; who had used the name his Naneth gave him were gone, passed beyond the sea or perished in war. Only Bronwe was left, and his old friend had seen the pain of it the first time he used it, trying to offer comfort as the Captain stood by his King, waving farewell to the keeper of his heart. Bronwe had not used the name since.

In his arms, the elfling murmured something, lost in a dream and kicking his small feet against Thranduil’s chest, breaking the spell of the night and his memories. Smiling down at his son, Thranduil hushed him gently, watching those blue eyes slide shut once more, returning his son to the world of dreams.

“I love you, pinig,” he whispered, the words carried off with the breeze that flicked his robe around his legs, disturbed the pale locks of his hair. “Your Naneth loves you, too,” he promised, holding the swaddled elfling close to his chest. “One day, I will tell you about her; tell you all the things she loved, and you will ask why I weep with the telling, I know, but you will not understand, even if I tell you. I am sorry,” he murmured, but the leafling did not awake at his soft voice. Thranduil sighed. “I wish you could remember her; at least a little. I am afraid, ionneg, so afraid that you will hate me for the choice I have made.”

 When the first light of approaching dawn coloured the eastern sky, Thranduil sighed, turning on his heel. Walking back into his halls, he was not surprised to find Bronwe falling into step with him. They exchanged no words, but the Captain walked him all the way to his door, watched him put Legolas in the crib that had once been carved by a Dwarf who grumbled that it ought to have been stone, her dark-haired husband laughing at her from where he sat, making silver moulds for casting the glittering shapes that hung above Legolas’ head as they had hung above Rhonith once, and above Thandir and Thonnon. Thalion had not had a crib, of course, sleeping in between his parents until he was big enough to merit his own bed. Thranduil smiled, stroking the tiny point of his last son’s ear. Legolas wrinkled his nose, but he leaned into the touch even though he did not wake. The King of the Woodland Realm walked through the slowly waking hallways, nodding at those he passed; he knew that they knew his grief, but he also knew that his people accepted the devotion he showed them, the safety and sanctuary he offered after so much horror. He felt the love of hundreds every time he walked through his Realm, and while it did not heal the heartache, it told him he was doing the right thing by staying.

There was no one but him they would look to, no one who might convince such different tribes to co-existent under his banners, wear the maple leaf of his sigil and swear him allegiance with such devotion as Thranduil felt from his subjects.

Far away, he could hear the voices of washerwomen rise in working song, a peaceful thing; no one had sung washing blood from still-usable clothing during the war, nor had there been much joy to find during the seven year siege of the Black Gates, but they had peace now, even if he personally did not believe it would last; he avoided looking south, feeling the sun’s warmth fade from his thoughts whenever he did, felt the echo of the Shadow once more. He had seen the horrors of Mordor, and though it lay now under watchful guard by Men, Barad-dur’s dark stones scattered and its power broken, Thranduil did not think it truly vanquished. The Shadow would rise again… and his people would be far better prepared than they had been at the beginning of the war; he had already begun negotiations with the Dwarrow of Khazad-dûm, who claimed his mountains had some of the finest silver they had seen; perfectly willing to mine it and give him steel-and-mithril mail and armour in return. Durin had even promised to make the armour look Elven, making it light but strong, which would hopefully convince his guards and soldiers to wear it, even without his direct orders.

Picking up his goblet, he sipped the sweet but tart juice of cordof that always brought a gentle smile to his face in the morning, nodding silently at the serving girl who brought him a platter of nibbles to replace his breakfast; Thranduil knew it was Maeassel’s hands at work, ensuring that he fed himself appropriately, even though he no longer felt like sitting down to eat his meals at the table he had shared with Nínimeth. The girl – he thought her name was Morineth, but it was better to be certain before he called out the wrong name to thank her – bowed gracefully, slipping away in silence. Making a note to confirm her name with his steward, Thranduil waved at the door guards, signalling the day of his court to begin.

He would be the King, and he would protect his peoples, shelter them from harm. His was not the power of one of the Rings – and after the war that had so recently been fought, he would not have trusted such magicks to guard his Realm – the power of the Elvenking of the great Forest had always been that which was found in the land, in trees and deep roots, and the sound of birds singing and the joy of Elves dancing. Nínimeth had been the one to teach him that, in truth, she had been the main reason Oropher’s fledgling kingdom grew beyond Amon Lanc at all, bringing the Nandorin chieftains together under their rule in a slow and laborious process that had eventually seen them rulers of all the forest; from the Mountains in the north, to the marshes in the south.

Starlight Prince, the son of the Beech Tree King, they had called him at first, but he had chosen his new name in a ceremony older than he was; a remnant of the Nandorin culture that had survived – and still survived in this day; tying him to this land of trees that had borne his wife as though he too had been born beneath their boughs.

Thranduil. Ever the great river runs across.

note: cordof is a small red apple.

[tipsycad147]

SWEET MARJORAM {ORIGANUM MAJORANA}

by Crooked Bear Creek Organic Herbs

Also, Known As:

Amaracus

Annual Marjoram

Knotted Marjoram

Sweet Marjoram

Sweet marjoram (botanical name Origanum majorana) is one of the more delicately flavored cousins of oregano. Sweet marjoram is a soft perennially growing herb that is actually cultivated in the form of an annual in the gardens in the northern hemisphere. This herb is considered to have its origin in North Africa, India, and the Middle East and usually grows up to a height of 25 cm to 60 cm (10 inches to 24 inches). Sweet marjoram is an attractive plant with a somewhat luxuriant, expensive habit that makes it a gorgeous hanging plant and is perfect for rock gardens and borders.

Sweet marjoram grows copiously; they are small, spherical, and woolly-haired and have greyish-green leaves that grow opposite to each other. The herb has a sugary, spicy aroma and essence.

The stem of this herb is square having a purple hue and several thin boughs. The root of sweet marjoram is also slender and has numerous side branches. The herb produces bunches of delicate white hue or pink blossoms that appear on the spikes at the terminals of the branches during the later part of summer and early fall. Prior to their opening, the buds of the flowers look like knots. Therefore, this herb has earned the common name ‘knotted marjoram’.

Sweet marjoram can be cultivated in pots as well as containers, indoors as well as outdoors. All parts of the herb, excluding the roots, the leaves, soft stems and flowers of sweet marjoram are edible.

Plant Parts Used:

Leaves, flowers, stems, oil.

Therapeutic Use:

Sweet marjoram has a number of therapeutic uses. In conventional folk medicine, this herb was used in the form of a therapy for a headache, toothache, indigestion, asthma, rheumatism, flatulence, earache, epilepsy as well as to provide relief from the labour pain. The oil extracted from the herb was used in the form of a cream for healing bruises, sprains and also to induce sweating among people suffering from measles.

In effect, the herb sweet marjoram is basically used in the form of a culinary herb. However, the herb is also valued therapeutically owing to its antispasmodic and stimulant properties. Sweet marjoram is an excellent common tonic that is used to cure several different problems related to the digestive as well as the respiratory tracts. Compared to oregano (botanical name Origanum vulgare), this herb has a more potent effect on the nervous system and it is also considered to lessen libido or sex drive. Since sweet marjoram has the aptitude to induce menstruation, this herb should never be used medicinally by women during pregnancy. However, they may use small amounts of the herb in culinary as it has been found safe for such use. Sweet marjoram possesses antiseptic, cholagogues, carminative, diuretic, diaphoretic (a medicine that induces perspiration), emmenagogue (a medicine that promotes menstruation), stimulant, stomach (any medication that is good for the digestive tract), expectorant and gentle tonic properties.

As a medicinal herb, sweet marjoram is used internally to treat conditions such as tension headaches, nervousness, insomnia, bronchial complaints, trivial digestive problems as well as agonising menstruation. Here is a word of caution. Sweet marjoram should never be given to pregnant women. This herb is also used externally for treating muscular aches, arthritis, stiff joints, and sprains. Sweet marjoram is harvested immediately after the plant begins to blossom and may be used fresh as well as dried. More often than not, sweet marjoram is therapeutically used as an essential oil – approximately 400 grams of the oil can be obtained from 70 kilograms of the fresh herb. The essential oil of sweet marjoram is also used in aromatherapy.

Culinary uses

Sweet marjoram enhances the essence of the majority of dishes and it is a favourite support in any kitchen, especially when the chef is in two minds regarding the herb that he or she ought to use. In fact, this herb is deceivingly strong and, hence, it ought to be used in moderation.

The tender shoots and leaves of sweet marjoram may be added to salads as well as vegetable recipes that require carrots, cauliflower, mushrooms, spinach, peas, cabbage and summer squash. In addition, you may also use sweet marjoram while preparing tomato sauces, pizza as well as pork and beef dishes. Sweet marjoram may also be added to soups, sausages, stews, omelettes, meat pies, seafood, stuffing and poultry for seasoning. It is important to note that if you are adding sweet marjoram to any hot dish, it should only be done during the final 10 minutes of cooking.

Sweet marjoram is also used in the commercial preparation of several edibles. For instance, the leaves, soft stems, and flowers of this herb are commercially used to add essence to dressings, syrups, liqueurs, vinegar as well as sauces. The seeds of sweet marjoram are used in beverages, condiments, candy and processed meat.

It may be noted that majority of the herbs can be preserved better by freezing compared to drying them up. However, compared to any other herb, sweet marjoram keeps hold of its fragrance even after being dried. You may use sweet marjoram in eggplant Parmesan, spaghetti sauce as well as lasagne – if effect, this herb can be used with any food product that has anything to do with tomatoes. Sweet marjoram is considered to be an indispensable herb while preparing turkey stuffing. In addition, this herb is a vital flavouring while preparing German sausages and is also extensively employed in Italian, French and Portuguese cuisines.

Craft uses

Besides its use for medicinal and culinary purposes, sweet marjoram is also employed in craft works, for instance, this herb may be added to potpourris and included in sachets for the linen as well as wardrobes.

Growing Sweet Marjoram:

Sweet marjoram thrives well in rich and light soil that has a proper drainage. This herb has the aptitude to tolerate a pH range of 4.9 to 8.7 and has a preference for complete sunlight. However, it can also tolerate light shade and thrives in partially shady locations.

Sweet marjoram is propagated by its seeds, which need to be sown indoors around six to eight weeks prior to the last spring frost date in your area. The seeds ought to be sown at a depth of 6 mm (1/4 inch) or even less. During the germination period, ensure that the soil is always maintained evenly moist.

The young seedlings should be planted at a distance of about 15 cm to 20 cm (six to eight inches) away from each other. When the plant is in the process of vegetative phase of growth, the plants grown outdoors need regular watering. To promote branching as well as a bushy growth, it is advisable that you pinch back the plant tops.

Sweet marjoram plants are vulnerable to fungal diseases, root rot, aphids, spider mites and leaf miners. In addition, they also have an inclination to damp-off during the early phase of spring.

It has been found that sweet marjoram grows well indoors during the winter months. In order to grow this herb indoors, pot the sweet marjoram plants in arid, well-drained, sandy soil during the fall and water them properly and subsequently let the soil to dry – but ensure that the soil does not dry up between two watering sessions. The potted plants ought to be put in a place that receives full sunlight since this herb needs a minimum of five hours of direct sunlight every day. To encourage the growth of new leaves, you need to pinch off the flower buds. You may put the indoor plants in their permanent positions outdoors when the last spring frost in your area has passed.

Sweet marjoram has a need for an arid, warm, properly drained soil, but does not have any problem in growing on any other type of soil; in effect, this herb may also grow well on chalky soil. Sweet marjoram has a preference for somewhat alkaline soil conditions. More often than not, sweet marjoram is cultivated in the form of a culinary herb; there are a number of named varieties of the herb. Normally, the sweet marjoram plants do not endure the cold winter months when grown outdoors and, hence, they are generally grown in the form of annual plants, despite being of perennial temperament. According to different reports, growing the sweet marjoram plants overwinter is possible in areas having cold winters provided thick mulch is applied to the roots before the onset of winter.

Sweet marjoram is considered to be an excellent companion plant as it helps to enhance the flavor of other plants growing in the vicinity. The pink-hued flowers of this herb are extremely eye-catching to bees. The crushed leaves of sweet marjoram exude an aroma which has the slight resemblance to thyme but rather more sweetened with balsamic connotations. In India, people consider the sweet marjoram to be a holy plant. Species belonging to this genus are seldom if ever, disturbed by leafing through deer.

Sweet marjoram is mainly propagated by its seeds, which need to be sown early in spring when the temperature is between 10º C and 13º C. Generally, it takes anything between two and four weeks for the seeds to germinate. Prick the seedlings individually and pot them separately when they have grown large enough to be handled. The young plants may be put in their permanent positions outdoors during the early part of summer. In addition, you may also sow the sweet marjoram seeds in situ (in their permanent location) during April or the early part of May. While the seeds may take a longer time to germinate when sown in situ, they generally grow well.

This herb may also be propagated by the division method, ideally undertaken in March or in October. Propagating sweet marjoram by division is extremely simple and you may make large divisions and plant them straight away into their permanent positions outdoors. However, it is advisable that you grow the smaller divisions indoors in individual pots in a cold frame in a partial shade till they become well established to be planted in their permanent positions outdoors during the later part of spring or early phase of the summer.

Often sweet marjoram is also propagated by means of the basal cuttings of young unproductive shoots. This process is very simple and ideally undertaken in June. The shoots are harvested along with copious underground stem when they have grown approximately 8 cm to 10 cm above the ground. Subsequently, the shoots are planted in individual pots and positioned in partial shade in a cold frame or greenhouse till they have started to root properly. The young plants may be put in their permanent positions outdoors during the summer.

Components of Sweet Marjoram:

Chemical analysis of sweet marjoram has revealed that this flavoured herb encloses several chemical amalgams, including camphor, borneol, and pinene.

Harvesting of Sweet Marjoram:

The leaves of sweet marjoram may be collected anytime, but only after the plant has grown up to a height of about 15 cm to 20 cm (6 inches to 8 inches).

The leaves and stems of sweet marjoram should be harvested for drying soon after the formation of the flower buds or immediately prior to blossoming, at what time the flavor of the herb is at its maximum. The stems should be cut near to the ground and fastened in bunches. Subsequently, dangle the stem bunches in a warm, arid and shady place for them to dry up. The dried up leaves should be stripped from the stems and kept in sealed containers and put in a place where there is no light. Dissimilar to several other herbs, the flavor of sweet marjoram intensifies when the plant dries up.

The best way to preserve the dried leaves of sweet marjoram is to freeze them in oil or butter.

Flavoured Oils:

Culinary oils having herbal flavors may be employed in vinaigrette’s or marinades, applied lightly over fish and meat before grilling or sprinkle in the Italian styles over chubby roasted pieces of baguette. While it is ideal to use virgin olive oil or light sesame oil for this purpose, you may also use additional ‘healthy’ oils like walnut or sunflower oils, which also work wonderfully. It is important that you label the oils you prepare at home in order to help you know the content of each bottle. You may provide an additional appealing dash to the herbal flavoured oils and also increase their essence by adding a fresh stem of the herb prior to sealing the bottles. The ingredients for making the herbal flavoured culinary oil are listed below.

600 ml/ one-pint oil of your preference

6 tablespoonfuls of sliced herbs in any one of the combinations listed below:

Thyme, shallots, rosemary

Basil, rosemary, lemon thyme

Tarragon, green peppercorns, lemon balm

Basil, chives, lemon thyme, garlic, burnet

Dill seeds, dill leaves, garlic, burnet

Make use of a grinder or mortar to grind the herbs into a paste. Include a few drops of oil and beat the combination to prepare a cream and, subsequently, add the remaining oil little by little. Transfer the blend to a clean, dry container, cover it firmly and allow it to infuse for about two weeks. While the combination is left to infuse, you need to shake it once or twice every day. Finally, filter the combination into a clean bottle, seal the bottle tightly, paste a label and store it for use when needed.

https://crookedbearcreekorganicherbs.com/2018/02/26/sweet-marjoram-origanum-majorana/

[sapphyrelily]

Star-crossed

Right, this took me a year and a quarter to finally finish editing and get posted, but here it isss :D My sort-of backstory on Aeris and Starmist’s relationship.

This is long af so it’s under a cut.

“Dreams are always dashed. Why do you still bother?”

Oh, shut up.

“Don’t listen to the demon. Follow your heart, little one. Grow stronger, regain your confidence.”

“Aye. You are stronger than you think. You are still growing. Shape your future, lest you be turned to stone.”

Thank you, Glint, King Jalis. But please, leave me to think.

Starmist sighs, looking out over the darkened expanse beyond the boughs of the Tree. His hands are cramping from working for too long, but he doesn’t know what else to do. His heart is too heavy to do much else, and he needs a distraction that will not worsen his injuries.

(Funny, that sylvari can sustain injury and scar tissue like any other race.)

Maybe he should take a walk.

He packs up his materials, storing them carefully in his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. It’s a decent walk to the bower, but he knows he will still be restless after. His mind is spiralling downwards, and his heart sits like a rock in his chest.

“Perhaps today is the day I will consume you, weakling.”

Oh, shut up, Mallyx.

“Leave the sapling be. It is not his fault he keeps hearing us…”

Starmist is grateful for Ventari's interjection, but he can’t find it in himself to reply, to thank him. He hopes the old centaur knows he is grateful.

He pushes aside the leaves covering the entrance of the garden, dropping his satchel just inside it. A cat walks past and stops to sniff it, turning away just as quickly. Starmist feels a hint of a smile tugging on his lips. Aoi's cats are helpful, sometimes.

His feet lead him away, wandering the small city. The Grove isn’t big by any means – it is just a tiny hub nestled between the Mother Tree's roots, the three levels intertwined by gentle slopes. The light shining out of blooming flowers make it warm – complimenting the spots of luminescence that the Tree herself has on the roots that form the slopes. Tiny spots of firefly luminescence are suspended in fine webbing in darker areas, little stars in the dark.

The various forms of lighting are not bright enough to darken the stars and the moon overhead, but are bright enough to light the path, to keep the nightmares at bay. The flowers by the slopes to each level brim with softly glowing nectar, winking gently at him, tempting him with their sweet contents.

He lifts a drop from a petal to taste; he doesn’t feel like running, he doesn’t feel like erasing the weight on him by throwing himself into the exhilaration gifted by the nectar. But he loves the flavour of it; sweet, life-giving, brimming with energy.

It sits on his tongue, light and heady, a burst of flavour to brighten his mood, just a little.

Starmist continues to wander.

His feet lead him; his eyes guide him. Shifting him away from where people congregate, directing him towards quieter areas. Still well lit, but less noise. Less…interference.

It is difficult, to hear and feel others so acutely, after he returned to Tyria from the Mists.

A small room. A little tunnel, leading up, then sloping down. It is lit by the glow at the end of grubs’ tails, the bands and spots on their bodies, and illuminates several other sylvari.

Their thoughts are peaceful, calm. He might stay here a while.

Starmist wanders partway down the tunnel, sitting on a clear patch of ground. A grub crawls up to him, its feelers tickling his cheek. He strokes its face, gently pushes it on its way. Its interest is captured by a nearby leaf, and it wriggles off.

“Starmist? By the Tree, is it really you?”

He turns towards the voice, lips already lifting. This is a good voice to hear. “Sei. It is good to see you.”

“And you, sapling. Come away, don’t sit where the grubs can chew on you. I know a quiet place that is far cleaner.” The shorter sylvari beckons him forward, and Starmist gets to his feet. His quiet time might have been interrupted, but he can think of no better person to have found him.

There is a little room by the grub tunnels, filled with puffy pod-chairs. It is here that Sei seats him, offering a drink as he sinks into the exquisitely soft chair.

The liquid is cool – water sweetened with a dash of nectar. Not much, but it’s all he needs. He has never been one for fancy drinks, especially not after his experiences with Wintersday spirits.

Sei sits beside him, cupping his own drink. Starmist snorts as the mender sinks into the chair, making him shorter than he usually is.

Sei rolls his eyes. “At least you haven’t forgotten how to laugh.”

“I guess not.” Starmist's voice is quiet, a little smile in it. “But–” He mimes how Sei sank into the chair, “–it was funny.”

“If you like insulting my chairs, you are welcome to sit on a regular stool.” Sei sniffs, ignoring the jibe. “These are comfortable.”

“I never implied they weren’t.”

“Good. Laena loves them. Anything she loves is generally a job well done.”

“She’s picky.”

“She has good taste,” Sei corrects. “But enough about her.” He fixes Starmist with his piercing gaze, and he squirms in his seat. “Tell me what bothers you.”

There’s no lying to a mender, especially one as astute as Sei.

Starmist sighs. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I–” Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about it too deeply. But he thinks of his last letter, the one he sent with Sabadi, and he feels like that might be it.

“I…was thinking about Aeris again.”

“Aeris.” Sei sniffs. If he had been a cruder man, he would have spat on the floor. “What a horrible sapling he turned out to be. Charr are terrible influences.”

Starmist stares at the liquid in his cup, no longer thirsty. His throat is too tight. “Yeah. Most of them.”

“Most of them,” Sei agrees. “The ones that don’t conform to their precious Citadel’s orders are a lot more amenable.”

Starmist can’t deny that. He’s met Hyousetsu twice, and for a gladium, she’s surprisingly good-hearted. Gruff, but kind.

“Why were you thinking about him?”

Starmist glances up. Sei is looking at his cup, tracing the rim. He’s not pressing for answers, neither with his gaze nor the tone of his words. But he waits, all the same, for a reply.

Starmist bites his lip, wondering the same.

(Not really, not really. He knows why.)

“I’ve… Been dreaming about him again. So I wondered. What could have happened if I held on. If I pushed a little more, tried a little harder, when I found out he was in Ascalon, when I came back from the Mists.”

“Do you wish it went differently?”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t look up. “I wish he wasn’t so hostile. That he’d give us a chance again.”

“Ascalon changed him, as the Mists changed you. You’re more adaptable now. You could still talk to him.”

“Maybe.” He hesitates. Even thinking about talking to Aeris makes his heart stutter out of beat. With terror. Fear. Pain.

He doesn’t want to be rejected again. Not after their last meeting, when Aeris made clear that he wanted nothing to do with him.

“What about speaking to him with Murasaki as a mediator?”

Starmist’s heart rate spikes. “No. That’s the worst thing I could do.”

“Why?”

It sounds absurd in his head, and even worse aloud. “He thinks I want to be with her.”

Sei snorts, almost spilling his drink. “Is he mad? Those charr really have done something to his brain.”

“I don’t know.” Starmist feels bad even thinking about it. He doesn’t like thinking badly about Aeris, even if those accusations might be true. “He almost killed me the last time we met.”

“Oh, he’s definitely mad. I should send Laena after him, slap some sense into his underwatered brain.”

It hurts to laugh, and the sound that comes out is choked. Trust a mender to think of ‘underwatered’ as an insult. Trust this mender to send a Warden after a ‘rogue’ sapling.

Sei reaches over and pats his hand. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it, Starmist.”

Starmist nods mutely, but he can barely think. He feels like he might cry.

Stop it. You’re not this weak.

“Yes, you are.”  Shiro sounds bored. “Just kill the nuisance and be done with it. It worked with Cantha.”

I am not assassinating a man I still love, Shiro.

“I loved the Emperor once. He tried to kill me, so I killed him first.”

“Men are disgusting. I agree with the assassin.”

“Rather ironic, Scorchrazor.”

“The only time I agree with a man is when his opinion is not completely misogynistic.”

Kalla, Glint, please.

“Arguing with the spirits again?”

Starmist looks up, catching Sei’s amused look. He gestures at Starmist’s face. “You always get this look when they start talking to you.”

A tiny smile lifts his lips. It’s mostly exasperation. “Yeah. Some of them say I should kill him first.”

“Violence begets violence,” Sei says. “If you are the bigger man, you wouldn’t do it.”

But am I?

“You are.”

He doubts it.

“You still love him, do you not?”

You know I do.

“What will you do?” It’s Sei speaking, not one of the spirits.

I don’t know.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “You’re right, the Mists changed me. I’m too scared for confrontation now.”

“You used to confront people too much in the past anyway.” Sei sips his drink, eyes thoughtful. “Funny, how your roles have swapped. Aeris used to be the quiet one.”

Starmist snorts. “Not with me, he wasn’t. He was so cheeky, but also tender, sarcastic, impassive… He was a kaleidoscope, but only behind closed doors. Ascalon seems to have filtered his emotional range, and now he doesn’t care about offending others or being nasty to them.”

“Not to Murasaki, I hope.”

“Even to Murasaki.”

Sei's eyebrows look like they might disappear into his non-existent hairline. “And here I thought he loved her more than anything.”

“That doesn’t stop him from arguing with her.” Starmist chews on the rim of his cup. “I don’t think she minds that much. She’s been referring to him as 'a pain, but my pain'.”

“Always adaptable, that one.” Sei chuckles. “If she’d give up her responsibilities, I could make a mender out of her.”

“She’d never do it. She feels like she has to do it all herself, especially now with Trahearne gone.”

“I know,” the mender sighs. The Firstborn's passing – sacrifice – is still a difficult subject for all sylvari. “It doesn’t stop me from worrying. She’ll get herself really hurt one day, from trying to be everywhere at once.”

Starmist doesn’t think it’s a good idea to tell him that she already died once.

Sei stretches, then leans over to pluck the empty cup from Starmist’s hand. “Well, don’t worry too much. You’ll reconcile with Aeris in due time.”

Starmist tries to smile, but his heart turns in the opposite direction from his lips. “I hope so.”

I really, really hope so.

-----

Aron follows the magenta glow to its source at the top of a small cliff, plopping down beside his friend. He follows his gaze to the small camp where their warband rests, the fire dying down, the last few retreating to their tents.

They’d reach the Citadel soon. A few more days. He can almost see it now: Deliver their reports. Get some approved time off. And after that, a new assignment – hopefully nowhere near Ebonhawke.

He doesn’t have much hope of that. The Iron Legion Imperator likes sending as many troops out there as possible, even though the treaty with the humans is holding strong. The Separatist ranks never seem to thin out, and the Renegades are just as annoying.

But he doubts that is what brought his friend up here.

“What’s burning your leaves?”

Aeris shoots him a sour look. “I’m not that upset.”

Aron snorts. “Sure you aren’t. You’re sulking on a cliff. The higher you go, the more upset you are.”

“I hate that I’m so predictable,” Aeris grumbles. “Fine, yes, I’m upset. What of it?”

“What’s it about? If it causes you to leave even more clones behind in the morning, Legionnaire Blizzardblade won’t be pleased.”

Aeris grumbles more. “Just thinking.”

“Oh no, thinking.”

“Shut your trap, fuzzball.” Aeris shoves him, but there’s little heat behind the action. “I was just thinking about my sister’s friend.”

“The tall thief?”

“No, not that one.”

“The gladium and her ranger?”

“No.”

Aron counts off individuals on his fingers. “The Soundless, the Courtier, the other thief; the human guardian or one of her sisters; the other ranger, the other other guardian and ranger–”

“No to all of those.” Aeris sounds sour. “The revenant.”

Aron’s ears prick up. “Never heard of that one.” To be fair, he reasons to himself, there aren’t many revenants in Tyria. He only knows they exist because the most famous one is charr.

“Because I don’t talk about him.” The sylvari sounds downright grumpy, maybe even bitter. “I don’t like thinking about him.”

“Wow.” Aron is impressed. “What did he do that you hate him so much? And how is he still your sister’s friend?”

Aeris glares. “Are you implying I chase away all of my sister’s friends?”

“You said it, not me.”

Aeris punches his arm. “I do not.”

“Evidently, because this revenant is still your sister’s friend.”

He can almost see the steam pouring from Aeris’s ears. “Okay, I’m not telling you after all. You’re being annoying.”

“Fine, then.” Aron stretches, getting to his feet.

A hand catches the hem of his pants, preventing him from walking away. Aron raises his eyebrows, but the sylvari isn’t looking at him.

He sits down.

It takes four cycles of the sylvari's glow brightening and dimming before he begins to speak. “The revenant's name is Starmist. He used to be my lover.”

Aron can’t help it; he splutters. Not so much because his friend had a male lover but because– “And now you hate him?”

“What made you think that?!”

“Your face and how much you don’t want to talk about him,” Aron points out. “But go on. This is the juiciest thing I’ve ever heard from you.”

“Aron Blizzardclaw, I will put a bullet in your skull–”

“I’ll set you on fire first. Anyway, about your lover.”

“Ex-lover,” Aeris stresses. “We’re not on talking terms anymore.”

“Alright, seriously, what did he do to get your leaves all withered?” Aron is perplexed. “I’ve never seen you this agitated, even when your sister died.”

“She came back.”

“Not the point. You evidently care more about this guy than your sister, and that’s saying something. The whole warband – heck, all of the Citadel, even Tyria – knows you have a sister complex.”

“I– I do not!”

“Yes, you do, you mottled leaf.” Aron cuffs his head. “Who is this man? I must meet him.”

“Oh, no, you don’t, you meddling fluff.” Aeris shoves him. “Starmist can stay far away from you and me, for the rest of my life if necessary–”

There’s something in his voice that gives Aron pause. The forced hardness, the over-the-top aggression.

(The edge of hysteria.)

“You still love him, don’t you?”

Aeris splutters, his glow so intense it’s almost red. “What are you talking about?”

Aron points a claw at his face. “That. And here I thought sylvari couldn’t blush.”

“You’re a pile of dolyak manure.”

“You didn’t deny it,” Aron observes. “What’s so special about this guy?”

Aeris says nothing, his glow slowly dimming as he gnaws on his lip. Aron waits.

“He’s my everything.”

(Soft, so soft. He’s heard Ash Legion walk more loudly than this.)

(Thank the Eternal Flame he has four ears.)

Aron blinks as the words register. Stares at his friend. Clears his throat. “Come again?”

“I’m not repeating that.” The blush is back in full force, and the charr has to hold back a laugh. “I know you heard me.”

“Well, yes, but– Man, that was disgustingly sweet.”

“I’m not talking to you anymore.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Aron groans. “How does the Commander live with you?”

“She was born with me.”

“No technicalities.”

Aeris snorts. They are silent for a while.

“So. This guy a sylvari?”

“Yes.” Aeris sounds like he’s sulking again. Aron rolls his eyes.

“And you’re not talking to him anymore, why?”

“He pisses me off.”

“Now you’re contradicting yourself,” Aron growls. “You love him, but he annoys you. Sort yourself out!”

Aeris mumbles something incoherent. Or maybe it’s so jumbled up that none of Aron’s four ears can pick it up. “What?”

“I made a bit of a mistake.”

“Boy, am I surprised.”

“Shut it.” There’s no heat behind the words. “It was a misunderstanding, okay?”

“You don’t want to apologise.” Aron infers.

“…something like that.”

“Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“I may have accused him of sleeping with my sister.”

Aron groans. “That is the least sylvari-like thing ever. Even I know sex is a secondary thing to you guys.”

“Shut up, I know.” Aeris sounds aggrieved. “And there was another thing, but I’m not telling you that.”

“What, too personal? And here I thought this was personal.”

“Even more personal, yes.” Aeris doesn’t even try to deny it, and Aron’s eyebrows raise to join his hairline.

“Well. Who knew?”

“Go away.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Are we going back to camp or what?”

The sylvari is quiet for a moment, then silently gets to his feet and takes the path down. Aron follows him, shooting quizzical looks at his friend’s back.

How odd. Maybe a ghost is possessing his friend. There’s no way he just said all of that of his own accord.

-----

A cold night, a frosty cave, the chill of the wind seeping into bones.

They’re almost there, almost at the end. The dark room is coming to a close.

Above their heads, the spirit of the pirate captain laughs.

They ignore him.

“Come on. One more platform.”

Hands grip each other tightly, before letting go. The pirate spirit lights the room again.

One second, a running jump, rolling and coming to a stop.

The light cuts as he rises to his feet. Breathless, a laugh bubbling out.

A panicked voice comes from behind him. “Starmist? Where are you?”

His heart sinks, his laughter dies. “Up here.”

“I can’t see you, where have you gone?”

He leans over the edge, gripping the stone carefully, just as the light blinks into existence.

And snuffs out.

But the image is still imprinted on his mind: an outstretched hand, a face filled with panic, a desperate reach for something that is unattainable.

“I’ll wait for you. You remember the path out, right?”

A shaky breath. “Yeah.”

“You can do this. I’ll stay here.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. I’ll be the marker so you know where to go.”

“Okay.”

The scene changes.

Angry yelling, voices echoing back at them, ten times magnified.

“You jumped without me!”

“It was an accident, I slipped!”

“Fine, but you didn’t wait!”

“It was cold and there might have been a shark in the water! I waited outside!”

“Excuses.”

“Get a grip, you found me in the end. It’s not that bad!”

“I thought you were dead!”

“Well, I’m not.” His voice sounds so cold. “Worry about yourself.”

A pause, an almost stunned silence. “Are you implying that I’m more likely to die?”

“If you don’t stop clinging to me, yes! I can’t be there all the time, Aeris.”

“Do you want to leave?”

The heavily implied, but unsaid 'me' at the end of his sentence hangs in the air. The pirate captain cackles behind them, ghostly echoes filling the cavern.

Starmist holds his gaze but says nothing. Indignation courses through him. He will not say something he regrets, and he will not add fuel to the fire.

He turns towards the exit and storms out of the cave.

The colours shift, the lighting increases.

A rough shove sends him backwards, stumbling too close to the humming asura gate. He looks up, glares at his partner. “Stop.”

“You want me to be more assertive, don’t you? So, watch me.”

Another shove, but this time Starmist is ready. He catches Aeris’s hands, pushing him back. He may be shorter, but Aeris is unused to combat and brute force. He can win this.

The surge of strength takes him by surprise, and they fall. The screams of the asura gate assistant is all he hears before his head compresses and his vision goes black.

He hits the floor, the breath knocked from his lungs, his head cracking against the ground.

Beside him, Aeris struggles to push himself up. Starmist thinks he might have the same headache he does.

Serves him right.

Something catches his eye – the odd surroundings, the metal of an airship, the strangely foggy air around them. The silence, the unnatural stillness.

He blanches.

We’re in the Mists. We have to get out.

The asura gate hums beside them. He's sure it will take them back to Lion's Arch, but they have to move. Fast.

“We need to go–”

“We should settle this here and now.” Aeris staggers to his feet, grabbing Starmist by the arm. The shorter sylvari yanks it away, glaring.

“We need to get back to Tyria, now.”

“Why not finish this here? No one is watching.” The taller folds his arms, and Starmist feels his anger returning.

“You have terrible priorities.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“I’m trying to keep us alive!”

“Really? Or just yourself?”

Starmist growls. “We’re in the Mists. There’s all sorts of things in here that could kill us!”

“If we’re in here, we’re dead anyway.”

“Not true. Some people have returned from the Mist War.”

“And even more haven’t. I can’t feel the Pale Mother here. Can you?”

He can’t. “Argue later, leave now.”

“You sound like an ettin,” Aeris sneers. “So simple-minded.”

“I dare you to say that again.” He steps forward, but Aeris holds his ground, chin held high.

“I said–”

Starmist shoves him, catching him off guard. Aeris stumbles and trips and falls backwards – eyes wide, body passing through the shimmering haze of the asura gate.

Starmist sighs in relief. Steps forward to follow.

Something grabs him, yanks him back. Hooks the back of his shirt, drags him away from the gate. He chokes; fumbles at his sides for his weapons, but comes up empty.

I left them in my backpack.

The backpack that is still sitting in Lion's Arch, where he had set it down before their fight.

The thing holding on to him screams. Ear-piercing, head-splitting. He claps his hands over his ears, but he can hear them ringing, can feel his body curling up from the shock.

He blacks out.

-----

A hand is shaking him awake, turning to gentle shoves. A voice calls his name; lightly exasperated, a sighing cadence.

“Starmiiiiist. Get up, c'mon.”

He opens one eye, the last tendrils of the dream fading; he makes out a light pink glow. He sighs through his nose. “Lemme sleep, Mura.”

“No. I just returned, I want my bed back.”

“We can share.” He shifts onto his side, the hammock tilting. A moment later, he feels the dip of the material in the other direction as she climbs in beside him.

Starmist feels her lay her head against his chest, an arm and a leg wrapping around his body as if he is a large pillow. He feels her satisfied grumble, the tiny sigh that gets lost in his shirt.

“Goodnight.”

“’night.”

They sleep on.

-----

They’re lagging behind the warband, Aron carrying the still-sleeping sylvari on his back. He’s pretty sure this is the real one, because the clones don’t talk in their sleep.

Aeris mumbles something, then inhales sharply. Aron ignores him and the tightening of limbs around his neck. It’s not a sign he’s awake. It could be another nightmare.

He wonders what his friend is dreaming about, but he thinks he might know.

I'm going to ask the legionnaire for a week off, then take this plant back to the Grove and leave him there.

Stupid stick needs to sort out his problems.

Aron wonders if the Commander is back from her latest trip yet, if she’ll be home.

He supposes he’ll find out soon.

-----

He wakes slowly, wondering what the warmth next to him is, wondering why it is so small. He can hear soft exhales, the weight of a head on his chest, but it’s not quite right. It’s too light.

He blinks too many times and squints at the person beside him.

Oh. Just Murasaki.

He hates admitting to himself that he still feels disappointed, after all this time.

He’s not coming back, stop doing this.

“Emotions make you weak.”

He can’t really disagree with the assassin.

Starmist gets up slowly, pulling away and out of the hammock. Murasaki shifts in her sleep but does not rouse; he gently lays her head back down, watching her breathing return to normal.

He exhales lightly and turns away, picking up and sliding his weapons into place. He glances at the armour set in the corner but decides to leave it be. No point in putting them on when he’s not leaving yet.

“What is the point of putting on only half of one’s clothes? Do it properly.”

Shut up, Shiro. At least I took my weapons.

“One day you’ll return to the Mists because of your sheer stupidity and carelessness, and I will remind you what it means to allow your foolhardy consciousness to 'relax'.”

“It’s his house. Why must he carry weapons at all?”

Starmist can foresee the assassin's reply.

“You strike in the home, where the enemy is undressed and thinks himself safe. Never let your guard down.”

Ventari sighs.

A rustle at the door catches his attention, and he hears hissing as the cats flee.

Starmist makes his way there, mildly curious, but he isn’t too worried. Despite Shiro’s misgivings, the Wardens wouldn’t let anyone suspicious into the Grove – the cats just don’t like strangers.

He pulls the curtain-door aside to greet the person.

His heart stops; his breath catches in his chest.

The large charr raises an eyebrow at him and coughs lightly, catching his attention, shattering his frozen state. “Can I, uh, deposit my friend?”

“What did you do to him?” Starmist doesn’t move, but he’s already drawing on the nearest spirit's power. Demonic energy fills him, the tendrils ready for him to take hold of if something goes wrong.

(He tells himself he doesn’t care that his voice broke, there at the end.)

The charr doesn’t seem to notice, his tone nonchalant as he answers. “Oh, he’s just sleeping. I think this is the real one, because he’s been–”

“–talking in his sleep,” Starmist finishes, eyes fixed on Aeris’s face, on his moving lips.

“…yeah.” The charr looks at him curiously. “You know him?”

“Knew. Once.” It’s not untrue. Starmist steps aside, releasing the energy now that he knows nothing is wrong. Mallyx growls at him, but he ignores the demon. “Come in, you can put him down and I’ll get you a drink. It can’t have been easy to carry him all this way.” Why is he being so hospitable?

“Thanks. Much appreciated.” The charr follows him, footsteps light.

Starmist hears a sharp intake of breath as they walk into the sleeping area, and glances over his shoulder. The charr is staring, and he follows his gaze to the hammock and its occupant.

Play it cool.

“Bring him over, I’ll just shift Murasaki.”

The footsteps follow after a beat of hesitation. Starmist ducks around the hammock, gently sliding his arms under and lifting his sleeping friend.

Murasaki doesn’t stir. Her entire body is limp, and Starmist struggles to hold her up. She’s heavier than she looks.

“Put him down.” He tries to keep his voice level, but he’s not sure if the charr can pick up the strain in it. If he does, he doesn’t say anything.

The charr pulls Aeris off his back, lowering and tucking all his limbs into the hammock before stepping backwards. Starmist takes his turn and drapes Murasaki on top of him, trying to arrange her comfortably without touching her brother. He pretends not to hear the charr’s snort, the feeling of surprise emanating from him.

He needn’t have worried. The twins shift themselves to fit each other – Aeris’s arms pulling Murasaki close, her hands fisting in his shirt. They curl into each other, their breathing stuttering before synchronising, until the only way to tell them apart is the colour of their clothing.

Starmist smiles lightly, sadly. He steps around the hammock, lightly touching the stunned charr's elbow and gesturing with a tilt of his head. The charr follows.

The small kitchen is next to the sleeping area, but Starmist pours them drinks and leads the way up to the higher levels, overlooking parts of the Grove. The charr looks hesitant at first, but gingerly sits beside him on the ground, paws carefully cradling the cup. They sit in silence for a long moment, neither taking the first step to speak.

“Are… Are they always like that?”

Starmist glances up, but the charr isn’t looking at him. He nods. “Some sort of twin thing, I think. They always know when the other is near. But they’ll still scream when they wake up.”

“What?”

“Their bodies know but their minds don’t.” Starmist tells him. “It’s hilarious. You have to stay until they wake.”

The charr looks uncertain but agrees before changing the subject. “You seem to know them well.”

“Murasaki’s my best friend,” Starmist shrugs. “You can’t know her for long without knowing her brother.”

A loud guffaw surprises him, the charr smacking his knee with mirth. “I knew it. All of Tyria knows he has a sister complex. The famed Commander has a clingy brother! What a joke.” He keeps laughing, and it sounds genuine.

It’s not how Starmist would phrase it, but he can’t disagree. He has to admit that the charr is humorous, if a bit crude. “They are absurdly close.”

“Sure they are. I bet there’s something funny going on there.”

Starmist nearly spits out his drink. “…I'm not going into details, but you’re not wrong.”

The charr whips around to stare at him; all laughter gone, jaw hanging. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I didn’t specify anything.”

The charr groans. “I’m never talking to a sylvari about this again. I don’t want to know.”

Starmist grins. He can sense his embarrassment, tinged with how disturbed he is. “I shall not divulge anything else then.”

“Very much appreciated.” The charr changes tracks. “What about your name? That’s a safe topic, isn’t it?”

He blinks. “I'm Starmist.”

He doesn’t expect the charr to choke and reaches over, patting his back in concern. “You okay?”

The charr looks at him with streaming eyes and points a claw at him. “You’re Aeris's ex-lover.”

His blood goes cold. “Who are you?”

Why do you know this?

“Aron Blizzardclaw, Blizzard warband, Iron Legion.”

Aeris’s warbandmate.

Starmist tries to keep calm. “And now we know who the other is.”

“Indeed.” Aron is still staring at him, the occasional hiccup making its way out. “You don’t look like much.”

“No, I guess not.” It’s not the first time someone’s said that to him. Staying incognito has always been part of Starmist’s nature. “You look like a big charr.”

“Biggest in my farahr,” Aron brags. “But enough about me. I got some questions for you.”

“I still don’t understand who you are or why you know these things.”

His head is light with encroaching panic, and he struggles to keep his thoughts straight.

Stall for time, stall for time.

“I’m Aeris’s friend.” Aron shrugs. “Found him sulking a couple days ago and he told me some things about you. I’m tired of his angst, so I dragged him here.”

Starmist can’t hold his gaze. “What did he say?”

“Besides how he still loves you and that he’s annoyed with you? Not much.” Aron grouses, taking a large sip.

Starmist can’t breathe.

“He didn’t…actually say that, did he?”

(He knows Aeris. How he is now. He wouldn’t have said that–)

“Not about loving you, no. Guessed that one myself. His glow turned just about red when I said it.” Aron snorts at the memory. “He did say you’re annoying, though.”

Starmist smiles lightly, though it hurts. “Of course he did.”

Aron stares at him, putting his chin on a fist. “You’re a revenant?”

Starmist cocks his head at the change in topic. “Yes?”

“How’d you become one?”

“Fell into the Mists, learnt to hit harder and draw on the only resources I had. I didn’t have any weapons on me at the time, and couldn’t find any until a lot later.” He shrugs. “I think I still have some of my old skills, but I’m too used to this, now. The spirits won’t leave my head, so I can’t focus even if I did try to go back to how I used to fight. I can’t fight very well without my blindfold anyway.”

“Old skills?” Aron sounds intrigued. “How'd you fight before?”

“Just–” Starmist gets to his feet, walking casually to the edge of the mushroom and looking over. He hears Aron scramble to join him, and turns to face him, dropping his cup–

And shadowsteps close, his sword drawn and up against his neck. “–like that.”

Aron rears back, palming his daggers, but Starmist has already shadowstepped back to his original spot, raising his shield. The cone of fire bends around his body and the energy shield, none of the flames touching him.

He looks over the shield when the fire stops, quickly putting away his weapons. “Sorry about that.”

Aron looks stricken, sheathing his daggers with a bit more force than necessary. “I– Flame and soot, I’m sorry, too. That hasn’t happened in a while.”

This piques Starmist's interest. “Done what? The fire? Isn’t it normal for an elementalist?”

“Burn me, no– I mean, yes, but– No!”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Starmist tells him. “It’s just magic.”

“It’s never 'just magic' with charr,” Aron mutters. “Don’t repeat that to any other charr, you hear? My legionnaire is always looking for a reason to toss me out.”

Starmist nods, miming zipping his lips. “I’d forgotten your people dislike magic.”

“Yeah, well,” Aron flops down. “Not hard to forget if you hardly spend time with us.”

“I’ve met a gladium or two.” Starmist picks up his empty cup, setting it by his side as he re-joins Aron. “They were all right.”

“No charr is really 'all right' without a warband. It’s like being dehorned, declawed, defanged.

“Speaking of weapons,” Aron gestures at Starmist’s weapons. “I wondered why you didn’t take those off in your own home. Geez!” He glares at them, grumbling. “I can’t believe it. You were trained as a thief. A highly wary one, at that. Damn, that’s a huge change in style.”

Starmist traces the rim of his empty cup, hiding a smile at Aron’s perceptiveness. “Yeah. That’s the main reason why I took so long to find a way back to Tyria. I wasn’t able to find a way out when I couldn’t hit harder than they hit me.”

“Who is 'they'?” Aron sounds genuinely curious, but Starmist shudders.

“The Mists are full of things. Worse monsters than you can find on Tyria, and spectres that haunt you. Every bad thing that you can imagine and worse is in there. I don’t want to go into detail.”

Aron nods. “I can respect that.”

“Thanks.”

A beat of silence, and the questions return. “What weapons did you use as a thief?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Aron shrugs. “’m curious. There’s also a theory I want to confirm.”

Starmist peers at him, curious. “Double pistols, sword and dagger sometimes.”

The charr taps his chin with a claw. “Hmm. Maybe only half the theory works.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Aeris’s weapon choice. He used to use double swords. Or that’s the weapons he preferred when we found him. He swapped to the pistol and the axe when he followed the Commander to the desert.” Aron glances at Starmist. “Maybe he picked up the pistol because it reminded him of you.”

Starmist can’t help it – his heart flutters. “A romantic notion.”

“Isn’t it? So juicy.” Aron rubs his paws together, grinning. “That damn plant never tells me anything good, I gotta weed it out of him.” Aron raises an eyebrow as Starmist makes a face. “What?”

“Bad pun.”

“Pun? Oh–” Aron groans. “Didn’t mean it. It slipped out.”

“I’m kidding, it was pretty good.”

“Thanks. Oh, hey, I just thought of another thing.”

“What?”

“You know how mirages can do the shadowstep thing too?” Aron smiles slyly. “Maybe–”

Starmist smiles. “You’re reading too much into it. Mirage magic has thief elements in it, that’s all.”

The charr shrugs, completely unaffected. “Maybe, but it’s good fun.”

“Mm.”

“How’d you meet the Commander?”

“Do you ever stop asking questions?”

Aron grins. “Not if I can help it. I’m Iron Legion by training. It means you keep asking questions and innovating.”

“Fair enough.” Starmist is beginning to like this charr. “I actually met Murasaki because she was trying to set me up with her brother.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.” Starmist laughs. It feels good to laugh. “She was so blunt about it. 'Hi, my brother is too shy to talk to you, so I’m his mouthpiece. Please come talk to him so he’ll stop whining?'” He mimics Murasaki’s wide eyes and innocent tone, and Aron bursts into laughter.

“The Commander is savage.”

“You don’t get that far in life without being that harshly honest,” the sylvari agrees. “She’s always been brave like that.”

“Gee, I need to spend more time with her. I know her a little, but she sounds like the exact opposite of her annoying brother.”

Starmist thinks about it. “They are kind of different. But similar in many ways.”

“As long as she’s not sulky like he is,” Aron grouses. “What a complete annoyance he is. Can’t even get him to tell me straight why he’s upset.”

Starmist shakes his head. “Some people never change.”

“What was he like? Back then.”

“Back then?”

“Yeah.” Aron seems unfazed by his weak attempt at deflection. “You said the Commander came to ask you to talk to him, right? Did you?”

“Are you asking me to tell you the entire story of how we met?”

(Starmist isn’t going to admit he’s slightly amused – and shocked – but he is amused.)

“Yeah, pretty much. You said I have to stay and watch them wake up.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the sleeping twins. “Might as well have a story to pass the time.”

Starmist takes a deep breath. He’s never had to tell anyone, before.

(Everyone else knows or respects his space enough not to ask.)

“If you want to listen, I guess I could tell you. But how about I get some more drinks and some snacks first?”

He’s stalling, but Aron doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

“Ooh, snacks. Yes, please.”

-----

He’s testing a blade on a piece of wood when a small female sylvari skips up to him. Her eyes are wide and innocent, and her pink glow contrasts nicely with her blue skin.

“Hi. I’m Murasaki. My twin is hiding somewhere behind that pillar, and he really wants to talk to you but is too much of a coward to, so I came instead. Could you do me a favour and talk to him, please? I’m tired of his whining.”

He can’t help his lips twitching into a smile. “I like your honesty.”

She shrugs. “He’s getting on my nerves. So, please?”

He doesn’t see why not. It could be interesting. “Sure. Lead on.”

She skips ahead, twisting back a little to grin at him. “What’s your name?”

“Starmist.”

“Nice name. Mother picked well.”

“She did.” He falls in step beside her. “What's your brother’s name?”

“He can introduce himself.” They stop just before a bend, Murasaki staring at a wall. She sighs and puts a hand on it, running her palm over its surface as she continues forward. “Sorry, I’m not very good at magic yet. My brother does stealth spells better than I do, and I have to find him the regular way.”

Starmist is intrigued. “I know a bit of magic. I can try to help you find him.”

“Thanks. If I can’t find him this way, that would help a lot. What type of magic are you learning?”

“Oh, bits and pieces. Mostly stealth and cloaking. A bit like Firstborn Caithe.”

Murasaki turns to grin at him. “Thief magic, that’s cool. My brother and I are learning mesmer magic. There’s a bit of stealth in that, but it’s mostly illusions.”

“Curious. Why that?”

Murasaki lifts and drops a shoulder. “To confuse people. You’ll understand when we find my brother.”

They round the bend, Murasaki’s hand catching on something. She fumbles, scrabbling a little before she grabs a hold of it with a triumphant “Gotcha!” The inconspicuous image of the wall shimmers and dissipates.

A tall male with the same skin colour as Murasaki grimaces as he reappears. His glow flares a deeper pink than hers as he tries to break free of her grip. “Mura!”

“You're being stubborn. Introduce yourself, c'mon.”

The male glances at him and looks away immediately, biting on his lip. His whisper is low and urgent. “Mura, please.”

“No. The least you could do is be polite and introduce yourself. I did it, it’s not hard.”

“It is for me!”

“Shut your trap and introduce yourself, brother dear.”

Starmist decides to put the poor guy out of his misery. Murasaki is evidently someone that you do not mess with. “Hi, I’m Starmist.”

A pause, and then–

“Even his name is beautiful,” he hears the other mutter. The compliment brings a smile to his face, warming him to the stranger.

The male finally makes eye contact, his smile so shy it looks painful. “Hi. I’m Aeris.”

“You’ve got a pretty name too,” Starmist offers, laughing when Aeris’s eyes widen.

“You heard that?”

“Only a deaf person couldn’t have heard you,” Murasaki comments drily, her hand still wrapped around his arm. “My job here is done.”

She releases her brother, smiling brightly at Starmist. “It was good to meet you. I’ll see you later, there’s somewhere I have to be.”

She grabs the front of her brother’s shirt and yanks him down to her – Starmist hadn’t noticed before, but Aeris is a whole head and a half taller – pecking him on the cheek and skipping away.

Aeris straightens slowly, rubbing his cheek. He’s not looking at Starmist again. “Sorry about her.”

“Don’t be. She is her own person.” He looks up at Aeris – funny, how someone so tall could be so maladroit – and asks, “She said you’re siblings?”

Aeris nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pod twins. All sylvari are technically siblings, aren’t we?”

Starmist chuckles. “That’s right.” He sweeps an arm out over the expanse of the Grove. “Would you like to walk with me?”

Aeris doesn’t hesitate, despite how uncomfortable he seems. He nods shyly, falling into step beside Starmist.

“Murasaki said you’re learning mesmer magic?”

(Starmist hasn’t really had conversations with others before. He’s not sure what to talk about, or how to lead one.)

Aeris nods. “Mura thought it’d be fun to confuse people. We look pretty similar, other than the height and gender.”

Starmist takes another look at Aeris. He can sort of see what he means. Added to how mesmer magic works, it wouldn’t take too much finesse to create an illusion just slightly different to themselves to match their sibling.

He then thinks about his vague memories, things he saw in the Dream. Weren’t males usually the ones who led, and females followed? Or was that just for humans? “But what do you want to do? Surely there’s something you’re interested in.”

Aeris shakes his head. “I haven’t found anything I like yet. I'm somewhat decent with mesmer magic, so I’ll stick with it.” He pauses for a second, his voice a little softer as he asks, “What about you? What do you do?”

It’s a very broad question, but Starmist figures he’ll be straightforward. “I’m learning thief magic. But I prefer crafting.”

“Crafting?” Aeris’s eyes go wide. “What type?”

Starmist shrugs. “For now, artificing. Want to watch me work?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind me watching…?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded.” Starmist smiles and leads them back towards the crafting sector. “I don’t really know what I’m doing yet, but you can watch if you’re sure you won’t be bored.”

“Oh, I won’t.” Aeris looks around at all the different crafting stations, slack-jawed. “There’s so much to do here.”

“And this is just the Grove. Imagine what’s out there, in the rest of Tyria.”

Aeris’s attention snaps back to him. “So much. I remember just a little from the Dream, but the world is just…huge.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Starmist pulls out his tools again, chipping at the wood he was working on before. “It’d be interesting to go out there, don’t you think?”

“If you had someone to go with, sure. It must be lonely to go by yourself.”

Starmist looks at him, hands stilling. Aeris is examining one of the tools, eyes occasionally flicking to him, still chewing on his lip. He looks nervous, but strangely adorable.

He might try to be this guy’s friend after all. It might be nice, to have a friend.

“We could go together, if you’d like.”

The other's eyes snap to meet his, brimming with disbelief. Starmist shrugs. “Unless you’d prefer to go with your sister.”

“No! No, that’s okay.” Aeris takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Mura likes exploring on her own. I don’t want to bog her down. She knows I’m not a fan of figuring it out on my own like she is. I’d like to go with you.”

Starmist grins, his woodwork forgotten. “Then adventuring we shall go.”

-----

Aron drums his claws on the table. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

Their cups are half-empty, though they have been refilled twice. The pile of cookies has been completely demolished, and their weapons (alongside Aron's armour) sit against the wall.

“You wanted to hear me tell the story,” Starmist reminds. “I didn’t say it’d be exciting.”

“Ugh, fine. That sounds so unlike Aeris though. Him, shy? An awkward mess?” The charr snorts. “What a joke.”

“That’s what he was like.” Starmist smiles, eyes drifting as he loses himself in another memory. “Ungainly, but so careful with others, always waiting for someone else to lead him. He’s just a big puppy. That’s why Mura used to boss him around so much.”

“Is she the older twin?”

Starmist shakes his head. “I don’t know. You know about sylvari Wyld Hunts?”

“No.”

“They’re a sort of…mandate? Mission? From the Dream. It could be to protect the people, it could be to cleanse Orr. It’s like a compulsion – you can’t get rid of it until it’s completed.

“Murasaki woke with a Wyld Hunt. She was supposed to slay Zhaitan, which as you know, led to her becoming the Pact Commander. Aeris didn’t. Just before they woke, Murasaki was calling out because she was dreaming of her Hunt, and Aeris was holding on to her tightly. No one knows which one of them fell out of the pod first, since they kind of fell together.”

“Huh. Okay.” Aron taps his chin. “So Aeris just woke up with a sister complex, huh?”

Starmist snorts. “Oh, I don’t know. Murasaki loves him a lot too, so it’s not that weird.”

“Siblings with that much care and affection for each other are weird.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“No, I guess not.” Aron tilts his head and considers him.  “I’ll have to take you to the farahr sometime, to see what sibling rivalry and stuff actually looks like. Then you’ll see what I mean.”

“Sure.” Starmist is intrigued. “That sounds interesting.”

Aron nods to himself, as if checking off a mental list. “Okay, so tell me more.”

Starmist sighs with a touch of fondness.

This charr – and his curiosity – is definitely growing on him.

-----

Starmist vaguely remembers what love should feel like. It’s one of the strongest emotions, so it definitely fed back into the Dream as an experience for all forming sylvari. But to feel the visages of it himself – it is intriguing but terrifying.

Perhaps he should talk to Murasaki.

He slips away from the crafting station, heading for her small garden. She used to share a communal one with many other sylvari, but her experiences in Tyria have made her flighty, nervous. She said she had nightmares, and she’d rather not burden others around her with it. It was her pain and duty to bear.

The menders respected that. He remembers a small mender by the name of Sei helping to shape her garden and bower.

He always thought Sei a little odd in appearance. He looked so tough, hardened by the world, but he had the sweetest, wisest soul of any sylvari he had ever met. It was even more odd because his dearheart Laena was a Warden. She was the fierce one. Gentle in appearance, slim and seemingly fragile, but she could launch several Nightmare hounds by herself, and wasn’t afraid of using her weapons to 'talk'.

Starmist reaches the bower, picking up and ringing a small bell by the entrance. He still remembers what happened the first time he entered without doing that. He’s not keen on being attacked by several clones again.

“Come in!”

He pushes leaves aside and steps in, seeking the source of the voice. He finds her lounging in a hammock, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out. Murasaki turns to face him as he approaches, and her face lights up. “Starmist! Good to see you.”

“And you. Resting?”

“As much as I can rest while lying here.” She sighs, waving him to a patch of soft grass before returning to staring at the ceiling. “Sleeping gets boring after a while. I want to explore. But it’s so hard to go anywhere without random things attacking me, and that’s the part I’m tired of.”

“If you took some company along, they could take care of the fighting for you.”

“Mercenaries?”  She asks, mouth quirking at the corner. “I’m not paying good silver for that. I can take care of myself. I just want the world to leave me alone for a bit, you know?”

He thinks about it. “I think I do.”

“Mm. But you came here to ask something, right? What is it?”

Starmist smiles sheepishly. “What gave it away?”

Murasaki’s head lolls to the side and she grins at him. “You’re usually too glued to your work to do anything else.”

He shrugs. “You’ve got me. I did want to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Have you ever felt like you were in love?” He questions. “I know we’ve all felt remnants of it in the Dream, but it’s different, here in the world.”

Murasaki’s fingers drum on her thigh. “I know what affection feels like. Love, not so much. I wouldn’t define it as that.”

“Alright then, affection. What’s that like?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been feeling, and we compare?” She smiles slyly.

Starmist rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “It’s like a great fondness for the other person. Being happy when they’re happy, amused by their antics, finding the ridiculous things they do silly, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Their pain is your pain, and you want to hold them tight and wish away their tears or the burden on them. You want to do everything with them, because they make even the most mundane things fun.”

Murasaki smirks at him. “Do you want to hold them tight and kiss them?”

“Sometimes,” he admits.

“Sounds like my definition of affection, but a little more intense. Oh, I forgot to ask, where would you like to kiss them?”

“Their mouth, maybe?” Starmist stares, bewildered. “Isn’t that what we hear people do?”

“Yeah, and if you stand and stare long enough, you’d see them do it too,” she says drily. “Yup, your sort of affection sounds a lot stronger than mine. Let’s term your feelings ‘love’, shall we?”

Starmist laughs at the abrupt change of direction the conversation takes. “You are utterly ridiculous.”

“And mine is called ‘affection’,” she continues, though her smile gives her away. “Alright, now tell me who it is you think you might be in love with.”

“You’ve been looking forward to asking that question.”

“Indeed I have.” Murasaki’s smile doesn’t fade. “C’mon, tell me.”

Starmist rolls his eyes, and his glow flares a shade darker than it usually is. “I might love Aeris.”

He is taken aback when Murasaki claps her hands together, giggling madly. The hammock sways with her movement. “Oh, Mother forgive me, I’ve waited too long for this day.”

“You what?”

“Remember that day I made you come talk to Aeris?” She’s still grinning, now twisted completely on her side to face him. “I hoped that you might love him as he has loved you, since, well, the first time he saw you.”

“He what?” Starmist is flabbergasted. “I always suspected he had a crush on me, but ‘love’ is pushing it a little, isn’t it?”

“Oh no,” she sing-songs. “He’s been smitten for ages. Though I admit, he has better patience than me. It only took him the better half of a year to win you over.”

Starmist starts laughing; the situation is too ridiculous. “You are an awful friend and a worse sister.”

“I have to find my entertainment somewhere, you know.” Murasaki is beaming; she looks a lot more relaxed than when he first stepped in. “Luckily, I am related to pretty good drama. This might even be as good as the dramatics of the humans!”

“You insult us.” He puts a hand over his heart. “Us? Almost as good as humans?”

“Hmm, no, you’re right. I’m out of the loop.” She winks. “I’ll have to go to Divinity’s Reach soon and ask around for the latest gossip.”

“Utterly despicable behaviour.”

“All in good fun, my friend. Oh, I hear someone coming. Wonder who that could be?” Her tone is teasing, but Starmist’s smile freezes on his face.

Murasaki notices right away, her expression softening. “I’m kidding. There’s no one there.”

“I’m glad I’ve been degraded to ‘no-one’ in your eyes, sister.” Aeris steps in, rolling his eyes. “That makes it easier for me to come and go.”

“Nonsense, I’m the one who has to disappear so often.” She sighs sadly, her demeanour drooping. “Speaking of which, I need to go to that new stronghold that Trahearne mentioned. It’s almost ready.”

“We could accompany you part of the way there. Take the scenic route, explore a little.” Starmist glances at Aeris for the first time since he entered the room. He looks away quickly when he realises the other is looking at him.

Murasaki’s face lights up. “Would you really?”

“What happened to asking me first?” Aeris sidles over to nudge Starmist’s arm, voice light. “'We' could accompany Mura? Really?”

“I thought you might like to come,” Starmist says. “But you have a point. Would you like to accompany me as I accompany your sister to this new stronghold of the Pact?”

“Yes, I would. Thank you for asking.”

Murasaki sighs loudly. “Are you two over this 'being polite' business yet? If we’re going to go, I want to go as soon as possible.”

“You should be resting.”

“I’m bored of resting, Aeris.” Murasaki pouts at him. “There’s nothing to do in here.”

“Well… If you put it that way…”

The insinuation is loud and clear, even to Starmist.

(He knows the twins have a more… Physical side to their relationship with each other, but they’ve never been this blatant about it.)

Murasaki rolls her eyes. “No, I’m not that bored. We’ll leave tomorrow, how about that? That gives me time to talk to Mother before we leave.”

“Fine by me.” Starmist speaks first, to dispel the awkward atmosphere. Or maybe he’s the only one that feels it.

(He’s becoming too sensitive to this topic. Only humans and their scandals worry this much about sex.)

“And by me. I’ll go pack a few things.”

“Splendid.” Murasaki clambers out of the hammock. “I’ll go talk to Mother, you two be good.”

Starmist frowns at her as she leaves, but she just winks and waves gaily.

“What’s she talking about? We’re always good.” Aeris grumbles as he walks deeper into the small garden.

“Who knows.” Starmist stands and follows him. He allows himself one nervous squeeze of his hands before he drops them to his sides. “What do you think we’ll need?”

“Some food, at the very least.”

Starmist rolls his eyes, a smile lifting his lips. “Anything else?”

“A change of clothes, in case. Water skins, snacks…”

“Very practical of you.”

“Mura’s rubbing off on me.” Aeris picks out some items from the food basket, handing them to Starmist to place on the table. They move to the sleeping area and get their individual bags, packing what they need. They work in silence, the air filled with the sounds of their work. It doesn’t take long for them to finish.

“Got your armour?”

“Yeah. Weapons?”

“Yep, and an extra set.”

They set their bags by the door, ready for the morning. Their heads nearly collide as they straighten, and Starmist laughs nervously.

Aeris glances at him, a wry smile on his lips. “What’s on your mind?”

The shorter sighs, nervousness doubling. “Why are you and your sister both so astute?”

“We’re mesmers. We know minds.”

“I always forget that.” He shakes his head. “Take a walk with me?”

“Of course.”

They step out of the bower, following the path through the Grove. It’s day, but the flowers still shine brightly, for not much light reaches the deepest level of their city.

Starmist’s eyes wander, taking in their city, occasionally drifting to the tall male walking beside him. He seems relaxed, but his eyes are darting all over the place, betraying his compounding nervousness.

(That makes two of them.)

Their eyes meet, and Aeris turns away before Starmist can. It’s so like him that Starmist can’t help but smile.

“Aeris?”

“Yes?”

They’ve stopped now, in the shadow of one of the gardens. Aeris isn’t looking at him, so Starmist places a hand on his elbow, turning him until they’re face to face.

“Look at me, hey. I’m not that awful to look at, am I?”

“Of course not.” Aeris’s eyes snap to his, shocked. “You have to know that you’re amazingly good-looking.” He snaps his mouth shut after the words are out, eyes dropping, his glow flaring with embarrassment.

“That’s not what I said, but thank you.” Starmist smiles, his heart rate speeding up a little. “You wanted to know what was on my mind, right?”

Aeris flounders, a complete reversal of his earlier confidence. “If you don’t want to share, that’s okay! Forget about it! I don’t want to pressure you or anything–”

Starmist squeezes his arm, cutting him off. He takes a deep breath. “If you want an honest answer, I was thinking about you.”

Aeris splutters, flaring bright pink.

Starmist barrels on. “I was just saying to your sister that I think I might love you. 'Might' because I don’t know what love feels like, so this is all pretty new to me.”

Aeris is chewing on his lip.

Starmist takes this as a good sign, throwing caution to the wind.

“And I was going to ask if you would let me love you. Treat you as a lover would, and not just a friend.”

The silence stretches between them, thin and fragile. He’s forgotten how to speak; his throat is so dry.

“Do you mean it?” Aeris sounds hesitant, halting. He looks so nervous, and his question is loaded with uncertainty.

“Of course.” A horrifying thought occurs to him, despite what Murasaki said before. “Unless you don’t feel the same way. In which case I beg you to forget this conversation–”

A pair of hands grip his shoulders firmly, cutting him off. Bright nickel eyes focus on his own, the intensity in them quieting Starmist, even as his anxiety spikes.

“Of course I feel the same way.” Aeris only hesitates a second before continuing. “I’ve only loved you since forever, but I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same as I did.”

Starmist can feel the sincerity in his words, and they make his heart skip, a wide smile splitting his face. He reaches up slowly, hands framing Aeris's face, pulling him down and setting their foreheads together.

This close, he can hear the shallowness of his breath, the too-fast inhales. Their eyes lock, and he can’t help but marvel at the depth of colour in his eyes. Deep gold shot through with silver, the two melding together and sprinkled with copper flecks. Aeris is beautiful, and it’s taken Starmist too long to notice it.

Come on, ask him.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.” It’s a whisper.

Starmist closes his eyes and brings their lips together.

It’s soft, warm, pliant. The plush feeling of flesh against his own is foreign but not unpleasant. It’s a curious feeling to have those lips move against his own, pressing gently, testing the waters. Pressing a little harder, more insistently.

It’s a bit of a shock when he feels his lower lip taken between the other's teeth – what else could that sharpness be? – but Aeris is gentle. A light touch, the testing of the give of flesh, a ticklish swipe across it, which could only be his tongue.

Retreat, then the pressing of lips together again. Just flesh on flesh, slowly, gently. Pressing hard then lightly, pulling away.

Starmist opens his eyes, breathless.

Aeris isn’t looking at him, but his glow is still bright. “I’m– Sorry, I’ve daydreamed of doing that for the longest time.”

Starmist shakes his head, shifting his hands so one cups the back of Aeris’s neck and one threads through his hair. Holding him close, keeping their foreheads pressed together. “Don’t be. It was new to me, but still good.”

Aeris glances at him, smiling shyly. “Want to 'practice' again?”

Starmist laughs, leaning in for a quick peck, relishing the thrill that goes through him. He reaches for Aeris’s hand, lacing their fingers and tugging him along, shooting him a smirk over his shoulder.

“Yes. But maybe somewhere where others can’t stare.”

-----

Aron grins stupidly, little rumbles coming from his chest. “Now that is a juicy story. So cute.”

Starmist rolls his eyes, but there’s a tiny smile on his face. It’s a good memory for him. “I suppose so.”

“You suppose?” Aron snorts. “That was more romantic – and cheesy – than anything I would get in the warband or the legions. I need to spend more time in the Grove, rather than Divinity’s Reach!”

“You’re fond of gossip.” Starmist states, side-eyeing him, the corner of his mouth twitching up. It’s a hilarious thought.

“If you’ve been raised on war, romances like this are a welcome respite.” Aron shrugs. “Don’t tell my legionnaire, she thinks I’m too soft as it is.”

“I won’t.”

A sharp shriek from the next room cuts their conversation short. Starmist is out of his seat immediately, even before he hears the thump.

He can feel Aron's bulk coming up behind him, but doesn’t stop, even when he slips and crashes into the doorframe. The pain is insignificant, compared to the terror he felt in that cry.

He doesn’t know what his eyes register first – Murasaki on the floor, scooting away with one hand covering her mouth; or Aeris, half-awake, risen half-out of the hammock, an arm stretching out towards his sister.

Even half-asleep he looks perfect.

Starmist runs to Murasaki to check if she’s hurt, shocked to see the tears on her face. He’s never seen – or felt – her this pained. “Mura…?”

It’s like she can’t hear him, her eyes still fixed on some faraway place. Little sobs escape her and the arm by her side is rigid; her fingers clench and relax in quick succession.

He kneels beside her, gently pressing his palms to her face to alert her before drawing her close. She buries her face in his shirt, one hand clenched in the material, one digging into his shoulder. He whispers reassuringly to her, one hand on the small of her back, the fingers of the other laced through her hair. Cradled this close, her sobs are audible, but he doesn’t understand them.

“Aeris… No, please… Please… No, no, no, come back…!”

Starmist glances up in confusion. Aron is distracting Aeris, talking softly to him. The sylvari's gesturing indicates his befuddlement as well.

Starmist strokes Murasaki’s hair, continuing to whisper soft reassurances to her. But her shaking only gets worse, her words a jumbled mess, alternating between don’t leave me and Aeris, no.

He doesn’t understand.

A nightmare?

It has to be, Aeris is right here.

A tentative hand on his shoulder makes him look up; he almost cracks his head on the wall as he jerks away. Aeris barely glances at him despite his violent reaction. “May I?”

Starmist slowly releases her, gently prying her fingers off him. He may not understand why Murasaki is so distressed despite her brother being right beside her, but they’ve always been good together. For each other.

He can trust in this.

Aeris doesn’t move away for privacy. He pulls Murasaki into his lap, brushing the tears from under her eyes, whispering urgently. It’s loud enough that Starmist can still hear him, and it only confuses him further.

“Shh. Shh. It’s alright, I’m here.”

“No, no, no. Don’t leave me, don’t abandon me.”

“I’m here. I’m here.”

“No. No. You’re not. My Aeris is gone…”

Does he imagine it, or does a pained expression cross Aeris’s face?

“Murasaki, please.”

Starmist is confounded. Aeris never calls her by her full name. What's going on?

“Mura. Mura. I'm here. I’m here.”

“You’re gone, you’re gone… You left me, you wouldn’t have me…”

“Shh. Shh. I’m here. I won’t leave you again.”

But her sobbing continues, and Starmist can’t stand it. He crawls over and places a hand on Aeris’s shoulder, murmuring to him as he glances over. “Press your forehead to hers.”

Aeris does so, still whispering to her, but it’s evident that she calms down almost immediately from the physical contact – her breathing stuttering but slowing, her eyes squeezed less tightly shut.

It gets stranger as Starmist watches – it’s all backward, what he’s witnessing now, as compared to what he saw years ago.

Murasaki turning her face up, eyes opening to look at her brother, but instead of leaning in, she inhales sharply, bites her lip and turns the other way. Her chest is heaving, breathing forced, heavy. Aeris doesn’t stop her or turn her head back, only pulling her in to rest against his chest, resting his chin atop her head. His hands sit awkwardly on her back, as if he doesn’t know how to hold her – but that’s not right, because he’s always known. He’s always known.

Hasn’t he?

Murasaki is quieter now, so Starmist scoots away, standing and walking around them. Neither twin looks up as he leaves and pulls a shocked Aron after him, taking them back to the kitchen.

Aron gestures wordlessly behind them, words failing him. His brows are knitted together. “That’s not the screaming you meant, is it?

Starmist shakes his head. “No. It used to be more surprised, and then there’d be a lot of laughing and shoving and cursing.”

“What’s that all about, then?”

Starmist looks back towards the other room, towards the friends he cannot see. “This once, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Aron’s ears twitch, picking up in something in his tone. “Explain.”

“Aeris should know how to comfort her.” Saying his name is painful, but even more painful is admitting to himself that something is very wrong. “The way he holds her, the way he tries to console her… That’s not right. That’s not how he used to do it.”

“I knew it,” Aron mutters. “I knew a ghost was possessing him.”

It’s such a ridiculous notion that Starmist barks out a laugh. “Maybe, but… It’s like he’s forgotten how to do it. How’s that possible? They’ve been together forever.”

Aron glances at him. “This is gonna sound weird coming from me, but… I've only known him a few years, and he’s always like this around her.”

“What?” Starmist is taken aback.

“Yeah. The Commander’s only stayed with us a few times, but every time we’ll hear her screaming in the middle of the night and it always takes ages for her to calm down, whether Aeris is there or not. We always thought it was the PTSD – y'know, what with her being the Commander and all.”

Starmist knows what PTSD is and understands what Aron is trying to say. All the wars she’s fought, all the people she’s lost and the sacrifices she’s had to make. All the soldiers she’s sent to their deaths.

Yet what he heard Murasaki saying doesn’t add up to that.

He mutters, half to himself, “She’s always calmed down when he’s there. At least, she did, but that was years ago. I haven’t seen them together in a long time…”

Another thought occurs to him, and Starmist’s eyes flick up to Aron's. “Hey, Mura was saying something about Aeris abandoning her. Know anything about that?”

“What?” Aron looks startled. “He’s always clinging to her, ever since he found her again. Why would he abandon her?”

“Found her again?”

Again?

“Yeah, me and him went to see Tribune Brimstone when he got summoned back to the Citadel. The tribune mistook him for the Commander, who was still in the Heart of Maguuma at the time. I suppose they were reunited after that – the tribune kicked me out of the room at that point, and then I didn’t see either of them for weeks. My guess is the tribune took him to her.” Aron shoots him a concerned look. “You didn’t know about that?”

Starmist can’t answer, but he supposes the look on his face says enough.

“Why would he abandon her?”

Aron’s mutter is soft, more contemplative than a real question, but Starmist still finds himself answering.

(He tries to pretend that his voice isn’t as broken as he feels inside.)

“I don’t know.”

I don’t know.

But the Grove is quiet again, and neither of them really dare to check on the twins.

Or to ask.

[mialipsky-blog]

History of Holiday Flowers: Get to Know Winter’s Most Famous Foliage!

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Sparkling lights on a towering pine tree, the winter season wouldn’t be complete without this iconic imagery, but it’s not just the Christmas tree that deserves some attention! Though the cold in many parts of the northern hemisphere means a period of dormancy for most plants and flowers, a few sturdy varieties not only endure but have become synonymous with the season. From ancient myths to modern traditions, here are some of the most popular seasonal decorations, and how you can incorporate them into your celebrations!

Crazy for Conifers

Conifer trees, often called evergreens, don’t lose their color or shed their leaves (or needles) in the winter. This makes them the perfect greenery for holiday festivities. Varieties of cypress, spruce, fir, and others can be found year round in abundance, and while these trees are the quintessential modern Christmas decoration, the tradition goes back thousands of years.

Ancient Celtic Druids saw evergreen trees as sacred objects that represented everlasting life. They used cuttings to decorate temples and perform rituals during the winter solstice. Ancient Egyptians recognized the trees as symbols of the Sun God, Ra, while the Romans similarly used boughs during the Winter Solstice celebration of Saturnalia. In the pagan traditions, the Winter Solstice was the end of that year’s harvest, so the trees that stayed green through winter were seen as a promise that crops would return again in the Spring. They symbolized new growth and fruitfulness.

The trees are a physical reminder of fortitude through the long winter, but also held spiritual meaning even before they became associated with the Christian holiday. The Vikings used wreaths and brought whole trees inside their homes for protection from evil spirits that they believed the cold brought on. The burning of logs from these pine trees eventually turned into the tradition we now know as the Yule Log.

Similar traditions by ancient tribes in what is now modern day Germany eventually turned into what we know as the Christmas Tree. German Christians adopted the tradition of bringing evergreens into their home and adorned them with apples, to symbolize the Garden of Eden, as well as other edible decorations like nuts and cookies. Eventually candles, angels, and other ornaments were added. The tradition of early Christmas Trees, first known as “Paradise Trees”, was brought with Germans as they began to emigrate to other parts of the world. It remained largely a foreign custom in their new lands and wasn’t until nearly 300 years later that it became a more universally accepted symbol of Christmas. Queen Victoria of England encouraged her husband Prince Albert to set up a tree at the palace in the way he had as a boy in Germany. The tree was featured in the London News and soon became a fashionable holiday accessory in Victorian Era Christmas celebrations. It was canonized further with depictions in popular literature including “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, and “The Night Before Christmas” by Clement Clarke Moore

Evergreen Tips! You can never go wrong with a little extra green.  Add cuttings to holiday bouquets or arrangements for a boost of green filler and an iconic winter holiday feel. Varieties like Leyland Cedar, with soft leaves and long-lasting color, keep decorations vibrant throughout the season.

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Berries for the Ball

Similar to pine trees, Holly keeps its luster throughout the winter season. It is also a popular adornment for Winter Solstice rituals and celebrations. Holly was considered the sacred plant of Saturn, the God of agriculture and time in Ancient Rome. It was a popular decoration during the festival of Saturnalia and often given as gifts in a wreath. Early Roman Christians were said to have put Holly leaves on their doors in order to avoid persecution, but as Christianity slowly gained dominance, Holly became associated with the celebration of Christ’s birth in December. European pagans also used Holly in decoration and even put sprigs in their hair. They believed the green leaves and bright red berries kept the earth beautiful during a time when other plants went away.

Mistletoe was another sacred plant to Ancient Druids. They believed that it could protect against thunder, lightning, and other evils. The cutting of mistletoe from the forest was a sacred event done by Druid Priests. People would then hang sprigs from their doorway for protection. Celtic peoples thought it had great healing powers, in fact the word mistletoe in the ancient Celtic language means, “all-heal”. It became a universal symbol of both protection and good luck for anyone who could possess it.

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The modern tradition of kissing under the mistletoe could possibly have been passed down from the Norse myth of Frigga, Goddess of Love. Frigga was the mother of Balder, the God of the Summer sun. The story goes, that after Balder had a dream about his death, Frigga became so frightened that she went to every element, plant, and animal on earth and asked them to make a promise not to harm her son. But the God Loki realized that she had forgotten the lowly mistletoe, and so fashioned an arrow with it on the tip. He gave it to the winter god, Hoder, who shot Balder in the heart. Frigga wept so bitterly that her tears became the white berries and eventually her love restored him. She was so overwhelmed with joy at his return that she kissed anyone who passed beneath the tree on which the berries grew.

It is easy to see how this story could be adopted to a Christian interpretation of life conquering death, as well as a flirtatious party game. The tradition of kissing under the mistletoe became popular in 18th Century England where it was often hung at balls. A girl standing under a ball of mistletoe could not refuse a kiss. If she remained unkissed it could be seen as a bad omen that she would not be married within the next year. Today, mistletoe remains a fun and flirty part of many holiday celebrations.

Get the Look!

True Mistletoe is actually a parasite on trees and does not have roots of its own. Try Snow White Hypericum Berries to get those magical white pearls. They make the perfect accent to wedding bouquets and centerpieces for extra romance and revelry!

Pepperberry is the perfect substitution for Holly paired alongside cut flowers in arrangements. It’s a green filler and a little extra pop of holiday cheer.

Poinsettias on Point

In most of North America, you can hardly walk out the door in December without tripping over a Poinsettia. Often given as gifts of live plants during Christmas, these unique plants have become a holiday staple.

Poinsettias are indigenous to Mexico and were originally used by the Aztecs for medicinal remedies and to make colorful red dye. It is known by many different names around the world including Flor de Noche Buena (Christmas Eve Flower) in Mexico and Guatemala; Flor de Pascua (Easter Flower) in Spain; and “The Crown of the Andes” in Chile and Peru. In North America, the name Poinsettia comes from the United States ambassador to Mexico, Joel Roberts Poinsett, who sent the plant back to South Carolina and began propagating it in 1825. The association with Christmas began much earlier, however.

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The legend began in 16th century Mexico and tells of a poor little girl, sometimes referred to as Pepita or Maria, who had nothing to give as a gift for Jesus’s birthday. An angel appeared to her and told her to gather weeds from the roadside. When she brought them to the church altar, crimson blossoms sprouted from the weeds and became poinsettias. Franciscan friars in Mexico included the Poinsettia in Christmas decorations as early as the 17th century. The star-shaped leaf pattern was said to symbolize the Star of Bethlehem, and the red color represented the blood of Jesus.

Paul Ecke Jr. is largely credited for bringing the Poinsettia into the North American consciousness during the Christmas season. His family was one of the first to sell and distribute the flower on a large scale in the 1900’s. He sent free plants to television studios for them to display during the holidays and even appeared himself on shows including The Tonight Show and Bob Hope’s Christmas Special to promote them. With the classic Christmas colors of red and green, it wasn’t long before the poinsettia was recognized as the ultimate Christmas flower. There is even a national Poinsettia Day, on December 12!

Festive Petals

Though Poinsettia plants do flower, the red blooms are actually colored leaves called bracts. Cyanthia, the small clusters of red, yellow, and green flowers can be found in the center surrounded by the red bracts.

Poinsettias are usually sold as potted plants so they can be hard to incorporate into a diverse arrangement. For a festive alternative, try Amaryllis. The shape of the petals mirror the star-shaped leaves and varieties of deep red and white make it a perfect centerpiece for holiday display. The Candy Cane Amaryllis, with its festive white and red combo, will add a little extra playfulness while still oozing elegance.

A Rose for Christmas

The Helleborus Niger, or Christmas Rose, gets its colloquial name from the fact that it is able to bloom in winter and has a similar holiday myth to that of the poinsettia. Native to Europe and Western Asia, the story goes that a young shepherd girl cried because she had nothing to give the baby Jesus. An angel appeared and brushed aside the snow on the ground to reveal the perfect blossoms of the Hellebore shimmering beneath.

These flowers are extremely hardy evergreen perennials. They can stand up to the cold and continue to bloom throughout the winter and early spring. With a variety of color from ivory to eggplant, hellebore is a great choice for both classic and modern styles.

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Stunning flowers can add a dash of glamour and charm to a posh gala or a cozy gathering by the fire. Winter is an ideal time to dress up indoor spaces with life and color.

Check out the winter seasonal combo packs for more ideas on how to pair flowers and greenery for the perfect holiday cheer!

History of Holiday Flowers: Get to Know Winter’s Most Famous Foliage! published first on their blog to my feed

[mainemanus-blog]

History of Holiday Flowers: Get to Know Winter’s Most Famous Foliage!

{Source}

Sparkling lights on a towering pine tree, the winter season wouldn’t be complete without this iconic imagery, but it’s not just the Christmas tree that deserves some attention! Though the cold in many parts of the northern hemisphere means a period of dormancy for most plants and flowers, a few sturdy varieties not only endure but have become synonymous with the season. From ancient myths to modern traditions, here are some of the most popular seasonal decorations, and how you can incorporate them into your celebrations!

Crazy for Conifers

Conifer trees, often called evergreens, don’t lose their color or shed their leaves (or needles) in the winter. This makes them the perfect greenery for holiday festivities. Varieties of cypress, spruce, fir, and others can be found year round in abundance, and while these trees are the quintessential modern Christmas decoration, the tradition goes back thousands of years.

Ancient Celtic Druids saw evergreen trees as sacred objects that represented everlasting life. They used cuttings to decorate temples and perform rituals during the winter solstice. Ancient Egyptians recognized the trees as symbols of the Sun God, Ra, while the Romans similarly used boughs during the Winter Solstice celebration of Saturnalia. In the pagan traditions, the Winter Solstice was the end of that year’s harvest, so the trees that stayed green through winter were seen as a promise that crops would return again in the Spring. They symbolized new growth and fruitfulness.

The trees are a physical reminder of fortitude through the long winter, but also held spiritual meaning even before they became associated with the Christian holiday. The Vikings used wreaths and brought whole trees inside their homes for protection from evil spirits that they believed the cold brought on. The burning of logs from these pine trees eventually turned into the tradition we now know as the Yule Log.

Similar traditions by ancient tribes in what is now modern day Germany eventually turned into what we know as the Christmas Tree. German Christians adopted the tradition of bringing evergreens into their home and adorned them with apples, to symbolize the Garden of Eden, as well as other edible decorations like nuts and cookies. Eventually candles, angels, and other ornaments were added. The tradition of early Christmas Trees, first known as “Paradise Trees”, was brought with Germans as they began to emigrate to other parts of the world. It remained largely a foreign custom in their new lands and wasn’t until nearly 300 years later that it became a more universally accepted symbol of Christmas. Queen Victoria of England encouraged her husband Prince Albert to set up a tree at the palace in the way he had as a boy in Germany. The tree was featured in the London News and soon became a fashionable holiday accessory in Victorian Era Christmas celebrations. It was canonized further with depictions in popular literature including “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, and “The Night Before Christmas” by Clement Clarke Moore

Evergreen Tips! You can never go wrong with a little extra green.  Add cuttings to holiday bouquets or arrangements for a boost of green filler and an iconic winter holiday feel. Varieties like Leyland Cedar, with soft leaves and long-lasting color, keep decorations vibrant throughout the season.

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Berries for the Ball

Similar to pine trees, Holly keeps its luster throughout the winter season. It is also a popular adornment for Winter Solstice rituals and celebrations. Holly was considered the sacred plant of Saturn, the God of agriculture and time in Ancient Rome. It was a popular decoration during the festival of Saturnalia and often given as gifts in a wreath. Early Roman Christians were said to have put Holly leaves on their doors in order to avoid persecution, but as Christianity slowly gained dominance, Holly became associated with the celebration of Christ’s birth in December. European pagans also used Holly in decoration and even put sprigs in their hair. They believed the green leaves and bright red berries kept the earth beautiful during a time when other plants went away.

Mistletoe was another sacred plant to Ancient Druids. They believed that it could protect against thunder, lightning, and other evils. The cutting of mistletoe from the forest was a sacred event done by Druid Priests. People would then hang sprigs from their doorway for protection. Celtic peoples thought it had great healing powers, in fact the word mistletoe in the ancient Celtic language means, “all-heal”. It became a universal symbol of both protection and good luck for anyone who could possess it.

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The modern tradition of kissing under the mistletoe could possibly have been passed down from the Norse myth of Frigga, Goddess of Love. Frigga was the mother of Balder, the God of the Summer sun. The story goes, that after Balder had a dream about his death, Frigga became so frightened that she went to every element, plant, and animal on earth and asked them to make a promise not to harm her son. But the God Loki realized that she had forgotten the lowly mistletoe, and so fashioned an arrow with it on the tip. He gave it to the winter god, Hoder, who shot Balder in the heart. Frigga wept so bitterly that her tears became the white berries and eventually her love restored him. She was so overwhelmed with joy at his return that she kissed anyone who passed beneath the tree on which the berries grew.

It is easy to see how this story could be adopted to a Christian interpretation of life conquering death, as well as a flirtatious party game. The tradition of kissing under the mistletoe became popular in 18th Century England where it was often hung at balls. A girl standing under a ball of mistletoe could not refuse a kiss. If she remained unkissed it could be seen as a bad omen that she would not be married within the next year. Today, mistletoe remains a fun and flirty part of many holiday celebrations.

Get the Look!

True Mistletoe is actually a parasite on trees and does not have roots of its own. Try Snow White Hypericum Berries to get those magical white pearls. They make the perfect accent to wedding bouquets and centerpieces for extra romance and revelry!

Pepperberry is the perfect substitution for Holly paired alongside cut flowers in arrangements. It’s a green filler and a little extra pop of holiday cheer.

Poinsettias on Point

In most of North America, you can hardly walk out the door in December without tripping over a Poinsettia. Often given as gifts of live plants during Christmas, these unique plants have become a holiday staple.

Poinsettias are indigenous to Mexico and were originally used by the Aztecs for medicinal remedies and to make colorful red dye. It is known by many different names around the world including Flor de Noche Buena (Christmas Eve Flower) in Mexico and Guatemala; Flor de Pascua (Easter Flower) in Spain; and “The Crown of the Andes” in Chile and Peru. In North America, the name Poinsettia comes from the United States ambassador to Mexico, Joel Roberts Poinsett, who sent the plant back to South Carolina and began propagating it in 1825. The association with Christmas began much earlier, however.

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The legend began in 16th century Mexico and tells of a poor little girl, sometimes referred to as Pepita or Maria, who had nothing to give as a gift for Jesus’s birthday. An angel appeared to her and told her to gather weeds from the roadside. When she brought them to the church altar, crimson blossoms sprouted from the weeds and became poinsettias. Franciscan friars in Mexico included the Poinsettia in Christmas decorations as early as the 17th century. The star-shaped leaf pattern was said to symbolize the Star of Bethlehem, and the red color represented the blood of Jesus.

Paul Ecke Jr. is largely credited for bringing the Poinsettia into the North American consciousness during the Christmas season. His family was one of the first to sell and distribute the flower on a large scale in the 1900’s. He sent free plants to television studios for them to display during the holidays and even appeared himself on shows including The Tonight Show and Bob Hope’s Christmas Special to promote them. With the classic Christmas colors of red and green, it wasn’t long before the poinsettia was recognized as the ultimate Christmas flower. There is even a national Poinsettia Day, on December 12!

Festive Petals

Though Poinsettia plants do flower, the red blooms are actually colored leaves called bracts. Cyanthia, the small clusters of red, yellow, and green flowers can be found in the center surrounded by the red bracts.

Poinsettias are usually sold as potted plants so they can be hard to incorporate into a diverse arrangement. For a festive alternative, try Amaryllis. The shape of the petals mirror the star-shaped leaves and varieties of deep red and white make it a perfect centerpiece for holiday display. The Candy Cane Amaryllis, with its festive white and red combo, will add a little extra playfulness while still oozing elegance.

A Rose for Christmas

The Helleborus Niger, or Christmas Rose, gets its colloquial name from the fact that it is able to bloom in winter and has a similar holiday myth to that of the poinsettia. Native to Europe and Western Asia, the story goes that a young shepherd girl cried because she had nothing to give the baby Jesus. An angel appeared and brushed aside the snow on the ground to reveal the perfect blossoms of the Hellebore shimmering beneath.

These flowers are extremely hardy evergreen perennials. They can stand up to the cold and continue to bloom throughout the winter and early spring. With a variety of color from ivory to eggplant, hellebore is a great choice for both classic and modern styles.

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Stunning flowers can add a dash of glamour and charm to a posh gala or a cozy gathering by the fire. Winter is an ideal time to dress up indoor spaces with life and color.

Check out the winter seasonal combo packs for more ideas on how to pair flowers and greenery for the perfect holiday cheer!

History of Holiday Flowers: Get to Know Winter’s Most Famous Foliage! published first on their blog, reposted for me

[readbookywooks]

Of the Sindar

Now as has been told the power of Elwe and Melian increased in Middle-earth, and all the Elves of Beleriand, from the mariners of Cirdan to the wandering hunters of the Blue Mountains beyond the River Gelion, owned Elwe as their lord; Elu Thingol he was called, King Greymantle, in the tongue of his people. They are called the Sindar, the Grey-elves of starlit Beleriand; and although they were Moriquendi, under the lordship of Thingol and the teaching of Melian they became the fairest and the most wise and skilful of all the Elves of Middle-earth. And at the end of the first age of the Chaining of Melkor, when all the Earth had peace and the glory of Valinor was at its noon, there came into the world Luthien, the only child of Thingol and Melian. Though Middle-earth lay for the most part in the Sleep of Yavanna, in Beleriand under the power of Melian there was life and joy, and the bright stars shone as silver fires; and there in the forest of Neldoreth Luthien was born, and the white flowers of niphredil came forth to greet her as stars from the earth. It came to pass during the second age of the captivity of Melkor that Dwarves came over the Blue Mountains of Ered Luin into Beleriand. Themselves they named Khazad, but the Sindar called them Naugrim, the Stunted People, and Gonnhirrim, Masters of Stone. Far to the east were the most ancient dwellings of the Naugrim, but they had delved for themselves great halls and mansions, after the manner of their kind, in the eastern side of Ered Luin; and those cities were named in their own tongue Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar. To the north of the great height of Mount Dolmed was Gabilgathol, which the Elves interpreted in their tongue Belegost, that is Mickleburg; and southward was delved Tumunzahar, by the Elves named Nogrod, the Hollowbold. Greatest of all the mansions of the Dwarves was Khazaddum, the Dwarrowdelf, Hadhodrond in the Elvish tongue, that was afterwards in the days of its darkness called Moria; but it was far off in the Mountains of Mist beyond the wide leagues of Eriador, and to the Eldar came but as a name and a rumour from the words of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. From Nogrod and Belegost the Naugrim came forth into Beleriand; and the Elves were filled with amazement, for they had believed themselves to be the only living things in Middle-earth that spoke with words or wrought with hands, and that all others were but birds and beasts. But they could understand no word of the tongue of the Naugrim, which to their ears was cumbrous and unlovely; and few ever of the Eldar have achieved the mastery of it But the Dwarves were swift to learn, and indeed were more willing to learn the Elventongue than to teach their own to those of alien race. Few of the Eldar went ever to Nogrod and Belegost, save Eol of Nan Elmoth and Maeglin his son; but the Dwarves trafficked into Beleriand, and they made a great road that passed under the shoulders of Mount Dolmed and followed the course of the River Ascar, crossing Gelion at Sarn Athrad, the Ford of Stones, where battle after befell. Ever cool was the friendship between the Naugrim and the Eldar, though much profit they had one of the other; but at that time those griefs that lay between them had not yet come to pass, and King Thingol welcomed them. But the Naugrim gave their friendship more readily to the Noldor in after days than to any others of Elves and Men, because of their love and reverence for Aule; and the gems of the Noldor they praised above all other wealth. In the darkness of Arda already the Dwarves wrought great works, for even from the first days of their Fathers they had marvellous skill with metals and with stone; but in that ancient time iron and copper they loved to work, rather than silver or gold. Now Melian had much foresight, after the manner of the Maiar; and when the second age of the captivity of Melkor had passed, she counselled Thingol that the Peace of Arda would not last for ever. He took thought therefore how he should make for himself a kingly dwelling, and a place that should be strong, if evil were to awake again in Middle-earth; and he sought aid and counsel of the Dwarves of Belegost They gave it willingly, for they were unwearied in those days and eager for new works; and though the Dwarves ever demanded a price for all that they did, whether with delight or with toil, at this time they held themselves paid. For Melian taught them much that they were eager to learn, and Thingol rewarded them with many fair pearls. These Cirdan gave to him, for they were got in great number in the shallow waters about the Isle of Balar; but the Naugrim had not before seen their like, and they held them dear. One there was as great as a dove's egg, and its sheen was as starlight on the foam of the sea; Nimphelos it was named, and the chieftain of the Dwarves of Belegost prized it above a mountain of wealth. Therefore the Naugrim laboured long and gladly for Thingol, and devised for him mansions after the fashion of their people, delved deep in the earth. Where the Esgalduin flowed down, and parted Neldoreth from Region, there rose in the midst of the forest a rocky hill, and the river ran at its feet. There they made the gates of the hall of Thingol, and they built a bridge of stone over the river, by which alone the gates could be entered. Beyond the gates wide passages ran down to high halls and chambers far below that were hewn in the living stone, so many and so great that that dwelling was named Menegroth, the Thousand Caves. But the Elves also had part in that labour, and Elves and Dwarves together, each with their own skill, there wrought out the visions of Melian, images of the wonder and beauty of Valinor beyond the Sea. The pillars of Menegroth were hewn in the likeness of the beeches of Orome, stock, bough, and leaf, and they were lit with lanterns of gold. The nightingales sang there as in the gardens of Lorien; and there were fountains of silver, and basins of marble, and floors of many-coloured stones. Carven figures of beasts and birds there ran upon the walls, or climbed upon the pillars, or peered among the branches entwined with many flowers. And as the years passed Melian and her maidens filled the halls with woven hangings wherein could be read the deeds of the Valar, and many things that had befallen in Arda since its beginning, and shadows of things that were yet to be. That was the fairest dwelling of any king that has ever been east of the Sea. And when the building of Menegroth was achieved, and there was peace in the realm of Thingol and Melian, the Naugrim yet came ever and anon over the mountains and went in traffic about the lands; but they went seldom to the Falas, for they hated the sound of the sea and feared to look upon it. To Beleriand there came no other rumour or tidings of the world without. But as the third age of the captivity of Melkor drew on, the Dwarves became troubled, and they spoke to King Thingol, saying that the Valar had not rooted out utterly the evils of the North, and now the remnant, having long multiplied in the dark, were coming forth once more and roaming far and wide. 'There are fell beasts,' they said, 'in the land east of the mountains, and your ancient kindred that dwell there are flying from the plains to the hills.' And ere long the evil creatures came even to Beleriand, over passes in the mountains, or up from the south through the dark forests. Wolves there were, or creatures that walked in wolf-shapes, and other fell beings of shadow; and among them were the Orcs, who afterwards wrought ruin in Beleriand: but they were yet few and wary, and did but smell out the ways of the land, awaiting the return of their lord. Whence they came, or what they were, the Elves knew not then, thinking them perhaps to be Avari who had become evil and savage in the wild; in which they guessed all too near, it is said. Therefore Thingol took thought for arms, which before his people had not needed, and these at first the Naugrim smithied for him; for they were greatly skilled in such work, though none among them surpassed the craftsmen of Nogrod, of whom Telchar the smith was greatest in renown. A warlike race of old were all the Naugrim, and they would fight fiercely against whomsoever aggrieved them: servants of Melkor, or Eldar, or Avari, or wild beasts, or not seldom their own kin, Dwarves of other mansions and lordships. Their smithcraft indeed the Sindar soon learned of them; yet in the tempering of steel alone of all crafts the Dwarves were never outmatched even by the Noldor, and in the making of mail of linked rings, which was first contrived by the smiths of Belegost, their work had no rival. At this time therefore the Sindar were well-armed, and they drove off an creatures of evil, and had peace again; but Thingol's armouries were stored with axes and with spears and swords, and tall helms, and long coats of bright mail; for the hauberks of the Dwarves were so fashioned that they rusted not but shone ever as if they were newburnished. And that proved well for Thingol in the time that was to come. Now as has been told, one Lenwe of the host of Olwe forsook the march of the Eldar at that time when the Teleri were halted by the shores of the Great River upon the borders of the westlands of Middle-earth. Little is known of the wanderings of the Nandor, whom he led away down Anduin: some, it is said, dwelt age-long in the woods of the Vale of the Great River, some came at last to its mouths and there dwelt by the Sea, and yet others passing by Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains, came north again and entered the wilderness of Eriador between Ered Luin and the far Mountains of Mist. Now these were a woodland people and had no weapons of steel, and the coming of the fell beasts of the North filled them with great fear, as the Naugrim declared to King Thingol in Menegroth. Therefore Denethor, the son of Lenwe, hearing rumour of the might of Thingol and his majesty, and of the peace of his realm, gathered such host of his scattered people as he could, and led them over the mountains into Beleriand. There they were welcomed by Thingol, as kin long lost that return, and they dwelt in Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers. Of the long years of peace that followed after the coming of Denethor there is little tale. In those days, it is said, Daeron the Minstrel, chief loremaster of the kingdom of Thingol, devised his Runes; and the Naugrim that came to Thingol learned them, and were well-pleased with the device, esteeming Daeron's skill higher than did the Sindar, his own people. By the Naugrim the Cirth were taken east over the mountains and passed into the knowledge of many peoples; but they were little used by the Sindar for the keeping of records, until the days of the War, and much that was held in memory perished in the ruins of Doriath. But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song. In Beleriand in those days the Elves walked, and the rivers flowed, and the stars shone, and the night-flowers gave forth their scents; and the beauty of Melian was as the noon, and the beauty of Luthien was as the dawn in spring. In Beleriand King Thingol upon his throne was as the lords of the Maiar, whose power is at rest, whose joy is as an air that they breathe in all their days, whose thought flows in a tide untroubled from the heights to the deeps. In Beleriand still at times rode Orome the great, passing like a wind over the mountains, and the sound of his horn came down the leagues of the starlight, and the Elves feared him for the splendour of his countenance and the great noise of the onrush of Nahar; but when the Valaroma echoed in the hills, they knew well that all evil things were fled far away. But it came to pass at last that the end of bliss was at hand, and the noontide of Valinor was drawing to its twilight. For as has been told and as is known to all, being written in lore and sung in many songs, Melkor slew the Trees of the Valar with the aid of Ungoliant, and escaped, and came back to Middle-earth. Far to the north befell the strife of Morgoth and Ungoliant; but the great cry of Morgoth echoed through Beleriand, and all its people shrank for fear; for though they knew not what it foreboded, they heard then the herald of death. Soon afterwards Ungoliant fled from the north and came into the realm of King Thingol, and a terror of darkness was about her; but by the power of Melian she was stayed, and entered not into Neldoreth, but abode long time under the shadow of the precipices in which Dorthonion fell southward. And they became known as Ered Gorgoroth, the Mountains of Terror, and none dared go thither, or pass nigh them; there life and light were strangled, and there all waters were poisoned. But Morgoth, as has before been told, returned to Angband, and built it anew, and above its doors he reared the reeking towers of Thangorodrim; and the gates of Morgoth were but one hundred and fifty leagues distant from the bridge of Menegroth: far and yet all too near. Now the Orcs that multiplied in the darkness of the earth grew strong and fell, and their dark lord filled them with a lust of rain and death; and they issued from Angband's gates under the clouds that Morgoth sent forth, and passed silently into the highlands of the north. Thence on a sudden a great army came into Beleriand and assailed King Thingol. Now in his wide realm many Elves wandered free in the wild, or dwelt at peace in small kindreds far sundered; and only about Menegroth in the midst of the land, and along the Falas in the country of the mariners, were there numerous peoples. But the Orcs came down upon either side of Menegroth, and from camps in the east between Celon and Gelion, and west in the plains between Sirion and Narog, they plundered far and wide; and Thingol was cut on from Cirdan at Eglarest. Therefore he called upon Denethor; and the Elves came in force from Region beyond Aros and from Ossiriand, and fought the first battle in the Wars of Beleriand. And the eastern host of the Orcs was taken between the armies of the Eldar, north of the Andram and midway between Aros and Gelion, and there they were utterly defeated, and those that fled north from the great slaughter were waylaid by the axes of the Naugrim that issued from Mount Dolmed: few indeed returned to Angband. But the victory of the Elves was dear-bought For those of Ossiriand were light-armed, and no match for the Orcs, who were shod with iron and iron-shielded and bore great spears with broad blades; and Denethor was cut off and surrounded upon the hill of Amon Ereb. There he fell and all his nearest kin about him, before the host of Thingol could come to his aid. Bitterly though his fall was avenged, when Thingol came upon the rear of the Orcs and slew them in heaps, his people lamented him ever after and took no king again. After the battle some returned to Ossiriand, and their tidings filled the remnant of their people with great fear, so that thereafter they came never forth in open war, but kept themselves by wariness and secrecy; and they were called the Laiquendi, the Green-elves, because of their raiment of the colour of leaves. But many went north and entered the guarded realm of Thingol, and were merged with his people. And when Thingol came again to Menegroth he learned that the Orc-host in the west was victorious, and had driven Cirdan to the rim of the sea. Therefore he withdrew all his people that his summons could reach within the fastness of Neldoreth and Region, and Melian put forth her power and fenced all that dominion round about with an unseen wail of shadow and bewilderment: the Girdle of Melian, that none thereafter could pass against her will or the will of King Thingol, unless one should come with a power greater than that of Melian the Maia. And this inner land, which was long named Eglador, was after called Doriath, the guarded kingdom, Land of the Girdle. Within it there was yet a watchful peace; but without there was peril and great fear, and the servants of Morgoth roamed at will, save in the walled havens of the Falas. But new tidings were at hand, which none in Middle-earth had foreseen, neither Morgoth in his pits nor Melian in Menegroth; for no news came out of Aman whether by messenger, or by spirit, or by vision in dream, after the death of the Trees. In this same time Feanor came over the Sea in the white ships of the Teleri and landed in the Firth of Drengist, and there burned the ships at Losgar.