#and I mourn Tangled with Bastion

[thatscarletflycatcher]

"Greta Gerw*g captures so well the Experience of WomanhoodTM" and "we made Flynn Ryder tailored to the type of man women dream about" are the top two things capable of sending me in a rage spiral back to all the bullying I received in my school years for not conforming to bullshit standards of femininity and I think that says so much about me actually.

[broodwolf221]

happy fridayyyy i am eyeballing solas/bull/dorian (or any combo thereof) for 'anemoia - nostalgia for a time you’ve never known'

okay this one gave me so many ideassss it was hard to choose a specific direction but it was so much fun ty ty uwu @dadrunkwriting 605 words cws: slavery mentions

Although it was beyond foolish to do so, they had grown closer. Early on there had been a spark of… something between him and Dorian, something he knew better than to pursue, although he did appreciate the man’s honed wit and clever way with magic. They pushed at each other because it was easier for both of them, and when Dorian had eventually been pursued by Bull, Solas had breathed a sigh of relief. That he regretted the missed opportunity did not mean it would have been wise to follow through on.

When they both began to pursue him, when they found excuses to enter the rotunda together, when they were unnecessarily intimate around Solas while they met his eyes… he was very surprised. Then he was uncomfortable for a while. And eventually, he was intrigued.

One night he had fallen in with them. Permitted the pursuit to become a capture, thinking that this would be the end of it. Surely he was nothing more than an interesting diversion to them. A curiosity. But they bid him stay in bed with them overnight. And when he woke he was treated to gentle, undemanding intimacy. It was puzzling, but he could not deny a certain interest.

Now it had been ongoing for some time, their strange little trio. They paid him as much attention as they paid each other. He was no simple diversion but an entire part of this arrangement. However, over time he noticed that Dorian’s gaze began to have something strange in it. At first he thought the other man was tiring of him, or that he was jealous—he tried to retreat, to pull away, but he was always pulled back into their mutual gravity.

Eventually he realized what the something was, and he thought he might have preferred disinterest.

Dorian was guilty.

Eventually he had pressed for an answer. They were all three of them together, tangled limbs in a bed that should have been too small for them, and Solas pressed his questions against the soft skin of Dorian’s shoulder. Bull was silent while Dorian stiffened between them, until eventually he sighed and his tension fled. He answered with none of his usual blithe grace, the depth of his feeling clear in the dimly lit room and the press of flesh, and when he was done explaining Solas slowly traced patterns against his chest.

Dorian Pavus was from Tevinter. Tevinter, where elves were enslaved as a matter of course. Tevinter, which history told had conquered Arlathan. Tevinter, the villain of modern history. And Dorian felt horribly guilty for laying with him, feeling the burden of his ancestry—and above all, mourning that Tevinter had supposedly destroyed the magnificence of Arlathan.

“You forget,” Solas said at last, voice muted in the shared space. “That I have seen much of Arlathan in my journeys. It was no bastion of progress, no perfect world. It was as flawed as your Tevinter, in its time. I have seen no nation so vast as these that was without its sins, and Arlathan was no different. You are not to be held to account for the loss of… my people’s magic, or our supposed immortality. It is in the past. This is the present.”

A strange speech to give, each word feeling thick and pitifully ironic in his mouth. Part of him was wary to even speak this, overly conscious of Bull’s eye on him, of his profound training… wary that he was giving something away. But it had to be said. Dorian had to be soothed, for Solas could not tolerate the lingering guilt in his gaze.

[princess-of-the-worlds]

😭😍

😭 angst or sad WIP snippet

the only angst or sad WIP snippet i currently have to offer is star wars, so i hope that's okay ahaha

“—gundarks!” Luke cries in a near-hysterical sob. “Ben had the opportunity to ramble on about gundarks, but he never bothered to warn me that my father was—”

Another sob bubbles up in his chest, bursting from his lungs, and something ugly twists inside him. He throws his hands up, briefly losing control of the Force, and Ben’s journals launch against the opposite wall of the cabin, falling into a heap on the grimy floor. 

“Did you think me a fool, Ben,” Luke calls to the ceiling, “telling me that Vader killed my father?” He wants Ben to appear so that he can shout at the Jedi Master, because that would feel better than the choked desolation he feels, like someone has reached deep inside his chest and cut him open, flaying his heart out. The love, the hero worship, the awe and yearning he carried for his father for all of his twenty-two short years — it’s all burned away, out of reach. All that’s left is this emptiness, this grief and horror so potent he could drown in it.

i don't know why the indents ended up so weird, but enjoy some luke angst!

😍 published lines or a section of a fic that you loved writing?

ahhhh, that's so hard, but for now, i'll go with this:

What remains pulses — neurons mourning the loss of the copious space they one had to grow and spiral in.  They can feel those spaces, those missing body parts. The memories of them linger, like ghosts, like phantoms haunting the space left behind. The brain remembers what the body forgets. When one part of the body dissipates away, its responding part of the brain still lingers, and its plants may have died but the soil is still fertile, so the vines of the connections of the brain overgrow there — thus, Jack’s fingers are felt on his elbow and his legs in his chest.

That forgotten part of his brain has grown a new jungle, all the tactile senses and perceptions tangled, a reminder of what once was there and now is gone — like seeing a mall, a former bastion of civilization and capitalism, reclaimed by nature. 

What remains of Jack echoes in his lingering neurons. Is that what a ghost is? The last thought of a dying or dead neuron caught in a never-ending loop of memory, trauma, thought, consciousness? And is a haunting just people caught up in the devastating gravity of a ghost?

from the @ultraviolet-eucatastrophe inspired body horror fic when does a monster become one

this just tickles my brain and i cannot explain why

send me an emoji ask about my wip and published fics

[hagstones-and-howling-hills]

It is my writing... enjoy :-)

-----

And the rain bore down with vengeance and stained the dusty windows with streaks of pale light. It assaulted the glass and hammered the frames into place. It stripped the white from their ashen bones and threw each flake of it to the churning black earth. Cold seeped through the single glaze and clenched its icy fingers around our hearth where history went up in flames.

Week-old weak tea sat in chipped china cups congealing on the stone. Ash glazed the surface of each one and sunk slowly to the bottom. Flakes spun dancingly, dizzyingly about the room picking partners in dust motes and continuing their waltzes and gavottes on the cracked leather seats. The flames from which they flew croaked and crackled along to the rickety warble of the wobbling record spinning on the gramophone. With each tear of bow against strings Sebastian tore a fresh page. He fed them into the flames and they reached greedily for red fleshed fingertips.

The sturdy study shelves were half bare. A growing mountain of leather covers, red, green, brown, lay abandoned, violated by the piano. We hadn’t touched her yet.

“The atlas.”

He cast the corpse of Advanced Mathematics aside. The leather wings flapped once, uselessly, and the book lay still on the faded turkish carpet. I took the heavy book from the shelf. Gold lettering glinted in the quiet January sun tangling into the study. A moment’s collection to mourn the beautiful prints contained within and the sacrifice exchanged hands. At the crescendo of the piece a map of normandy found itself engulfed in gold. Ink and paper shrivelled and screamed out smoke, curling and turning and curling and turning before falling apart. Normandy crumbled to ash.

He thrust a flame darkened poker into the ever growing pile of ash and what remained of normandy tumbled across and over the stone of the hearth and drowned our twin china cups. The record skipped, skipped, skipped and stuttered, caught on a lilting tilting verse. I crossed the old turkish carpet and snatched the needle from the scratch. The gaping silence left was filled only by the cracking of the rain and the pattering of the fire.

I sat in one of a pair of cracked brown leather armchairs studded with copper like bullets along the arms and back. The leather creaked and groaned. Paris burned and it was all I could do to watch with my teeth knocking like death and my feet forgotten in the bedroom. The fire stayed quiet, steadfastly refusing to roar. It silently devoured each arrondissement and graced us with not a belch. We had starved it for days. Drowned it in damp kindling and moulding mahogany. The study had been our last bastion, our corner waiting silently in the east wing, ready to be backed into. The library had been lost when the dampness of December crept into our beds and found its home in our bones, lungs, muscles, shaking our cores. We had pulled volumes upon volumes from the shelves, cracked the ribs of sliding ladders to feed the blaze and keep our fire alive. Now the tiled floor lay blackened and cold and we had moved on.

Calais collapsed in on itself.

The walls were growing bare. The flames would soon rise to swallow the piano, bite down upon the instrument and drown the cracking hunger in a cacophony of screaming strings. We’d burned the paintings. We’d burned the harpsichord and the bedframes and the tables and the chairs. We were a fogged breath away from burning the brick buried timber. And where would we be?

The January rain tore at the brick outside. If we hurried we could get to the building's bones before the damp crawled in and settled down to rot. We could rip her apart from the inside until the slates rained down and pierced our skin, until our corpses lay covered in brick dust, red and rusting.

But before then we would destroy the centuries lining the shelves. Before then the leather would crackle in the flames like flaying skin. Before then the piano would go.

[asteriixa]

Sora 

A starter for @valorxdrive​

The old stone of the dried fountain cracked and fractured. The foundation tangled with weeds and stubborn grass peeked through the grates. Xion stood on the basin wall, balanced on the thin, faded marble. One foot-in-front of the other, heel-to-toe, and toe-to-heel. Her weight swayed and her arm lifted to compensate. She pivoted on her toe, turning to face the courtyard. A dismal, overcast sky darkened above the city. Her eyes scanned the patched roofs of Hallow Bastion, the boarded windows, and the unhinged doors. Wildflowers overgrew the garden beds and clashed with asteria vines that strangled the pitiful, barren oak trees. Xion hooked her hand behind her back, eyes settling on the boy that approached from down the street. 

He wore black and red, loose, casual clothes, infused with magic. A new outfit, it wasn’t what he wore when he wandered-out of the mansion in Twilight Town. The wizard must have given the change of wardrobe to him. Xion scrutinized his unkempt, brown hair, his features, the blue of his eyes. A displeasure pursed her lips. He stood off ten or fifteen feet, she met his gaze. Xion tilted her chin, and then the corner of her mouth lifted. 

“You’ve been asleep for a long time,” Xion said. Her gaze softened and there was something mournful in her tone. “But you don’t remember anything, do you?”

Xion scoffed, and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. On the fountain edge her stance broadened and she pulled her shoulders back. Her hand extended, reaching for him, in a beckoning gesture. A cocky bring-it-on, smirking and self-confident. She’d been looking forward to this for a very long time. 

“I want to see what you’re capable of, show me.”

[zamantha-ducroix]

The unspeakable has occurred. Zamantha must kill her husband, Davmir Du'Croix! How does it happen? Tell us a tale about how and why the lady demonologist was compelled to slay her one true love!

First of all. Screw you for making me write this, sir. Secondly, big trigger warning. Death, blood, gore, abuse, etc, etc. It’s a really long read. (I’ve trimmed it down a lot, my google doc for this prompt is 7 pages long- if you’re interested in reading it, message me!) and it’s about Zamantha killing Davmir. So it’s gonna get twisted… 

Tagging for relevance: @davmirducroix / @blaireducroix, @penvenomstarkstar, @jagathi-amarjeet

Here lies Lord Davmir Du’CroixPatriarch of the Du’Croix ClanDevoted Leader, Beloved Husband

Darkness was falling over the family’s graveyard, but the newest monument of gray marble stood out plainly. The funeral rites had been completed and the majority of those who had gathered for the burial ceremony had dispersed. Some, however, still lingered and moved about the area.

Two silent bastions stood silent, tall, and firm. Their hands were folded behind their backs. Finn, now donned in the crimson and black of the Crimson Guard, seemed to be chiseled from stone with how motionless he remained throughout this watch. To his left was Aeos, Davmir’s former personal guard. Though both men wore masks of strength, there was an air of grief about them.

Yet it was nothing like the sadness that radiated off the newly appointed matriarch of the Du’Croix clan that stood between the two large men. From behind her dark veil, Lady Zamantha Du’Croix watched as full shovels of dirt were tossed atop her late husband’s coffin.

Per tradition, she had been the one to place the first layer of soil over it and it had felt like she was burying a piece of herself. In that moment, she had wanted nothing more than to run from the graveyard where the reminder of what she did was lay bare for the world to see. But now she found that she was unable to turn away. Even in death, she felt the pulling string that bade her to stay with him.

You killed him.

Pain spiked through her legs as her knees slammed into the ground, a sob catching in her throat as she doubled over. She felt her fingers curling through the tall grass but couldn’t see through the tears in her eyes. Everything hurt. Every part of her mourned the loss of her husband and regretted the events that had caused such….

You killed him. You did this.

She wanted to bury herself under the dirt with him. Together in death as they were in life, as they had been until…

You killed him.

It wasn’t my fault…

Zamantha had been working on a contract with a new cafe opening up in Elwynn, not far from the city’s gates. Drafting up numbers and planning out shipments had taken up most of her night, and she had met with the owner for an early morning meeting. Hours of work had gone into her proposal, and it had ended up working out in her favor. Another successful endeavor for the Order, their name continuing to spread across the kingdoms. The signed contract was waiting on Penny’s desk, accompanied by a note informing her that she would be going home for a few days.

Home. In the past five years, she had only been home twice. Ever since Blaire’s funeral, when Davmir was granted true and absolute leadership of the Clan, Zamantha found that she could no longer remain there for longer than a few hours at a time. Her husband’s advisors had begun questioning her loyalties, though none could deny that she was a valuable asset. Honestly, she simply couldn’t bring herself to remember the life that had been lost. Even now.

It was Penny who had encouraged her to go home. Davmir had come to stay with her in her Stormwind apartment quite often, but now it was time for her to deal with the pain and return home.

But first, she had a research date with a certain doctor. Her usual meetings with Percival had been pushed back recently, delayed in response to her busy schedule. It was past time they were able to catch up.

Dinner had already been laid out by the time she had returned to her apartment. Percy was lounging in the chair he often occupied when he visited. He glanced up from his book as she entered, a brow rising upwards. “You’re late, Chief Advisor. And to think that Lady Starkstar always speaks so highly of your punctuality.” A dark smirk flickered across his lips.

Do not force me to live this again, you sick bastard…

A twisted power coursed through the lady’s veins as she stalked through the manor halls, willing all those she passed to dare get in her way. Whispers and nervous glances followed her to the war chambers where her husband and his council were meeting to prepare the upcoming guard rotations. The majority of them would be unarmed, not expecting an attack here in the security of the stronghold.

Little did they know.

All eyes moved up to the woman as she entered, folding her hands behind her back with a gentle smile and approaching her husband’s side. Her black gaze studied the men gathered before looking over the maps spread out across the table. This was the moment.

“Kill them all,��� a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Just as it had for days. “The time is now. Strike!”

“Gentlemen, I do apologize for the interruption, I know you are all quite busy… You must forgive me, though. It has been quite some time since I have seen my husband. You will allow me a moment alone, hmm?”

“M’lady, of course, but- if you don’t mind my asking, are you feeling well? You look pale, and your eyes-”

A twisted hand reached out and shoved Davmir away with an unusual amount of physical strength as her other hand swung forward. In one fluid motion, fel fire sprung from her fingers and engulfed each man. There was no escape. Their dying screams rang in her mind and set her soul ablaze. A wicked smile pulled at her lips and a cackling laugh sounded. With each dying breath, the flames abated and disappeared back into the nothingness from whence they came.

Davmir- her brave, handsome, smart, beloved husband- stood shellshocked for the moment, unable to do anything but watch as his wife burned their own men alive. Men that had served them for all the years they had ruled, that had no prior warning to the attack before it came. But realization washed over him before too long. This was not his wife.

He was on his feet and lunging for her before she could react once more, crashing to the floor beneath his larger form. She hissed, struggling against him. Those black eyes of her seemed blank and lifeless, but he held hope. Somewhere in there his wife remained. He just had to find a way to reach her.

Yet she continued to change before his eyes. Her nails were growing, turning into curved claws, which she used to dig into his arms in order to free herself from his grasp before swiping at his face. He withdrew with a grimace, hastily pulling away from her as they both scrambled to their feet. “Zamantha, this isn’t you. Come back to me. Please.”

“Come back to you? I was never yours to begin with.” A demonic growl had found its way into her voice, her Common heavily accented and dripping with hatred.

Whatever it was that she was becoming, he had to stop it. One way or another.

The creature charged him, ignoring the charred bodies and the ever-growing flames that were beginning to engulf the remainder of the room. Her focus was on him. The one in her way. The one that would continue to hold her back from her true potential. She could be so much more. So much stronger. If only she didn’t have him holding her back.

Decades of combat training had not prepared him for this, but he did what he could. Tables became shields, dull knives became daggers, until he could make his way to the shelves that housed proper weapons. He could make a stand now, though he was not sure how long such a thing would last. It all felt so meaningless.

Each slash of her claws dug deep gauges into the shield. But this could be used as an advantage. The next time she struck out, she found her claws stuck into the wood, unable to be quickly freed. He lashed out in response, slicing across her arms. It was enough to send her reeling backwards in a howl of pain, but it only served to anger her further.

This time, her claws made contact, ripping through his flesh like paper. Blood gushed from his wounds as he collapsed with her demonic form atop him. He was going to die here. She was going to kill him.

For the first time in too many years, he found himself calling out for the Light. And for the first time in too many years, it came to him. He could have healed himself, could have staved off death until proper medics got to him. But his focus was on his wife. His partner. His best friend. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Holy Light filled her mind, chasing away the corruption in agonizing pain. She screamed a blood-curdling scream of absolutely excruciating torment. She saw nothing, felt nothing, but the blinding magic he had unleashed upon her- something he had done only once before, in a moment not so dissimilar to this.

She collapsed beside him as the Light faded, eyes shutting.

Please, make it stop… Haven’t you made me suffer enough?

“What have you done?” She gasped out, fingers tangled into her hair, as if she could tear the whisper of that voice from her head. It all made sense now. The book of mind manipulation spells in his lap that day. The dark smirk that he had worn. The splitting migraines. Davmir’s broken form in front of her. The blood of her husband on her hands... “How-” She shuddered.

Percy caught her chin, tilting her face up to study those slender features. The doctor’s other hand rose to stroke the tears from her cheek. “I’m sorry.” The worst part was that he sounded like he meant it. Then his grip tightened and she winced as his nails dug into her soft skin. A malicious look came about him. “Together, we will make this world burn. Your beloved Davmir was the first of many to come.”

“No.” There was a familiar sensation brewing in her chest, strong and volatile. She was going to snap.

“No?” His laugh was cold and heartless. It boomed and echoed through the small room. When leaned into her ear, his voice was a dark growl. “As if you had a choice.”

“I will never be yours!” The magic tore through her form. Vicious void energy lashed out from her very being. It struck him with such a wicked ferocity that it threatened to tear him apart.

But when the magic faded, Percy was gone. There was no trace of him. She had missed

And she was alone…

Finn’s hand gently grasped her arm, pulling her back to her senses and up to her feet. He pulled his lady close to his side, supporting her trembling form.

“Send for Jagathi,” she murmured, her mind’s eye conjuring the malformed visage of her mentor. “I need his help.” Finn began to offer a retort, but she shook her head. “He will pay for what he has done. Send for Jagathi. I have a Doctor to hunt…”

[catearsandchaos]

Look at me, actually posting two things close to each other. I've just finished this thing, it's the first piece of writing I have actually finished in months. It's nice. I like this feeling, of being mildly competent and completing things. 

 Things have happened since I last posted. I got some new lovelies following me from my hugs catch up. Thank you so much for that, all of you. It's really great when I get someone new over here. I don't exactly run a conventional blog, so I'm very glad when someone decides they like me enough to follow me. And it makes a change from the 3 spam blogs a week I need to block. Real people! You're lovely.

 I also got the sweetest anon message. It's still making me smile just thinking about it. Whoever you are, thank you. I will admit to a burning curiosity to know who it was, so I can thank them properly and send them all the love they deserve, but I have no wish to pressure anyone to come forward if they do not wish to. I use the anon system a lot, I know how much easier it can be. 

 And I wrote a thing. Be proud of me. It's another word prompt from my wonderful friend across the seas, but this one may have gotten away from me a bit. It developed plot. It's kinda long, I think I broke the 3000 word mark, but I'm kinda proud of it. And on that note, if anyone finds a particularly good word they want to donate to me, I'm always happy to receive them. I love doing these prompts a lot. So this is 'Nefarious'. 

 Nefarious- (typically of an action or activity) wicked or criminal. 

 Of all the words used to describe you, that one might certainly be your favourite one so far. You curl it around your tongue slowly, trying it out. It's a good fit, you decide. It seems just right, much like dear little Goldilocks and her bowl of porridge. Such a sweet darling she was as well, all blonde curls and rosy red cheeks wrapped up under a blue cloak. It was a shame she had met such a gruesome end, but really, you can't be held accountable for the actions of wild animals, no matter how docile and domesticated they may appear. The girl should have known better than to venture that close to a cave full of bears, although you, of course, mourn a life lost too early.

 You step quietly out of the bath, dropping a robe over your shoulders and picking up the newspaper, glancing shortly at the headline which screams its accusations at you in bold print. The media and the press were always a bit of a wild card. Something you could never control, no matter how hard you tried. There were always going to be rogue publications, undercover message systems and it was far safer to allow them to continue to act where you could see them. Let them think that they have won their battle. Perhaps you should have kept a closer eye on them. 

 ‘NEFARIOUS QUEEN’S PLOT UNCOVERED!’ 

 It’s not entirely your plot. Your ministers put together most of it, you simply signed the relevant papers and smiled prettily at foreign ministers sent with varying degrees of threats and promises that they simple would not stand idly by if such events were to occur. The tricky network of spies spread across the kingdoms was known to all, but rarely mentioned. To remove one spy was to leave room for two to appear in its place and endanger your own in a far off court. An eye for an eye. A spy for a spy. 

 You chuckle lightly at your own rhyme and unfold the thick paper, scanning the article lazily. Really, they'd done their research well and must have an ally somewhere in your cabinet. Someone has broken their vows and that is treason of the highest order. It's a shame the old punishments are not still in place. You would have enjoyed hearing them scream, you think.

  There is no doubt declarations of war are currently flying in from across the kingdoms. You wonder whose will arrive first. The King of Troya is your closest neighbour, but he will be reluctant to launch a campaign against you. His army is weak and economy wrecked after a frankly ridiculous squabble with Numor. After 37 years of fighting over such a tiny principality as Chibir they are in no place to stand against your might. 

 No, the first challenge will arrive from Queen Cynthia of Nedia, who considers herself the bastion of all that is right and good in the world. It is a funny little kingdom, run by farmers and peasants alike. You wouldn't be surprised if they showed up on the battlefield with pitchforks riding their donkeys. But far before any foreign army would arrive, the castle and the kingdom would be taken by the mob that was advancing from the capital. 

 The article had ended with a rather rousing call to arms for all those close enough to reach the castle by midnight. It was cute, really, but you aren't stupid enough to dismiss the power of anger. And angry they will be. You knew when you took the throne that the rule of a tyrant was dangerous, lonely and, ultimately, short-lived. That was the risk you took. 

 You pluck at the sleeves of your robe and decide you should get changed. You would rather not face the angered mob and the end of your reign naked if you can avoid it. The floor to your bedchamber is cold, the fireplace empty, only a scattering of ashes left. The castle staff had fled when whispers first arrived about the advancing forces. You will probably see some of them again, weapons held high and the fire of vengeance in their eyes. 

 The wardrobe is well stocked and you consider your choices, but soon enough you decide that if this is indeed the end, then you will of course face it in a manner befitting an Evil Queen. The dress is difficult to lace up without help, but the blood-red gown flows gently to the ground as you inspect yourself in the mirror. It doesn't fit perhaps quite as well as it once did, since it was tailored you’ve had one too many of Cook’s sweets, but you try to ignore the tightness around your stomach. 

 You twist your hair on top of your head, shaking a few droplets free. The sweltering summer sun will dry it in no time, and you would rather avoid the tangles. It's easy enough to pin it in place with a crown. The twisted circlet of silver and iron glints as you step up to the window to track the progress of the mass of browns and blues and reds marching across the city. You estimate you have about an hour before they reach the doors and will probably double in size as they reach the dense centre where the castle lies. 

 There's not much time to do anything, but you pick up a book from your bedside table. A few chapters remain unread and you have no wish to leave things unfinished. Time passes slowly and you find it difficult to keep your attention on the book in front of you but you eventually snap it shut with a sense of satisfaction. It was a terrible ending, of course, but it is finished and that brings a certain feeling of contentment.

 It slots easily into the gap on the shelf and you wander the room straightening the bed sheets and picking up cushions from the floor. Only when the room is picture perfect do you glance outside the window. You feel almost flattered at the amount of people who have joined the march. Really, it's heartening to know you succeeded in making an enemy of so many people.

 You smooth out the creases in your dress and make your way steadily to the main hall, heels echoing through the empty stone corridors. The candles around the door have been extinguished, perhaps with the hope of convincing those outside that the castle is empty, but the stairs remain mostly lit, a few lights extinguished by the wind. It's just as you step into a stretch of shadow that the sound of cries and roars becomes almost deafening and the doors of the castle crash open, a handful of men stumbling in. 

 They pull up short at the lack of reaction to their entrance, perhaps they were expecting an onslaught of royal guards, but they still squint suspiciously into the darkness. Most of them are young men and women, all too eager to lay down their lives for the cause of justice, although there are a few older faces among them, faces battle hardened and wielding steel. 

 A party of three is shoved forward, a young girl in crudely made leather armour and a large stick held tightly in her grip, a veritable knight in shining armour, a beacon of glowing silver in the shadows, and a cloaked and hooded figure leaning heavily on a cane. It's almost adorable, the motley group sent forward to face the evil queen. 

 You step out of the shadows into the flickering candlelight as the doors slam shut behind the party, cutting them off from the rest of the group. Your presence goes unnoticed until as they scramble desperately to open the door, until the girl gives out a short scream of fear on looking over her shoulder and tugs sharply on the robes of the figure next to her. 

 “So.” Their voice is calm and steady as they address you without turning away from the door. “You’ve finally decided to show your face.” 

 “At least I have the common courtesy to show my face while in the company of others, unlike some of us, Yennan.”

 The posture is almost unmistakable. Yennan was one of your lesser advisors, an air of mystery always trailing him like a heavy fog. You feel slightly vindicated that the contempt he felt for you wasn’t imagined, but it isn’t quite enough to smother the heavy rage that threatens to build in your chest. But before you can step down to speak directly to Yennan, the young girl jumps in front of him, brandishing her stick in shaking hands. 

 “You… you shut up about Yennan! You d-don’t know anything about them! He can keep his face covered if he wants…” 

 She trails off as you give a cold laugh, before now most successfully used in persuading foreign embassies that it is in their best interests to sign the papers in front of them, but you suppose the it can learn to adapt. 

 “You silly girl. I know enough about Yennan. I know that he worked for me for 3 years, bowing and scrapping before my throne, desperate for a lick of favour. He was such a loyal dog. But it appears old dogs can learn new tricks, although I was not expecting leading a rebellion against your Queen to be among them.”

 Yennan steps forward into the faint glow of light that reaches the bottom of the staircase, cane echoing around the hall with each slow and steady step. He pushes the girl behind him, where she is yanked back into the shadows by a firm grip on her arm. It is only once they reach the very foot of the staircase that they come to a halt.

 “I spent 3 years working for my people and my kingdom. Not for you. Never for you.”

 “Oh? I was under the impression that they were my people and this was my kingdom. I am the Queen after all, am I not?” 

 You wave your hand dismissively as he begins to talk again and watch in satisfaction as his mouth clicks shut. You still hold a little power while in this palace.

 “What is it you want, Yennan? If you were after my death, then I would be bleeding out on these stones already.” 

 You ignore the darkly muttered murmur that sounds suspiciously like ‘we can arrange that easy enough’ from the girl and the chuckle from the soldier next to her and keep your attention fixed on Yennan, gazing at him expectantly.

 “We want answers. We want to know why you would do this and what we can do to stop it.”

 “You think you can stop it?” You laugh, delighted. “That is adorable. But if you insist of demanding answers then let us move to a more comfortable setting. And I would like to see the sun set one more time if this is to be my last night.”

 As you sweep down the stairs Yennan shoots out a hand to grasp your wrist. You jerk away but his grip is strong and a struggle would ultimately be futile.

 “I hardly believe you have developed a sudden appreciation for the sunset. Why do you want us outside?” 

 “Perhaps I have or perhaps I have not. I do have a heart you know, cold and shrivelled though it may be. But either way, the only way you are going to get answers out of me is letting go and moving with me to the gardens.” 

 The girl is the first to leap forward into the light, aiming her stick at your throat in a rather unthreatening manner. 

“It’s a trap.” She snarls, spittle flying across the short gap between you and landing on your face. “You can’t trust a thing that comes out of her filth lying mouth.” 

 You hear the clanks of movement before you can see the soldier step into the light, hand resting on his partly unsheathed sword as he gazes steadily at you, a menacing look in his eye, before he turns to Yennan.

 “For once, I find myself inclined to agree with Annikaa. It is most likely a trap, Yennan; you should proceed with the utmost caution.”

 Silence reigns in the entrance hall, the tension almost stifling. You gaze steadily at Yennan, watching the cogs turning behind his eyes until he comes to the only conclusion possible. He sighs heavily and drags a hand across his face, shoulders slumped. 

 “We will follow you to the gardens. You will tell us what you have done and how we can stop it. And then we will decide what to do next. You do understand you will likely die? There is a mob outside vying for your blood, they will not let you leave unharmed.” 

 You remain silent and sweep past them, down a dark corridor, the others trailing behind you like lost ducklings. The stone echoes with the click of your shoes, the clank of armour and the clack of the cane. The girl is silent. 

 The sunset streaks red and purple across the sky when you emerge outside, the air still and quiet. If you strain, you can hear the murmur of the mob, but it is dampened by the stone between you. The garden was built for solitude, to block out the hustle and bustle of the city. The paved square itself that you lead the little party to is immaculate, not a blade of grass out of place, hedges neatly trimmed. 

 There is silence. You keep your gaze on Yennan, and his remains on you, as Annikaa and the soldier gaze around the square. Eventually you sigh and drop onto a carved marble bench, gesturing to the other seats with a lazy flick of a hand. No one sits. 

 “So what is it you want to know? There is little point telling you anything you already know.” 

 “We want to know what is going on. Something is happening down at the docks, people are disappearing. A newly stationed troop of 100 royal guards tends to attract people's attention, we have known for a while. We just don't know where they have gone. There's no trace of them.” 

 “I would like to think that my guards are capable of spiriting away a few peasants competently. Otherwise it would seem I have some reappointments to make.” 

 “Where are they?” Yennan presses. “It's more than a few peasants. Hundreds of innocent people have disappeared since the beginning of your reign and thousands more lives ruined because of it. Try for some goodness once in your life. Tell us where they are.” 

 “They've been taken away to the seventh circle of hell, where they will emerge again as demons ready to do my bidding.” 

 Silence meets your proclamation and in the blink of an eye there is a sword at your chest, gleaming red in the sunset. Annikaa holds it steady and gazes at you, eyes blazing bright and fierce.

 “My parents are missing.” She snarls. “My grandparents, my aunts and uncles. My sister. She was 4 years old when your men took her. I'm the only one left and I swore that one day I'd take revenge. You have destroyed all of our lives and yet you still have the gall to spew lies, and you can't even be bothered to make them believable? How stupid do you think we are?” 

 “That depends on if you're clever enough to ask the right questions.” 

“Enough questions. This ends here and now. I don't care how long it takes us to find those people. I will search every corner of this kingdom by myself if I must. But you will pay for your crimes once and for all, your Majesty.” 

 You gasp as the blade pierces your chest and you grasp the sword and pull it away, your hand coming away blood soaked. You chuckle weakly, pushing yourself up from the bench with what little energy you have left. You can feel your life draining from you as the blood pools and spills out of the open wound.

 You lift a trembling hand to Annikaa, stood in front of you with a satisfied look on her face as Yennan and the soldier stand behind, frozen and horrified. You stroke her cheek, leaving a streak of red across her skin. 

 “You foolish girl.” You whisper. “You have no idea what you have just done.” 

 As she releases you in shock, you stumble forward, legs too weak to hold you up. Blood streaks across the paving stones, before soaking into the ground. You mumble feverishly, words tripping off your tongue in a hurried rush. And finally, you slump, ritual completed. 

 “What… what have you done?” Annikaa stumbles over her words, backing away from you, tripping over a bench and scrambling away as fast as she can.

 “It's more a case of what you have done, my dear.” You gasp, feeling a familiar dark force fill your lungs, coursing through your veins. “You really should have believed me.” 

 With a gasping rattle you lunge for her, unnaturally fast, black shadows and smoke dancing around your form, now taller, stronger, not quite human and not quite monster. You watch with satisfaction as the shadows wrap around her, smoke creating a mockery of hands encircling her neck, squeezing the breath out of her lungs.

 As she collapses, lifeless, you feel the power bubbling up inside you, sending you into a giddy reel. It only takes a flick of a hand for the two other men in the clearing to fall to the ground and you can hear faint screams of terror from the city and castle. You've imagined this day for years, so vividly that you can almost see it.

 All across the city, black shapes are rising, twisting and howling under the dark sky. It's an enchanting image, black smoke and shadows swirling along the streets, leaving destruction wherever they go. Deadly, it would only take a few seconds for limbs and organs to fail, with no hope of recovery upon contact with a demon. 

 The force isn't as strong as you wished, you had hoped for a few more years to increase your strength, but it is more than enough to achieve your immediate purpose. There will be time, later, to add to their ranks. This is only the first stage of your plan. First the city, then the kingdom. Then you can move further afield. Perhaps you will start with Nedia. Or leave her until the end. Let her see how well her ‘good will’ works when her neighbouring kingdoms were burning around her.

 As the sky darkens, you listen as the city falls quiet. No signs of life remain and as you fill your lungs to let out a great rattling cry, you can hear the echo, low but loud, across the city as they answer to your call. With ease you rise to the top of the castle, floating gently above the parapets.

 There is only darkness, as far as you can survey, the only colour the streaks of red made by the sun as it vanishes from sight under your gaze. Night falls as you survey your kingdom, peaceful and quiet and empty. You stretch out your shadowy figure, rejoicing in the power that wells up inside you.

 In the breeze, your dress flows in tatters and your crown seems to gleam with a light of its own, twisted iron twisting into your skull and around your face. You let out another cry and watch the shadows rise from the buildings, a flock of darkness swarming and dancing, mesmerising patterns in the moonlight.

 Perhaps nefarious was the right word to describe you. But in the end it does not matter. They, they are dead. And now you rule the night.