#and after the final battle on the steps of faith; even though his eye was returned

[lorspolairepeluche]

Each of the usual suspects has their places they go to disappear for a while. Zieh'to hides out in the Manufactory (where Stephanivien has given instructions that anyone come looking for a Warrior of Light who doesn't want to be found should get only a shrug and a vague answer and should certainly not be directed toward the sooty greasy Miqo'te poring over blueprints); Doenlona just takes her airship, turns off the locator, and fucks off into the sky for a bit (Cid has to invent a whole new type of locator, but she doesn't usually disappear when she's really needed); no one can find Ves in the Shroud or Dravania or the Sylphlands if Ves doesn't want to be found. Thybé has his mother's house, of course, but if he needs to truly be alone, he'll go into the wilds -- Yanxia or Thanalan, possibly Mor Dhona.

The others know when one of them doesn't want to be found, and they won't pry. The bond will let them know if one of them is in distress, so they're content to live and let live unless they've been really worried about someone's emotional state.

Oday, for their part, sometimes goes to the Forgotten Springs or the Brotherhood of Ash -- places where they can simply be a fellow warrior and put aside the khagan and the Warrior of Light and everything else for a while. But most often, they go up to Zenith. They can feel Hraesvelgr near there, and the resonance between them comforts them. They don't call him -- knowing his steady, solid presence is enough. They camp there for a few nights, drill the basics of their myriad weapons -- no magic, no aetheric maneuvers, just the movements. Axe, sword, lance, bow, gunblade, perhaps even a katana if they ever find the time with Hien to learn. They help the moogles care for the place too, chop their own firewood, hunt their own game. They always bring tribute for Hraesvelgr and leave it at the summit.

And, after seeing them there several times, Hraesvelgr's reawakened curiosity gets the better of him, and he flies down to the lower level on which Oday is camped. "Mortal."

Oday puts up their lance and bows -- a gesture they reserve for only those they hold in the highest respect. "Great one."

“Why dost thou come to this place? I have seen thee spend a turn or two of the sun here, many a time.”

“I find the solitude calms me when I need it most. The chill in the mist washes away my confusion and doubt.”

“Solitude, thou sayest, yet I see thee converse with the moogles when they arrive to care for the place. And I have seen thee help them care for the tower, as well.”

Oday laughs. “Moogles, great one, are vastly different from the people I escape by visiting Zenith.”

[novaursa]

Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter)

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: continuation

- Next part: dragon eggs

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @ferakillia

The dawn of their wedding day broke with a rare warmth for the North, the sky a deep, endless blue above Winterfell. Snow clung to the castle’s ancient stones, but the air was still, as though even the wind itself held its breath in anticipation. The entire stronghold seemed to hum with energy, its people gathered from every corner of the Stark lands to witness a union that had already become the subject of countless whispered tales.

Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard, the grey furs of his cloak draped across his broad shoulders, his usual starkness softened by the weight of the day. His heart, so often steeled against emotion, was lighter today, a sense of anticipation thrumming in his veins. He had faced battle, the harsh winters of the North, and the endless responsibilities of leading his house, but nothing felt quite like this. Today, he was not just Lord of Winterfell—he was a man about to be wed.

The courtyard was bustling with activity. Banners of House Stark and House Targaryen fluttered side by side, their sigils sharp contrasts—wolf and dragon, winter and fire. His bannermen, all garbed in their finest, stood near the towering trees of the godswood, while the castle’s women prepared the space for the ceremony that was to take place beneath the Heart Tree.

The great Weirwood loomed tall, its ancient face carved into the pale bark, its red leaves fluttering like the blood of old gods. This was where Cregan had wanted to wed her, beneath the watchful eyes of the gods of the North, and though she had been born to the faith of the Seven, the princess had agreed without hesitation. She was to become a Stark, after all, and she would take her place among their traditions.

The quiet murmur of the crowd hushed suddenly, as a figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard. Cregan’s breath caught in his throat as he saw her.

She stood at the threshold, wrapped in rich silver and deep crimson. Her gown was a marvel of southern craftsmanship, its fabric shimmering in the morning light like molten fire. The silver thread that wound through the delicate embroidery reflected her Valyrian heritage, its designs reminiscent of the ancient sigils of her forebears. Her hair, like strands of spun moonlight, was woven into intricate braids, entwined with tiny pearls and rubies that caught the light, making her appear as though a crown of stars rested upon her head.

And yet, for all the beauty of her attire, it was her bearing that stole Cregan’s breath. She moved with the quiet confidence he had come to admire, her violet eyes focused on him as though there was no one else in the world. There was no trace of nervousness, no hesitation—she was every inch the dragon’s daughter, proud and regal, yet today, she walked toward him as his bride.

The crowd parted for her, whispers trailing in her wake, but no one dared to speak aloud. Even Cregan’s bannermen, hardened men of the North, stood silently, as if afraid to disturb the moment. He heard the faint murmur of the word Valyria pass between them, a reminder of the ancient blood she carried, blood older than any in Westeros.

As she reached him beneath the Heart Tree, Cregan felt the weight of the moment settle over them both. She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto his, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. The godswood, the crowd, the banners—all of it was distant, insignificant. There was only her, and the promise they were about to make.

Maester Kennet, chosen to officiate the ceremony, stepped forward, his voice strong but reverent. “We gather here beneath the eyes of the Old Gods, to witness the union of House Stark and House Targaryen. Winter and fire, bound together.”

Cregan turned toward her, taking her hands in his. They were warm despite the cold air, her skin soft against his roughened palms. As they stood there, so close, he could see the faintest flicker of emotion in her eyes—a softness that she seldom let others see.

“I, Cregan Stark, take you, Y/N Velaryon, to be my wife,” he said, his voice firm but laden with meaning. “From this day until my last. I will stand with you, through fire and snow, through war and peace. I swear it before the gods, before my people, and before you.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly, her voice steady and clear when she spoke her vows in turn. “I, Y/N Velaryon, take you, Cregan Stark, to be my husband. I pledge my fire to your winter, my strength to your cause, my loyalty to your heart. From this day until my last breath, I will stand with you. This I swear before the gods, before your people, and before you.”

The words hung in the air, tangible and full of weight. Cregan felt them settle into his soul, binding him to her in a way that was more profound than he had anticipated. There was a finality to it, but it was not a burden—it was a promise he wanted to keep.

Maester Kennet raised his hands. “By the old gods and the new, I declare you husband and wife.”

Cregan didn’t wait for the maester to finish. He pulled her to him, his hands still wrapped around hers, and kissed her. It was not a show for the crowd, nor was it born out of any sense of duty—it was a moment just for them, filled with the raw certainty of the vows they had exchanged.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound filling the courtyard and echoing off the ancient walls of Winterfell. Cregan, for once, did not care who was watching. When he pulled away, the smile on his face was genuine, and for a moment, he saw a glimmer of the same emotion reflected in her eyes.

They turned to face the crowd, and as they walked through the throng, hand in hand, Cregan caught the glances exchanged between his bannermen and the ladies of Winterfell. His bannermen, who had known him since boyhood, seemed almost astonished by the expression on his face. They had rarely, if ever, seen him smile like this.

Later, the maesters would record that no one had seen Cregan Stark smile more than on this day, save for the birth of his first child with the princess. But in that moment, as they walked through the people of Winterfell, his heart felt as though it might burst with the weight of the joy he carried.

As the newlyweds entered the great hall, the feast that awaited them was grander than any Winterfell had seen in years. Tables were laden with food, goblets filled with wine and ale, and laughter already filled the room. But even amidst the celebration, Cregan’s focus remained on her—his wife.

He leaned in close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You make Winterfell warmer, princess.”

She tilted her head to him, her smile soft but knowing. “Perhaps it’s not just the fire in me, but the wolf in you.”

He chuckled, a deep, content sound. “A wolf and a dragon. We’ll see what kind of legends they make of us.”

“They will make legends of us, Cregan Stark,” she whispered. “That I promise.”

And as the night wore on, with the fire roaring in the hearth and the joy of the wedding spreading throughout Winterfell, Cregan knew she was right. This day, this union, would be remembered long after both of them were gone. And the legends would speak of the dragon that brought fire to the North, and the Stark who stood beside her, unflinching and steadfast.

The cold air of Winterfell’s courtyard bit at Cregan’s cheeks, the chill seeping through even his thick furs as he stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the great dragon Vaetrix. Her crimson scales glinted in the pale northern light, each one like a shard of polished ruby set against the stark white backdrop of snow. Even at rest, her massive wings were tucked tight against her sides, a vast stretch of membrane that flickered like flame when she shifted, the tips of her talons sinking into the frozen earth.

To say Cregan Stark was a man comfortable on solid ground would have been an understatement. He was born of stone and ice, a wolf bound to the earth, as much a part of the North as the walls of Winterfell itself. But today, as he stood beside his wife, watching the dragon’s great form settle before them, he felt that comfort slip away, like snow melting beneath an unexpected spring sun.

She had offered—no, insisted—that he take to the skies with her, on the back of Vaetrix. Cregan had held his ground through worse. He had fought battles, endured the harshest winters, but none of that prepared him for this. He could handle swords and shields, but flying? That was a different beast entirely. Quite literally.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, casting a skeptical glance at his wife, who stood beside him looking perfectly at ease, even amused.

Her silver-gold hair, tied back to keep it from whipping in the wind, gleamed in the cold sunlight. There was a mischievous glint in her violet eyes, and a faint smile played at her lips as she regarded him. “You’re not afraid of a little flight, are you, my lord?” she teased, her tone light but carrying just enough of a challenge to make Cregan’s jaw tighten.

He looked back at Vaetrix, the dragon’s head lowering to the ground with a snort that sent a puff of steam curling into the air. The dragon’s golden eyes—deep, intelligent, and unsettlingly aware—fixed on him with what he could only describe as amusement. As if the beast knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Afraid? No,” Cregan grumbled. “But I’d be a fool to not be cautious of flying on the back of a creature who could swallow me whole.”

She laughed then, a bright, musical sound that carried over the stillness of the courtyard. ��Vaetrix isn’t interested in eating you. She’d much prefer a herd of sheep over a Northman. Too much wool, not enough meat.”

Cregan raised a brow. “Comforting.”

She placed a hand on his arm, her touch warm despite the cold. “Come, Cregan. You’ve fought in battles, faced down far worse than this. Flying will be nothing. Trust me.”

It wasn’t the flight that unnerved him, but the idea of relinquishing control. He was used to being on solid ground, where he could command his surroundings. The sky was unknown territory, one he had no desire to claim. But as he met her gaze, the playful challenge there mixed with something deeper—her faith in him, and perhaps a desire for him to share in her world. He couldn't refuse that.

With a deep breath, Cregan nodded. “Very well. I’ll fly with you. But if we fall, I’ll haunt you from the afterlife.”

Her smile broadened, and before he knew it, she was pulling him toward Vaetrix. The dragon lowered her massive form even further, folding her legs beneath her to allow them to mount. Up close, Cregan could truly appreciate just how enormous the beast was—her scales, tough and unyielding, were the size of his hand, and her wings, even at rest, stretched out like the sails of a great ship. Each breath she took seemed to rumble through the earth, and the heat radiating from her was enough to melt the snow in a wide circle around her.

He watched as his wife climbed effortlessly onto Vaetrix’s back, her movements fluid and graceful, as though this was second nature to her. It probably was. When she looked back at him, the challenge was still in her eyes. Cregan sighed, grumbled something under his breath about never being able to say no to her, and climbed up after her, though with significantly less grace.

Once he was seated behind her, his hands gripping the edge of the saddle far tighter than he’d ever admit, she glanced back over her shoulder, her smile still firmly in place. “Hold on, my lord.”

“I already am.”

“Good. You’ll want to hold on tighter.”

Cregan opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but before he could form the words, Vaetrix gave a mighty heave and pushed off the ground. Cregan’s stomach lurched as the world dropped away beneath them, the courtyard and the walls of Winterfell shrinking rapidly as the dragon’s powerful wings unfurled and beat against the sky.

He swore, loudly and without shame, as the icy wind whipped against his face, stinging his skin and making his eyes water. The ground, which he had spent his entire life firmly planted on, was suddenly nothing more than a distant blur of white and grey far below them. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced—wild, untethered, and completely out of his control.

His wife laughed, the sound carried back to him on the wind. “Are you alright back there, my wolf?”

Cregan, still clinging to the saddle for dear life, managed to mutter something that sounded vaguely like, “I’ll kill you for this.”

She only laughed harder.

As Vaetrix rose higher into the sky, her wings beating with a steady rhythm that shook the air around them, Cregan forced himself to breathe. Slowly, the initial shock gave way to something else—a sense of awe. The land stretched out beneath them in all directions, a vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness that seemed to go on forever. Winterfell looked impossibly small from up here, just a cluster of grey stones nestled against the white of the North.

The sky itself was a wonder—endless, clear, and so achingly blue that it made him forget, for a moment, the biting cold of the wind. Up here, the world was different, quieter, as though they had left the cares of the earth behind.

“This is what it’s like,” she said over her shoulder, her voice softer now, no longer teasing. “To be free in the sky.”

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, still adjusting to the sensation of being so far above everything he had ever known. But as he watched the vastness of the North unfold beneath them, he began to understand. Up here, there were no boundaries, no limits. It was just them, the wind, and the dragon’s wings.

“It’s…” he started, struggling to find the right word. “Incredible.”

She glanced back at him, her expression softening. “I knew you’d like it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” he shot back, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

She smirked. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m cold,” he retorted, though he was no longer holding on to the saddle quite so tightly. In fact, as they soared above the snow-covered forests, he realized that his fear was ebbing, replaced by something closer to exhilaration. The wind roared in his ears, but instead of dreading it, he felt alive—more alive than he had in years.

Vaetrix let out a low rumble as if sensing her riders’ mood. The dragon's massive wings tilted slightly, adjusting their course, and Cregan felt the shift as they glided smoothly over the treetops. The ground below seemed distant now, almost irrelevant.

Cregan glanced down again, marveling at how small everything appeared. "I’m still not sure how you trust her to do this."

His wife’s voice was warm as she replied, “Vaetrix is my partner, not just a mount. She flies because I trust her, and because she trusts me. It’s not about control—it’s about the bond.”

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. Perhaps that’s what made the Targaryens so different from anyone else—their bond with these creatures was deeper than a rider and a horse, deeper than any earthly connection. It was fire, blood, and something more.

Vaetrix’s wings beat steadily as they soared toward the horizon, and for the first time, Cregan let himself relax, loosening his grip just a little. He even allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Alright," he said, leaning in slightly toward her. "Maybe I don’t hate this as much as I thought."

She smiled, her laughter carried on the wind, and as they flew together—wolf and dragon—Cregan knew that he had just crossed a threshold. This, too, was part of the life he had chosen with her, part of the legend they were creating together.

And despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy it.

The chill of winter had wrapped itself around Winterfell like an old, familiar cloak, but inside the thick stone walls of the castle, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. The hearthfires burned fiercely, their flames casting flickering shadows on the ancient stones, but it wasn’t just the fire that made the air feel so stifling. It was the weight of the moment, the hush that had fallen over the great hall, the tense waiting, and the murmured prayers to both the Old Gods and the new.

Cregan Stark paced the floor just outside the chambers where his wife labored. His usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a restless energy that he couldn't shake. His boots scuffed against the flagstones with each turn, and though the men around him—his bannermen, his household retainers—watched him with a mixture of concern and amusement, no one dared to speak.

It wasn’t that Cregan feared what was happening behind the door. He had seen battles, endured the harshest winters, and ruled his people with a steady hand. But this—waiting for the birth of his first child—this was different. This was something far beyond his control, something that stirred a deep, primal worry in him.

He had been kept from the birthing chamber, of course, as was custom, but the muffled sounds of his wife’s labored breathing reached him even through the thick door. It was agonizing—knowing she was enduring such pain, and yet there was nothing he could do but wait.

One of his bannermen, Arnolf, an older man with a long, weathered face, stood beside him, watching the young lord with a hint of a smile. “My lord, pacing a trench in the stone won’t bring the babe any faster,” Arnolf said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation.

Cregan stopped mid-step, shooting a half-hearted glare at his bannerman. “If I don’t keep moving, I’ll go mad.”

Arnolf chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ah, the first child is always the hardest. You feel as though the world is on the edge of changing forever—and you’re right, it is. But trust me, my lord, it will all be worth it.”

Cregan nodded, though his jaw was still tight with worry. He knew the risks of childbirth, even for a woman as strong as his wife. She was no fragile southern lady—she was a dragon rider, fierce and unyielding—but still, childbirth had claimed queens and common women alike. He had never feared for her before, not when she flew on Vaetrix, not when she faced down the dangers of the North, but now...

Another sound, a sharp intake of breath from behind the door, sent Cregan’s heart racing again. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to burst through and be by her side. He hated this helplessness. Hated that he could do nothing but listen.

“Cregan,” came a voice from the shadows. It was his half-sister, Sara, stepping forward, her dark hair pulled back from her face, her expression soft but commanding. “She’s strong. She’ll make it through this. You know she will.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I know. But it doesn’t stop the worry.”

Sara placed a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “It never does. But trust in her strength. She’s born of dragons, after all. And you’ll see your child soon enough.”

Before Cregan could respond, a cry pierced the air from beyond the door—a new, sharp cry that did not belong to his wife. It was the cry of an infant, high-pitched and insistent, as though the child had already inherited the fire of its mother’s blood.

Cregan froze, his heart thudding in his chest as the door creaked open, and the midwife stepped out, her apron bloodied but her face bright with a smile. “A son, my lord,” she said, her voice warm. “A strong, healthy boy.”

For a moment, Cregan couldn’t move. The words washed over him, sinking in slowly. A son. His son. He felt as though the ground beneath him shifted, like his world had just expanded in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“A son,” he repeated, his voice almost reverent. He had dreamed of this moment—had imagined it a hundred times—but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.

The midwife nodded. “Your wife wishes to see you. She’s tired, but well.”

Cregan didn’t wait for more. He strode through the door into the chamber, his heart still hammering in his chest. The room smelled of blood and sweat, but it was warm, almost stifling, and lit by the soft glow of candles. His eyes immediately found her—his wife—reclining in the bed, her silver-gold hair damp with sweat, but her face flushed with triumph. In her arms, bundled in soft furs, was their child.

She looked up as he entered, and the faintest smile touched her lips, though exhaustion lined her face. “Cregan,” she breathed, her voice soft but steady. “Come meet your son.”

He moved toward her slowly, as if in a dream, his eyes fixed on the small bundle in her arms. As he reached the bedside, she shifted slightly, lifting the child toward him.

Cregan gazed down at the infant—his son. The child’s skin was soft and pale, his tiny fists clenched tightly as he wailed, his little face scrunched in displeasure at being so new to the world. But what struck Cregan most was the shock of silver-gold hair atop the boy’s head, unmistakable, just like his mother’s.

“He’s perfect,” Cregan whispered, his voice thick with awe. He reached down, hesitantly at first, then more surely as he took his son in his arms. The weight of the child felt impossibly light, yet it was as though Cregan’s heart had just doubled in size.

His wife watched him, her violet eyes gleaming with warmth. “He has your hands,” she said softly, her voice touched with amusement. “Strong, like a Stark.”

Cregan chuckled, though his throat was tight. “And his mother’s hair. He’ll stand out here in the North.”

She smiled faintly. “Let them stare. He is both wolf and dragon. They’ll come to respect him for it.”

Cregan looked down at the boy again, his son, his heir. The child’s cries had quieted now, and he blinked up at his father with curious, unfocused eyes. Cregan could see it already—the strength, the fire that would burn within this boy. He was a Stark, but he was also more than that. He was part of a legacy that would shape the future of the North and beyond.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan murmured, the weight of everything hitting him at once. The responsibility, the joy, the pride—it was overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

“He will be great,” his wife said quietly, her voice soft but filled with certainty. “I can feel it.”

Cregan nodded, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, his gratitude for her—for everything—too deep for words. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough.

She smiled, though her eyelids were drooping with exhaustion. “We did this together.”

He stayed by her side as she drifted off to sleep, their son still cradled in his arms. As the night deepened outside Winterfell’s thick walls, Cregan knew that the world had indeed changed forever. The child in his arms was not just his son—he was the future of House Stark and House Targaryen, the bridge between ice and fire.

And as Cregan looked down at the tiny face peeking from the furs, he smiled—a smile that his bannermen had not seen since the wedding, a smile that would be remembered in the histories of the North, alongside this day, as the day the first dragon-blooded Stark was born.

The sun hung low in the sky, its orange glow turning the snow into a strange mix of fire and ice. Cregan Stark, now a bit grayer around the edges but still every bit the Lord of Winterfell, stood near the training yard watching his men practice their swordplay. His face, as usual, was etched in concentration, though every so often, his gaze flickered toward the godswood where his daughter had spent most of the afternoon.

He knew her well enough to sense when mischief was brewing, and today, there was something in the air that told him she was up to something. He just hadn’t quite put his finger on what.

It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed. His daughter, all of ten years old but with the same silver-gold hair and fiery spirit as her mother, came bursting through the courtyard gates with something bundled in her arms. Cregan immediately recognized the familiar look of determination in her eyes—he’d seen that look before, mostly when his wife had her mind set on something impossible, like teaching him how to fly on a dragon without looking like he was going to throw up.

“Papa!” she called, her voice a mix of excitement and urgency as she half-skipped, half-ran toward him. “Papa, look what I found!”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, though a part of him braced for whatever his daughter had gotten herself into this time. He folded his arms over his chest, his deep voice calm as he spoke. “What have you brought me this time, little one? A dragon egg, perhaps? Another wild idea about climbing the walls of Winterfell?”

She shook her head, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Better,” she declared, and with that, she opened her cloak to reveal a small, squirming ball of fur.

It took Cregan a moment to register what he was seeing. A direwolf pup—tiny, scruffy, and with impossibly large paws for its body—peered up at him from the folds of her cloak. Its wide, blue eyes blinked curiously, and its little tail wagged as though it had already made up its mind that this was where it belonged.

Cregan let out a deep sigh, the kind that comes from years of parenting and knowing exactly what was coming next. “Where did you find that?”

“In the woods by the godswood,” she answered cheerfully, holding the pup up as if presenting him with the greatest treasure the North had ever seen. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

The pup let out a small yip, clearly eager to be part of the conversation. Cregan eyed the creature with a mix of fondness and exasperation. The wolf looked like it had been born to cause chaos, and somehow, his daughter had already taken a shine to it. He could almost hear the arguments forming in her head.

“And what exactly do you expect to do with this… wolf?” he asked, trying to sound stern, though his resolve was already weakening at the sight of her beaming face.

“I want to keep him,” she said, her tone so matter-of-fact it was as if she had already made the decision for him. “He’s too little to survive on his own. And I’ve always wanted a wolf, Papa. You have one! Why can’t I?”

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the smile that was threatening to break through. “I have a wolf because I’m the Lord of Winterfell, not because I found one wandering around the woods and decided to bring it home like a stray dog.”

His daughter’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, giving him that look—one that made him feel as though he were about to be outwitted by a ten-year-old. “But you are the Lord of Winterfell, and that means you get to decide things like this, doesn’t it? You could say yes, right now.”

He sighed again. “That’s not exactly how—”

“Please, Papa?” she interrupted, stepping closer and cradling the pup against her chest, her eyes wide and pleading. “He won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of him, I promise. I’ll feed him, and train him, and everything.”

Cregan glanced down at the pup, who seemed entirely unfazed by the conversation, content to nestle into his daughter’s arms. The little wolf let out another soft yip, as if to back up her case.

“Do you even know how to train a wolf?” Cregan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll learn!” she insisted, her excitement growing. “He’s smart, I can tell. And I’m smart too. We’ll figure it out together.”

Cregan stared at her, knowing full well that he had lost this battle before it even began. She had that same stubborn streak as her mother, that fire that wouldn’t be extinguished no matter how hard he tried to reason with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of her having a wolf. A direwolf was part of the Stark legacy, after all. And though it was a bit earlier than he had planned, this felt… right.

He took a deep breath, looking from his daughter’s hopeful face to the pup in her arms. “Fine,” he said at last, his tone resigned but soft. “You can keep him.”

Her face lit up, and before he knew what was happening, she had thrown herself at him, wrapping her free arm around his waist in a tight hug. “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, thank you!”

Cregan chuckled, placing a hand on her head. “But you’ll be responsible for him, understand? That means feeding him, training him, and making sure he doesn’t tear through Winterfell like a wild beast.��

“I will, I promise!” she said, pulling back to beam at him, her eyes bright with joy.

The pup let out a soft whine and squirmed in her arms, wiggling until his head poked out from her cloak again. He gave Cregan a long, inquisitive look, his tiny tail wagging with uncontainable energy.

“I suppose we need to give him a name,” Cregan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What will you call him?”

His daughter thought for a moment, her brow furrowing in concentration. Then, with a grin, she said, “How about… Storm? Because I found him after that big storm last night.”

Cregan nodded, glancing down at the pup who was now chewing on the edge of his daughter’s cloak. “Storm it is, then. A fitting name for a troublemaker.”

As they turned to head back inside, the newly named Storm trotting happily at their heels, Cregan couldn’t help but smile. His daughter had her wolf, just as he had his. The pack was growing, and despite his earlier reluctance, he felt a deep sense of pride swell in his chest.

He leaned down to ruffle his daughter’s hair, his voice warm with affection. “You’ll do well with him, little one. Just don’t let him eat all my boots.”

She giggled, glancing down at Storm, who was already sniffing the ground with intense curiosity. “I’ll try, Papa. But no promises.”

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

The years had settled quietly over Winterfell, and though the seasons had come and gone, bringing with them both harsh winters and gentle springs, the castle remained the sturdy heart of the North. Cregan Stark, now older, with silver threading through his once dark hair and lines etched into his strong features, stood at the window of their chambers, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard. The sky was a soft grey, typical for this time of year, but the wind had stilled, leaving the world in a peaceful, almost serene silence.

Behind him, the familiar crackle of the hearthfire filled the room, its warmth seeping into the stone walls, casting a golden glow that softened the edges of everything. He could hear the gentle rustle of fabric as his wife moved about, though they no longer rushed through life the way they once had. These days, time was kinder, moving slower, allowing them to savor the quiet moments.

Cregan turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. She was seated in the large, cushioned chair by the fire, her silver-gold hair, now streaked with strands of white, falling loosely over her shoulders. Her beauty, undiminished by age, was not the fiery, untamed force it had been in their youth, but rather something more enduring, more graceful—a calm, steady flame that had warmed him for decades.

She looked up as she felt his eyes on her, her violet gaze meeting his, and a soft smile touched her lips. “What are you staring at, my wolf?” she asked, her voice still carrying that playful lilt, though it was quieter now, softened by the years they had shared.

Cregan smiled, crossing the room to her side. “Just thinking,” he replied, lowering himself into the chair beside her with a soft grunt. His joints weren’t quite what they used to be, but he still moved with the strength of a man who had led Winterfell for decades.

She raised an eyebrow, setting aside the book she had been reading. “You’ve always been a man of few words, but thinking? That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Dangerous for some, maybe. For me, it’s just remembering.”

Her smile deepened, and she leaned back in her chair, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “And what are you remembering, Cregan Stark?”

He reached over, taking her hand in his. Her fingers, though not as nimble as they once were, still fit perfectly in his. He traced the lines of her palm, thinking of all the years they had spent together—of the battles fought, the children raised, the moments of laughter and sorrow that had woven their lives into something greater than either of them could have imagined.

“I was thinking of the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice quiet. “When you rode into Winterfell on Vaetrix. I had never seen anything like you, and I was certain, in that moment, that my life was about to change.”

Her laugh was soft, more of a breath than a sound, but it filled the room. “I remember that day. You looked like you were trying very hard not to run for the hills.”

Cregan shook his head, grinning. “I wasn’t about to run. I was too busy trying to keep my mouth from falling open. You were this fiery, untouchable force, and I was just a man standing in your shadow.”

She squeezed his hand gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “You were never just a man, Cregan. Not to me.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them. Cregan let his gaze wander around the room, settling on the small tokens of their life together—the furs draped over the bed, the carvings of direwolves that adorned the wooden posts, a tapestry that depicted both the wolf and the dragon entwined, a gift from one of their children.

“I never thought we’d come this far,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “Through everything. Wars, winters… raising our children.”

She laughed again, this time with more warmth. “Oh, the children. They were more of a challenge than any war we faced, weren’t they?”

Cregan smiled, thinking of their brood—strong, stubborn, each with their own fire. Their son had grown into a man of great strength, a natural leader who now stood as Lord of Winterfell. Their daughter, with her direwolf by her side, had become a force in her own right, a woman who carried both the blood of wolves and dragons with equal pride.

“They were. But we managed.” He looked at her, his gaze softening. “We did well, didn’t we?”

She tilted her head, studying him with that knowing look she had always given him, the one that told him she saw right through him—through his walls, his defenses, straight to the heart of him. “We did better than well, my love,” she said softly. “We built something that will last long after we’re gone.”

He nodded, feeling a deep sense of contentment settle over him. She was right. The legacy they had created together, the family they had raised, would endure. House Stark and the blood of dragons would continue to thrive, long after their bones had returned to the cold ground of the North.

Cregan lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m glad it was with you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by my side.”

Her eyes shimmered with emotion, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “I know, Cregan,” she whispered back, her breath warm against his skin. “It’s always been us.”

They sat like that for a long while, the fire crackling softly beside them, the weight of the years they had shared resting lightly on their shoulders. They didn’t need to speak—everything that mattered had already been said.

Outside, the night deepened, the stars beginning to peek through the grey skies, but inside Winterfell, there was warmth, and love, and the quiet peace that only came with a life well-lived.

And in that moment, as they sat together, hand in hand, Cregan Stark knew that he had found everything he had ever needed—here, in the heart of Winterfell, with the woman who had brought fire to his life and warmth to his winter.

[achromant]

AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!

Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.

For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.

Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.

Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?

[Long Text Ahead]

Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.

Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.

Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.

With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.

Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.

Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.

Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.

That is, until he met Molly.

After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?

Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.

For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".

When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."

Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.

Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."

They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.

Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.

Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.

Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.

It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.

Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.

Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.

Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.

Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.

After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.

When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.

It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.

A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.

After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.

So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Spellbound pt. I

Chapter 1: Pax Vobiscum (Lt. "peace be with you")

2,4k. words | f! Reader | pre-canon | enemies to acquaintaces

"Witches were wise, wise women they say. And there’s a little witch in every woman today! Some people thought that the witches were bad. Some people were scared of the power they had. But power to help and to heal and to care' Isn’t something to fear, it’s a treasure to share."

Witch Song by Bonnie Lockheart [Source]

"A blood red moon makes witches swoon" or so they say.

Certainly, the pure light it usually offers being obscured by crimson was always a sight to behold.

The bible foretells that it's a sign of the apocalypse - the time when their savior will return, making unrepentent sinners burn in hell and ascend the faithful to salvation in heaven's bliss.

Science has long since explained the phenomenon, but the thought of sun earth and moon aligning so perfectly doesn't make humans any less reverent to the wonders of this world.

So tonight, like so many nights before, there is no sign of the coming end, just the ever repeating cycle of this orb in space circling your world.

There is an odd comfort in knowing that.

After an eternity of searching, on a glade deep in the forrest, you found what you were looking for: A blue spider lily.

An incredibly rare ingredient that proves useful for many schemes. Though it blooms only during those brief minutes of a blood moon and always at a different location, so the chances of finding it are slim.

The petals need to be conservated in a special way your anchestors had passed down for generations, otherwise they will wither and be of no use before you'd even arrive back home.

Just when you were about to start however a loud howl shakes up the otherwise peaceful forrest.

A Lycan maybe?

Not wanting to risk being attacked in the middle of your work, you decide to assess the situation first. You follow the animalistic growls and shaking tres not far from you, speeding up when the sound of clashing metal and strained yells - that sound awfully human - mingle with the noise.

Peeking through a bush onto another clearing, you finally saw what the turmoil was about.

Oh.

As wrong was it may sound, you would've prefered to see an innocent civilian being attacked - but there was no mistaking it, the man in battle truly was one of the cloth. He was struggling to keep his stand against a giant black dog, it's eyes as crimson as the moon above.

You hiss out sharply, all trepidation and worry having been replaced by sheer irritation.

What do you even care if another reckless fool of the cross dies? If anything, after all the suffering they caused in the name of their Lord, they deserve nothing less!

That creature managed to make the warrior lose his balance, preparing to lunge at his throat once again - yet at the very last second, it crashed against a spell you had cast to shield him instead.

Damned be your soft heart...

Anderson recognized the insignia glowing on the barrier right away: The Theban alphabet, used by witches and other occultists in their incantations.

Bloody hell, another foe he really cannot deal with in his current state.

"Show yourself!" he demands in that gruff voice of his, gripping his bayonets tightly in each hand.

When you came out of your hiding the exorcist couldn't help but gasp in surprise: Such a wee, dainty gal was certainly not what he expected.

No.

It doesn't matter he reminds himself, shaking his head. Enemy is enemy, whatever sweet facade they may hide their true, wicked nature behind.

You step into the dim moonlight with your hands above your head in a placating manner, tentatively approaching the growling beast besides the man. Whispering something in a foreign tongue you mesmerize it into cooperation, forehead touching the animal's as it shrinked into the size of a normal dog.

"What a foolish woman" he thinks, "disregarding a threat just like that." He could easily take you out right that moment, kill two birds with one stone...but he was too fascinated with the scene unfolding in front of his very eyes.

Tears dwell in your eyes as you reassure the spirit animal and it obediently nuzzled it's head against your palm. You chuckle slightly, and Anderson barely manages to withstand the enchanting effect of your voice himself, unwilling to let his guard down like that.

His stance gets defensive when you turn your attention to him then, a mischievous grin playing on your lips as you came closer. You stand in front of him, hands confidently on your hips and he cannot fight the slight blush creeping up his neck.

"Beautiful moon tonight, isn't it?" you cheer, reaching out to lend him a hand. Surprised by the gesture he slaps it away - softer than he intended to, though - muttering under his breath. "I had everything under control..."

You snort quite amused. "Yeah, I could see that."

Somehow your carefree demeanour was even more infuriating than his hurt pride from having a lowy infidel like you saving his butt.

Isn't he part of Section XIII, the very people that almost eradicated your kind? Why aren't you taking him seriously, damn it?!

"Oi. You shouldn't underestemate me, enchantress." The man lifts his weapon to your direction, making your new furry friend in the background huff angrily. You merely glare at his distrust and disdain, already regretting having bothered yourself with him in the first place. "Your judgement is clouded by bigotry and bloodlust, papist. I just saved your life, no matter how you want to twist my actions."

"Shut it!" He roars with a snarl at your insolence, still keeping you at distance with his blade pointed to your abdomen. "C'mon, a paladin assaulting a weak maiden?" Not really a new low for those zealots, really.

"Weak doesn't equal defensless" he rightfully states, refusing to meet your eyes in fear it'd make him grow vulnerable to your charm. "I know what you truly are."

"You only know what your church wants you to know" you snap back harshly, taking a few steps forwards until the gap between you and the tip of his bayonet is nonexistent. "They've always dealt in absolutes, scared of what they don't understand...and what they fear they burn."

Your words could evoke nothing in the priest, all he was able to perceive from them was mockery of his faith.

"A man or woman who is a medium or spiritist among you must be put to death" he quotes Leviticus, as if to repel your blasphemy. "You are to stone them; their blood will be on their own heads."

Frustrated, you pinch the bridge of your nose. What a stubborn one...well, to be perfectly honest, you had expected nothing else.

And yet it intrigued you that until now, he has yet to attack you.

"Let me at least treat your wounds..." you offer generously, despite his transgressions. He protests as you crouch down, yet doesn't make a move to put his weapon into action. You take a proper look at the torn and bloodied fabric of his cassock, but much to your surprise there wasn't a scratch on him left.

"Ohh, would you look at that." Clasping your hands together in amusement, a slight hint of wonder was present in your tone. "A regenerator? Fascinating. Seems like the catholic church finally opened their horizon to progress!"

Anderson doesn't comment on your insolence, instead he quickly leaps to his feet again, staring you down with an almost adorable frown, the hold on his bayonets loosening despite not putting them away just yet.

Judging from experience, his sheer strenght would absolutely demolish you in a serious fight. Of couse you had some tricks at hand, but you generally weren't skilled at offense.

Fleeing would be your best option, that much was sure.

"So, what now?" You ask after a while of him mutely observing you, both enraged and captivated by your confusing behaviorw. "...just go" he eventually grumbles, even though still itching for carnage beneath the calm surface. "Just this once, but then we're even. Next time I won't hold back."

Surprised by the refreshingly amicable offer you blink up at the man, gifting him a lopsided smirk in return. "Mhh, if that's so, mind if I ask you a favor?" He grimaces almost offended at your audacity. "Not killing you is the favor."

"I don't know if you were aware" You ignore his remark, pointing to the dog that was still lurking in the back. "But this is a Church Grim. They used to guard your graveyards, so I'm surprised you'd even attack it."

"I couldn't care less what it is" he bluntly replied, no sign of remorse behind his justification. "It attacks the townsfolk whenever they step inside this forrest. Someone needs to put it down."

"You can't stab your way through every problem..." you scold him like a damn child and he crosses his arms in defense, wincing slightly at your aggravated tone. "Those spirits are deeply connected to the place they're protecting. Even if you'd manage to destroy it's physical form, it would simply appear again at that very same spot."

Gesturing for it to come over, the dark creature hurries to your side, alarming the priest briefly until he realized it meant no harm at least momentarily. You knelt besides it, softly ruffling through it's fur like it wasn't able to rip your throat out any time.

What a peculiar woman you were.

"We are able to communicate with them." He knows that, he's not that ignorant. Yet he remains quiet, curious what you're implying. "It has been a normal dog in the past, but his master has been brutally killed and disposed of right in this forrest. It guarded it's owner's grave until his dying breath, but then...strong emotions can sometimes outlast death itself. Strange, isn't it?"

Anderson listened intently to your explanation, his eyes softening ever so slightly as he heard this beast was once such a loyal companion. You cracked a meek smile, almost hopeful at his unusual receptiveness.

"No promises, but maybe you could purge it by blessing the spot his owner resides. If anything it'd at least be appeased."

For a while the priest just stares at you, his expression blank as if you had just asked him to commit a felony.

Why would he even listen to some filthy heathen? This had to be a trap he just hasn't gotten behind yet. But on the other hand, then why did you go out of your way and assist him in the first place?

Nothing about you made any sense - not in the way he was comparing you to everything he was teached about witches at least.

He clenches both jaw and fists, his whole body tensing up at the inner conflict he was trying to resolve. Begrudgingly, he proclaims his decision. "...then lead the way, would you."

The Grim brought you to the place, an overgrown piece of nothingness at a random location in the woods. No funeral, no justice, no rest.

You gather some flowers and try to craft a makeshift cross while Anderson cuts and rips away the thorned vines with his gloved hands. He still can't believe he's doing such a ridiculous thing, but you seem to be serious about it after all.

It felt weird - yet not wrong - to stand besides the catholic, hands folded at your front and eyes downcast as you listened to his improvised eulogy.

"...the righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart; the devout are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil. Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death." (Isaiah 57: 1-2)

Anderson closes the bible and clears his throat, catching a glimpse at your still way smaller form. He could feel the pace of his heart start racing but in his ignorance he mistakes it for his usual rage.

You remained motionless, barely audible whispering your own kind of prayer - a heresy that he would usually never allow in his presence, if it wasn't for the fact that you kept your eyes closed as if you genuinely trusted this total stranger that he still was.

"Happy now?" he eventually speaks up and just when he does, he's tackled to the ground by the heavy dog. Opposite to his worries it simply licks his cheek, it's happy little noises able to lure a low chuckle out of the man. "You're a good boy after all, eh?"

You watch him petting the animal with a hesistant awe until he notices, growing nervous under your scrutiny. "What?" His demeanour immediately shifts into a harsh and reserved one again, but you continue watching each other - almost as if to try and make sense out of the person that doesn't fit the stereotype you had both created in your heads.

"You're different..." Out of a whim, you snatch the bible out of his hand, scribbling something inside one of the pages much to his dismay. "In case you need something. Consider it an action of gratitude."

Anderson furrows his brows, forehead wrinkling as you hand him the defiled holy scripture back. "W-what did you put in there? A spell?"

"My phone number..." You roll your eyes, yet the vibrant smile his selfless gesture put on your face would not falter in the slightest. "Take care, Father-"

"...Anderson." His back is already turned to you as he reveals his identity, for lack of a better way to thank you. "The name's Alexander Anderson."

"Well then, Alexander Anderson..." You taste his name on your tongue and he immediately feels another blush threatening to set his cheeks on fire. "Shall we meet again."

Anderson ignores the cartwheel his heart does in his chest, but before he can hurl out any insults or threats your face suddenly fell, as if you had just remembered something very urgent.

Turning on your heels, you wave as you leave the baffled man alone just like that. He looks after you for a while, until your silhouette disappears into the shadows of the night. Ultimatively he's left trying to unravel tonight's events in his racing mind, one thought predominant no matter how hard he tried to erase it.

You have very kind eyes.

At another place of the same forrest, you are finally able to do what you came here for in the first place - much to your frustration however it seems you have missed this opportunity to harvest the blue spider lilly...

...you couldn't even feel mad, though, for tonight you have found something way more valuable.

"Guess my judgement was too quick...that one sure has potential."

[Next Chapter]

[moonlightkitkat]

This was originally for an rp with my friend and I but no, I need to go more in depth about it.

Kairi from Kingdom Hearts is so TRAGIC to me. Specifically about dreams and dreameaters.

Sora and Riku are stepping ahead once again, and as they journey to become masters, they get adorable little pokemon dream eaters, who protect their dreams and stay connected to their hearts. Not only that, but Riku BECOMES Sora’s dream eater due to the forces after him.

But Kairi?

Kairi doesn’t have anyone to protect her dreams.

This is especially tragic to me when I remember that in KHMoM, she’s asleep throughout it. Yes she’s traveling through her memories, but her dreams, the realm of sleep, that’s what is allowing her to traverse her memories. And what does she discover while she’s in her dreams?

The unfiltered terror of her past. From the time she closes her eyes to when she opens them, she suddenly realizes that she truly never had any agency in her life. As a child she was kidnapped, experimented on if we go off of the novels (which I DO), and shipped off to a new world all by herself. Her memories locked themselves away because the poor girl was chased and attacked by MONSTERS before she was kidnapped. If the novels are taken into consideration, she was one of the subjects in the experiments of the heart, led by Xehanort. She was so LITTLE when she went though all of that, and this time, there was no caring older woman to protect her.

Kairi realizes that her entire life has been puppetted by Xehanort. She was sent to the islands, specifically so he could track down future keyblade wielders. Less than ten years later, her heart has been seperated from her body, and her kidnapper is tormenting her friends, and is hellbent on killing them. She wakes up and doesn’t even realize she’s looking at Xehanort, but he knows EXACTLY who she is. And what does he say?

“So you’ve awakened at last Princess. You’ve served your purpose, but now it’s over.”

And Riku’s soul fights back, screaming that his body won’t be used for… whatever Ansem was gonna do. I genuinely believe Ansem would have killed her. That realization, that horror about what he’s about to do, gives Riku the strength to fight back and beg for Kairi to run.

Then, a year later, she’s kidnapped again. She’s locked away in a floating cage, mocked and told that her only use is to make Sora angry. Once again, though she doesn’t realize it, she’s being used to lead Sora into danger.

Finally, less than a year after she’s been given the keyblade, her life is cut short by the same man who’s caused her so much grief. Even if Xehanort didn’t “really” kill her, her body shattered. Her “death” is why her best friend is no longer with her. For the final time. Xehanort used her to hurt Sora.

Then, in her desperate attempt to do something, because Sora had been right there. His hand had held hers, and then suddenly he was gone, and it was all her fault. In the midst of her grief and shock, she agrees to dive into her dreams and memories, obsessively searching for any clue to where he might be.

And then she unlocks her memories.

And then she faces the memory that exists within her, that always existed there, haunting her from within her own mind. I see this as how Ansem the Wise managed to keep his memory alive within Sora’s heart in DDD.

Yes Kairi’s finally getting the answers she’s longed for, answers to where Sora is, but she’s also overwhelmed with grief. Her entire life has been puppetted but she had no idea. Her friends, her home, her life, had been toyed with and destroyed over and over again by this man. So she unleashes her anger, her hate, her rage, and she FIGHTS.

But she’s no match for him, even in her dreams. I see her weakness to him being solely because she has no faith in herself. In KH3 her battle lines are “Please work!” She is the only fighter in KH that doesn’t believe in her strength, or that openly doesn’t. That, along with the trauma of when she was little, and the memories and pain that have resurfaced, memories of herself being weak and helpless, is the reason why she cannot defeat the memory of Xehanort.

And so the memory of Sora takes over, for just a moment, and does the job for her. Because Sora wins every fight, and Sora was always there to save her. So here, in her dreams, she’ll pretend he’s here and will save her once more.

When she wakes up, she doesn’t tell Riku about her memories. She doesn’t give herself a moment to process it, instead shoving the memories away and sharing what’s important. Not herself, not the past the three of them always wondered about, even though it’s the whole reason Sora and Riku wanted to leave the islands. No, it’s Sora’s location. Because she isn’t important, not to herself always. Sora is.

Riku leaves, and once again, Kairi’s all alone. Shes not really, she has Aqua and the others, but the two halves to her heart are gone, and she can’t reach them. Shes not strong enough.

Back to the dream eater bit.

Kairi’s had this sudden resurgence of memories, ones that she’s helpless to defend herself from. In her dreams, those memories, along with all the other terrible moments, are sure to resurface. With no dream eater to gently guide her, to remind her it’s all a dream, she’s helpless, and is trapped reliving them again and again.

She has no fluffy bat, no bouncy unicorn kitty, not even a Chirithy of her own. Perhaps her one chance to have one, being Riku, the living dream eater, has left her, and now she’s alone.

Alone in the waking realm, alone in her dreams, Kairi’s once again separated from her friends in more ways than one.

Stripped of agency, confidence, comfort, and protection in her dreams, she truly is all alone.

I find that so very tragic.

[deiaiko]

#22.6 Praise

Novick nervously chewed on his nail. He was waiting in front of the medbay, sitting on the couch. He was too restless to have lunch with the others.

He had gotten too carried away fighting the small Khun –Ran, his mind supplied– as he finally had someone on par with him.

Boss had looked really upset while he was healing Ran.

Even though Boss had never been actually mad at them, Novick had seen what Boss was capable of when he was upset. And knowing that Boss was fond of Viole's old teammates, he figured he might be in trouble. So it was better to get this problem resolved before it escalated further.

The door opened and he felt cold sweat forming on his skin when Boss stepped out.

"Oh, Novick." Boss's tone was unexpectedly calm. It was kind of scary, given the situation. "Why are you here?"

Novick blanked. How should he answer that? He wasn't particularly worried about Ran's wellbeing, given that he knew Boss was capable, but would it be rude if he didn't ask? Maybe he should apologize first? Though the mere thought already made his throat dry.

Seconds ticked by. He appreciated how patient Boss was, but there was still a limit to the awkwardness that both of them could stand. So Boss spoke to fill the silence. "Ran is fine, if you're wondering about that."

That was a relief, but it didn't ease his restlessness. He decided to swallow his pride, and said, "I apologize." He didn't intend for it to come out as a mumble, so he cleared his throat. "I will do better to control myself next time."

Boss shifted his feet to face his direction, and Novick could feel the weight of his stare. "Why?"

"Huh." His train of thought came to a halt from the unexpected reaction, and he dared to look up to meet Boss's eyes.

"I told you to not hold back and give it your best, didn't I?" Boss shrugged. "And you did. I don't see why you're apologizing."

Sure, Boss's expression was hard to read sometimes, but at least Novick could tell that he was not upset at him. So that was a relief.

"It wasn't your fault that Ran fainted. He consumed a lightning pill to boost his power, and that was the expected side effect."

Novick blinked. He did notice that after Ran ate something mid-fight, it had felt like a losing battle with how little chance he had for a counter-attack. But Ran's destructiveness was still incomparable to Grace's, and it was surprisingly easy to endure him.

"Ran was born a genius. A direct descendant and the brother of Mascheny Jahad herself. But you've worked hard to improve, and I'm truly impressed that you were able to stand him."

Novick felt conflicted. On one hand, he was swelling with pride. It was the highest praise that Boss had ever given him. The reason he liked to fight was because he liked to win, not because he wanted anyone's validation. However, it did feel really nice when someone acknowledged his capabilities.

Though that had also meant that Boss didn't have as much faith in him as he did with Ran…which was fair since he was biased from sharing lineages. But still, it had bruised his ego, especially because he couldn't say he won against Ran. He didn't get to steal his tag before time was up, after all.

"Don't sweat it. You will get other chances to spar with him." Boss stepped away and activated the elevator. "I'm going to the cafeteria. Coming?"

The cafeteria was only one floor above, and the stairs were right beside them. It was easy to figure that Boss was physically exhausted. Maybe he should follow him, just in case? It wasn't like he had anything else to do in front of the med bay anyway.

Looking back, the week leading to this day was used fully to exercise –with Boss as their main support, and Grace and Viole as their opponents. He could proudly say that his team worked better than before, but he also noticed that overworking had put some strain on Boss's health. Though that it was nothing new, unfortunately. Boss had always been too hard on himself, ever since Novick knew him.

The elevator let out a chime as the door opened. Only then did Novick noticed that the anxiousness from before had been long forgotten, and the thought of food made his stomach rumble. So, mindlessly, he got up and followed Boss to the cafeteria.

Masterlist

Previous

Next

Let me know your thoughts in the reblogs <3

☕ Buy me coffee ☕

[slothquisitor]

Dereliction

Summary: In which everyone struggles after returning from Weisshaupt. Eventual Lucanis/Rook. 3k.

Also on AO3.

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

Weisshaupt had been fucked from the beginning.

From the moment their team had emerged from the fallen eluvian and into the chaos of the battle, to seeing Ghilan’nain as a gigantic cloud face, Camina had known getting out of that whole mess alive was going to be a miracle. Every move and decision at Weisshaupt was reactionary, moving from one fucked up scenario to the next and pretending like she had any confidence in what she was doing, in what she was asking of her team. There had been clear panic in so many moments, and Camina hadn’t allowed herself to feel it. She’s not allowed to fall apart if anyone else is. 

In the end, they killed an Archdemon.   

That would be no small thing, but factoring in the way the heads kept multiplying, it felt even more impossible. Still, she knew unequivocally that Weisshaupt had been a defeat. And judging by the uncomfortable silence as the team makes their way back into the Lighthouse, they know it too. 

As a team, they’ve maintained a united but somber front as they helped get the remaining Wardens to Lavendel, now under the command of Antoine and Evka, but Camina’s been watching the tension point in Davrin’s shoulders rising higher and higher as they walk up the stairs into the library, and maybe she should have jumped in earlier, but when she watches it snap, it’s like a carriage accident happening and she can’t quite look away. 

“Over a thousand... that's how many fellow Wardens I had. And now...One god. One Archdemon. That's all it took to nearly wipe out our entire Order.” Davrin’s voice is thick with anger and grief and disbelief. 

Camina steps around Harding trying to catch up with Davrin. “I promise you, Davrin. We'll make Ghilan'nain pay.”

She keeps making promises, to him, to all of them. We’ll find the Gloom Howler, we’ll help Dock Town, we’ll figure out what your new magic means…one of these days one of them is going to call her on all these promises she hasn’t yet kept. She watches Davrin’s faith in her waver in real-time. “How? We all saw what she did. That’s beyond…”

“We killed her Archdemon, though. That’s something, isn’t it?” Bellara glances between her and Davrin for confirmation, for comfort, for something Camina isn’t sure how to give. 

“Yeah. After it turned into a snake-monster with too many heads! Are all blighted dragons going to do that? I don’t know how to fight that!” Taash’s clear alarm is the most familiar thing in the library right now. 

“Well, at least we’ve made Ghilan’nain mortal,” Emmrich interjects with enviable calm.

Davrin shakes his head. “Mortal or immortal, doesn’t matter if we can’t get close enough. We had our shot at her. And we missed.” The final words are pointed, directed straight at Lucanis. 

Lucanis hasn’t said a word to her or anyone else since he asked for a second shot at Ghilan’nain, and she couldn’t give it to him. Not if she wanted to save everyone else too. 

Lucanis’s words are quiet, sharp as knives. “Say what you mean, Davrin. I missed.”

Surprisingly, it’s Harding who steps between them. “No one blames you for that, Lucanis.”

Davrin’s eyes narrow. “Yeah? Maybe I do. This Crow has a demon inside him, right?” 

Harding shakes her head. “Now that’s not…”

Davrin gestures at Lucanis, his voice dripping with accusation. “How do we know we can trust him? Maybe the demon pulled his punches.”

Bellara’s eyes are wide. “Okay. Hold on. Now we’re getting…”

“And you, Warden? What about the blight that runs through your veins? The same blight that Ghilan’nain commands so effortlessly,” Lucanis taunts bitterly. 

Davrin and Lucanis have been looking for an excuse to go at it since they met, and she can see that Davrin’s angry enough to start swinging for anyone,  and Lucanis’s guilt is eating him alive enough to goad it as if he might deserve it. There’s a version of this conversation where Davrin pulls his sword and it comes to blows, and she’s not about to let it get that far. 

“Enough!” Camina says, wading into the group. She’s injured and she’s exhausted, and she’s not about to let the group rip themselves apart now. “We are a team. We’re on the same side and fighting for the same reasons. There are people who fought today and died to give us a chance at taking out a god. We owe it to them to keep swinging our swords at our enemy and not each other.”

Davrin looks like he wants to fight her but backs down. Lucanis won’t meet her gaze and she’s pretty sure she hears him muttering something under his breath. Everyone else just looks as tired and battle-worn as she feels. 

“There’s nothing that we can do right now. Evka’s got scouts tracking darkspawn, and we don’t have any leads until she sends word anyway. We'll meet in the morning to discuss next steps with clearer heads.” 

“That sounds like a marvelous idea,” Emmrich agrees, steepling his hands. “And, if I may, I think we’ve all been a bit distracted, these gods have not been any of our singular focus. Until those problems are resolved, we will not be prepared to face the gods. A moment of inattention—a single lapse—could prove fatal. And the gods will allow no second chances. It’s best we also consider what we need to do to commit ourselves fully to this cause.”

She nods. “Emmrich makes a good point, but it can wait till the morning. Get some rest.”

The group disperses slowly and quietly, thankfully without more infighting. Camina hobbles up the last of the stairs toward the infirmary. Varric is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms folded. 

“So. How do you think that went?” he asks. 

She limps past him, pushing the door of the infirmary open. Her leg will heal once she gets off it, but her ribs are bruised enough to make breathing difficult. With the adrenaline fading, it’s becoming tougher to ignore. “Poorly. All I did was put a bandage on a gaping wound. It’ll hold for a bit, but I still have to deal with it all later.”

“Emmrich’s right though. That's the danger in recruiting competent people. They bring more interesting and complicated problems along with them,” Varric says. 

She knocks back an elfroot potion, gagging at the astringent taste. “Weisshaupt was….bad, Varric. I don’t…Honestly, I’m surprised Davrin isn’t more upset. He’s well within his right…and Emmrich is right too, but what happened at Weisshaupt is more than being distracted. We were just fighting a god…and we were outmatched from the beginning.”

“And you still killed an Archdemon. An incredibly rare accomplishment.” 

She sighs. “And nearly all died doing it.”

“But you didn’t. And you’re all here to fight another day. In a fight like this, sometimes that’s the victory, kid.”

Maybe Varric is right or maybe he’s wrong, but she’s not interested in debating it right now. Besides, Varric looks tired, as though the short walk, eavesdropping, and this conversation has really taken all the energy out of him. Something is wrong with Varric, something he’s not saying. His recovery is slow…too slow. Perhaps it’s being here in the Fade or the dagger he was stabbed with, but something’s not quite right. Camina knows better than to ask though; he’ll tell her if and when she needs to know and not a moment before. She bids him a good night and shuts the doors to the infirmary carefully. When she turns, she’s surprised to find Neve waiting in the hallway. 

“Oh, were you looking for-” She gestures behind her to the closed infirmary door, where she’d left Varric. She and Neve haven’t spoken since she returned from Minrathous, not really. Every interaction is laced with a forced politeness that makes it impossible to forget that Neve blames her for the state of Minrathous…and she’s not wrong, but it feels unfair anyway. 

“You. I was looking for you,” Neve says, shifting a bit uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, whatever you need,” she says, hoping that maybe whatever Neve needs of her won’t be something else she’ll need to add to the list of failures today.  

Neve’s hands rest on her hips and she sighs. “Look, I wanted you to know that I heard what you said about all of us being on the same side. I’ve been hard on you, and I’m sorry. I watched you today, and I figured out why you did it…why you went to Treviso.”

She’s tired enough that she’s not sure she follows the rest of this beyond the relief to hear that Neve’s maybe started to forgive her. “What do you mean?”

“You try to save everyone . That’s your play. I watched it with Lucanis too. He asked you for a second chance at Ghilan’nain, and I watched you try to find a way to give it to him because you know he can do it. But I also watched you realize that giving him a second chance today would mean sacrificing the rest of us…and you wouldn’t do it.”

Camina tries to contain her shock at the accuracy of Neve’s appraisal. She braces for the condemnation that’s sure to come because yeah, she’d saved the team so they could fight another day, but that means Ghilan’nain is still out there, that more cities could be attacked, that the blight is still spreading. She saved the team, but it’s all a gamble. It always is. And she’s not at all sure that it was the right call, but it’s one she can live with, and that’s got to be enough. “Yeah, well…sometimes you have to make those calls, I guess.”

Neve nods. “Yeah…and…I get it. I get it now. And I really don’t envy that you’re the one making those calls.”

Well, somebody has to, and Varric had thought she was the right person for some reason known only to him and the Maker. Varric keeps telling her he doesn’t regret it, but she’s not sure she believes it today. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think the difference between Treviso and Minrathous was me. I think it’s this damn dagger. But…are we good?”

Neve gives her a tired smile. “Yeah, Rook. We’re good. I’ll let you get some rest, but I think Lucanis is taking this pretty hard. You should probably talk to him sooner rather than later.”

Neve isn’t wrong. Even though all she really wants to do is curl up in her bed and sleep, she knows that she needs to talk to both Davrin and Lucanis. “Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

Neve steps to the side, and Camina starts for her quarters. 

“I still think this team is the best chance we have at stopping the gods,” Neve says, words barely above a whisper. It’s said like a question rather than a statement.

She turns back and tries to offer a reassuring smile. “Yeah, me too.”

***

Lucanis paces the pantry in frustration. 

How had he missed? Ghilan’nain was right there, he nearly had her. Nearly. He’d scratched her, but that’s not the same as killing her. He’s never failed a contract before, never missed a target. He’s never failed so spectacularly and with so much on the line. He thought he still had this . 

Zara, his time in the Ossuary, being stuck with Spite. It’s taken so much from him, but death is his calling and he had believed even with everything else so changed…. That’s what he’s here for, isn’t he? 

Perhaps Davrin is right, perhaps his conflict with Spite is why he missed his chance, but it doesn’t feel like that. Weisshaupt had been a waking nightmare. Blight and darkspawn everywhere he looked, and the whole time Rook had fought through the hordes changing plans and knocking down every obstacle (including the First Warden). She had fearlessly led them through it all in that sardonic way of hers that seemed to acknowledge just how terrible things were while also managing a sort of gallows humor that kept it all from feeling too crushing. 

Until it was clear they’d failed. He’d failed.

All those Wardens dead. And for what? What had they sacrificed and fought and followed them all for if he can’t even do the job he’s been tasked with? And what happens to him now? What is his place on this team if he cannot even do the thing he was recruited for? He failed his contract, and he hadn’t even done the team the favor of dying in the attempt. It’s like the Ossuary all over again, only this time his captors are his own failings. 

“Let. Me. Out. Fight. Stab. Kill. We can do it. Let us out!” Spite crouches in the corner, poised to strike.  Lucanis rounds on him. “No! Haven’t you done enough?”

“Lucanis isn’t. Keeping deal.”

It is so often infuriating the way he cannot even be alone with his own thoughts anymore. “I kept the deal. You’re the one who won’t leave me alone.”

Spite has no response to that, and he’s grateful because it means he can keep pacing the pantry in relative peace. 

He’s not surprised when Rook comes to see him. She’s moving gingerly, he’s pretty sure something is wrong with her leg and he’s injured his own ribs enough times to recognize the careful way she carries herself is to avoid aggravating the injury. She shouldn’t be here; she should be resting. 

“Lucanis, are you in here brooding?” She’s attempting humor, wields it like a shield against everything that feels too big to bear. 

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not a ‘No’.”

How can she make light of this? Doesn’t she understand what he’s done?  “I had her! She should have never gotten away from me. This was our contract, Rook. I don’t fail my contracts.”

She looks exceptionally tired. “Forget about Ghilan’nain.”

“But that’s why I’m here!” That is why he was rescued, why Caterina agreed to this contract…he has to complete this, can’t she see that?

She nods, eyes softening. “I know, but…I’m just happy you didn’t get killed out there.” He knows she’s being sincere. Knows her well enough to know that when she says things like this she means them…but it can’t matter. He has nothing to offer her, and if he ignores her interest, she’ll move on. But perhaps if he’s lucky, he’ll still keep her friendship. 

“You shouldn’t go easy on me.” Just because she cares about him…he sees it. But he doesn’t know what to do with kindness and care that doesn’t come with the crushing weight of expectations. 

The worst part is that he understands her relief…he feels it too. When he had leapt for Ghilan’nain, he had been plagued with worry. With fear for these people he has grown to care about and who were relying on him to finish this job. He had been terrified of what would happen if he failed, watching Rook stare down a god, her belief in him never wavering. And even as he flew through the air, he had never truly believed his hit wouldn’t land…he just thought if he failed he wouldn’t be here to see the aftermath. 

“In my line of work, mistakes get people killed.”

She folds her arms and winces when the movement hurts. “To be fair, so do successes.” He can tell she’s trying desperately to pull him out of the dark spiral of his thoughts, but he doesn’t want to be saved. Not this time. 

“I thought I still had this. Whatever else I am, I’m a professional.” Zara had taken so much from him: his body, his control, a year of his life, Caterina…but he had thought if he did this job…completed this contract…then maybe he’d get to be the man he was before the Ossuary. 

“Ghilan'nain was a giant face in the clouds, Lucanis. I asked you to stab a cloud.”

“And I missed the damn cloud!” The words echo off the pantry walls, louder than he intended. He sighs, already reaching for an apology, unsure if it’s enough. “After the Ossuary, I thought at least I could still take out a target. I was distracted. That cannot happen again. I need to get my head on straight. I need to work.”

He needs something, anything to focus on that’s not replaying that moment in his mind over and over, searching for where he went wrong. 

Rook is uncharacteristically serious. “Are you sure that’s what you need? You’ve been working nonstop since we broke you out of the Ossuary…and maybe what you really need is a bit of rest, Lucanis.”

She’s not wrong. He’s exhausted all the time. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to feel rested, but she doesn’t understand that either. He lives in a constant state of fear that the moment he loses focus or control that Spite is always waiting. He knows that Spite has made him more powerful, but he’s sure that he’s also made Spite more powerful too. He knows so many ways to end a life…does she not realize how easy it would be for him to kill everyone in the Lighthouse? How could she realize the danger when he’s told he has this under control…that he can work…and he clearly can’t. 

And maybe when she tells him to rest, she’s really telling him that she doesn’t need him anymore. An assassin that can’t even kill his mark. 

“I’ll…think about it,” he says with finality. 

Rook looks like she wants to say more, but he turns away, unwilling to look at her any longer…at the hope and comfort she is still holding out with both hands, at the way she’s begging him to grasp it. He doesn’t want her to go, but he cannot bear her to stay. Not when he is this . 

So she goes and he is again alone with his demon.

[thewriterg]

𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝

pairing(s); jake sully x fem!navi!reader, neytiri tskaha mo'at'ite x fem!navi!reader

summary; it was a mistake they didn’t mean for it to happen at least not without you —angstober day; 20—

word count; 650+

warning(s); angst, death of an animal, and language

A/n:—GIFs; @helicarrier— I can’t believe its already the 20th

“Ma Y/n! Yawne wait” Neytiri called out to you as you climbed down from the spirit tree your tail that was once filled with with a passionate sway now lies limp behind you the grass and leaves crunching after you tears blurring your doe eyes with a frown etched deep on your face your feet carrying you somewhere they the weren’t

Somewhere you could be free

Before you know it there’s a restraint on your thin deep blue cauda and you turned to face Jake his five fingered hand wrapped around its end your hand inches way above his at the base and a hiss resting against your lips the sky walker put his hands up in surrender taking a small steps to approach you like a wild animal deep in the forest

“I trusted you, I trusted you!” Sniffling erupted your speech now and both of them fought the urge to look away from your hurt features ears falling flat against the temples of their navy skin warm tears running down Neytiris face

“Trust us now” Jake pleaded his voice calm and settled while yours was scratchy and rubbed raw shaking your head in denial turning down the deal without giving it a thought because you truly didn’t need to

“I should not put my faith into a occupied pair… who are mated before Eywa” You whispered and the na’vi whimpered at the cold words tumbling out your mouth as you turn your back to face the trees accepting their embrace a slight wind rustling through the branches and when you went to move forward you heard movement from behind

“Do not follow me, I hope you can respect that much” You murmured before walking deep off into the forest before Jake holds Neytiri in his lanky, slim, hold her tears falling off her face and onto his bare chest broken promises to get you back to them promises he knew he might not have been able to keep

It was a heart of the moment situation even though it shouldn’t have been especially after restless nights of studying for you to be together… for you to all be bonded together and you were close the na’vis cursed at themselves because god you were close, so goddamn close

But they had formed their own kuru and it was a done deal

The two were heading back to the village a slow drag in their steps when they heard a scream, your scream. You were one of the best warriors in the village and usually called out with a chur and whistle for battle this time it was a scream that shook the leaves and echoed off the face of the forest Neytiri was faster than Jake moving through the forest with ease and determination while the sky walker set a decent pace behind her and it felt like forever until the came to a stop your back was still faced towards them your shoulders hunched and your bow lying beside you

The pair took careful steps to you and Jake finally saw your irkran lied out against the floor it’s eyes wide and open yet lifeless as you sobbed hand rubbing over its snout a hand over her stomach and Neytitri dropped next you an arm draping over your shoulder frowning heaving at the sight while you screamed in agony

“She waited too many breeding cycles to have the calf, the clan was so happy for her” You sniffled rubbing a hand over her plump stomach and Jake finally settled on his knees next to you putting his forehead against yours and it was soothing for a while until you finally shot up flinging their limbs off you

“What is this great mother, WHAT IS THIS!?” Your screaming was your most sacred possession Ewya granted you the gift herself

©2023 thewriterg spooktober do not copy, translate, or modify.

Oh my gosh a cliffhanger 🙀

[bluedemon1995]

Finally done! Hope you enjoy!

Free day 8

After that dramatic declaration, she LEFT. Wouldn’t answer his calls or texts. Said it was for his own good. Yeah right. There’s no world or universe that her not being in his life was good for him.

He had a quick meeting of the minds and told them in no uncertain terms, that he was not going to let her have her way. She could not just avoid him forever. She was his. But he needed help. If she wouldn’t see him, he needed help.

He was in trouble though. He had no real experience in dating. Nor was he any good with feelings or talking. Shit. This was going to take some planning.

Day 9 10/31 Happy Halloween

“Just say it. Say you don’t want me. Say you don’t love me anymore. Stop dragging this out!” Katie exclaimed angrily, wiping at the tears escaping her hazel eyes.

Keith froze. What the fuck?! He didn’t give a shit about the Halloween ball or party. Don’t want her? Not love her? How could that ever be a reality? He didn’t just love her. He adored her. He worshipped her. She was his world. How did she not know? How did he fail so epically that he was contemplating marriage, and she was thinking they were over?

He’s moving without conscious thought, grabbing her hand, and dragging her out of the Halloween party of some stuffy ballroom. No this was not acceptable. He pulled her not caring how it looked to those around them. Unfortunately, not everyone was on the same page. Some new Staff Sergeant moved in his path. Keith growled.

“Oh, excuse me, I was hoping for a minute of your time. Care to dance?”

Katie rolled her eyes. Oh, she knew this, Sergeant. Tough as nails in battle yet, Veronica called her a lion…panther…or maybe a cougar. She had quite the reputation of loving the attention of men especially younger men who had battle experience. The way Veronica talked; no man has ever said no to her. She knew she was after Keith from the debrief a few weeks ago.

Katie was used to feeling inadequate though. She always had faith in Keith. It didn’t matter if girls liked him or threw themselves at him. She knew he was loyal to the core and would never cheat. But that didn’t make seeing people throw themselves at him any easier. Each time, it felt like it chipped away at her. Sometimes she felt like that little girl who had no friends and was isolated. Biting her lip, she tuned back into the conversation.

Keith was giving her some information but seemed angry. She should leave. She pulled her arm away, and whispered, “Keith, why don’t you figure this out and we can talk later.”

She turned and took one step when suddenly, the world turned, and she was looking at Keith’s…butt?

Pulling up she looked and realized, Keith had grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder! He was stalking through the hall and she felt the cold fall air. With his hand clamped firmly on her thigh, he kept walking.

Katie could hear the whispers and exclamations, “Dammit Keith, put me down!”

“No. We need to talk and I need you to listen.”

Katie’s head was starting to hurt because all her blood was rushing to her head. She swatted at Keith’s back and even pinched him. But he just kept going.

Suddenly, Katie was plopped down on a kitchen counter.

Looking up at Keith, she lost her train of thought.

Suddenly, Keith was on one knee. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring. “Katie, I’m sorry if I haven’t made my feelings known. I love you. More than I ever thought possible. You aren’t just my girlfriend. You’re more than my best friend, more than a teammate and partner. You’re” Keith cleared his throat, “my everything.”

Katie blinked, tears quickly forming in her eyes again. “But, you’ve been weird ever since our rainy day. You’ve seemed distant and I thought, maybe, things have run their course for you.”

Keith shook his head, “Babe, no! It’s just I had plans. I had a picnic, and photographer and food and I was going to propose then. But, then it rained and it all fell apart. So I talked to Lance and Hunk again. I mean, I asked them for more help and we were trying to come up with a better plan. But I’m sorry if you saw my disappointment as something else.”

He held out the ring, and Katie could see his hand was shaking. Shaking. He had the steady hands of a surgeon. He meant this. This wasn’t pity. When she looked into his eyes, she saw. Crying Katie slid into his arms, holding him tight.

“Yes.” Wrapped in Keith’s firm embrace, feeling his warmth, breathing in his scent, this is the only place she wants to be. Forever.

[spartanguard]

sons of love and death, 7/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: Greetings from band camp! But that won't stop me from updating my @cssns story! Hope everyone is having a great week! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​​​​ !) rated M | 5.1k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Dorian hadn’t been seen since his encounter with Regina the previous morning, but Killian knew better than to let his guard down. Every time the bell rang in the library, Killian was alert, ready for the worst (even if logically he knew his twin wouldn’t announce his presence—though, they did share an affinity for melodrama…). And he’d put on his sword belt for the first time in ages, for both comfort and protection. 

He was reshelving a few books when the bell chimed again. He paused to listen, but was mildly surprised when Leroy’s voice rang out in the otherwise quiet library—and sounded more than grumpy. “What the hell, pirate?” 

Confused, Killian shoved the book in his hand on the shelf and quickly made his way to the lobby. “Watch the volume, mate,” he chastised. “What’s the problem?”

Leroy was glaring at him and huffing. “Don’t pretend you don’t know; I saw you! Taking a joyride on my boat this morning, using all my gas, and then you just left it adrift. It almost ran into the shipping lane!”

“Why would I take your dinghy when my ship is right there?” Killian countered. “It was probably my good-for-nothing brother.”

“Then why was he dressed like you? And I saw your hook!” 

He rolled his eyes; of course Dorian would find a new way to make trouble for him. “Well it wasn’t me! I’ve been here all day, and my wife can provide my alibi prior to that—in detail, if you’d like,” Killian threw back, biting back a smirk at the memory of what they’d gotten up to in bed that morning. 

“No thank you,” he responded, stepping back with his hands up. “Just—keep that asshole in check, okay?”

“He’s not my responsibility.”

“Whatever,” Leroy grumbled, and left as quickly as he’d arrived.

Killian was irked by the encounter. Not so much at Dorian’s antics, annoying though they were (and would probably need his attention at some point)—but he was somewhat perturbed by the fact that Leroy was so quick to assume it had been him. There was definitely a time he may have done that, but now? After everything in the past few years? Did the dwarf truly still think so little of him?

He shook his head; Leroy didn’t have much faith in anyone. It was just a stupid misunderstanding; perhaps he’d go down to the docks and see if he could use his powers, meager as they were, to tow the boat back into harbor. But it was nothing to be truly upset over, not on his end.

The day went on without further event and the encounter was nearly out of his mind when he ran into another dwarf outside the sheriff station. Sneezy was coming from the opposite direction and reached the door before he did, but then paused and faced him. 

“Uh, Captain,” he started, then characteristically sneezed. He went on after wiping his nose on his ever-present handkerchief. “I was about to report what happened earlier, but I’d be happy to settle now, if you want—if you’d rather Emma not know.”

“Know what?”

“About the rum you stole,” he said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t exactly hide it.”

Killian scoffed; he’d never been impressed by the rum selection at the pharmacy, nor was he desperate enough to shoplift subpar liquor. “I’ve been at the library all day, mate; you should hit up my lookalike for the cash. Or go ahead and report it; may as well add to his rap sheet.”

The dwarf tilted his head, confused. “But—your hook—and clothes—”

“—Are easy to replicate with magic like his,” Killian sighed. “Really, mate? I thought you knew me better.”

Sneezy at least looked a bit like his brother Bashful at that, then uttered a quick apology before nearly running back in the direction from which he’d come.

Killian pinched the bridge of his nose, again frustrated.

It didn’t stop there, though—on the entire walk from the station to Granny’s with Emma, he was on the receiving end of glares, muttering, and people keeping their distance. Granted, that was typical treatment from the gaggle of fairies they passed, given their history. 

But even mild-mannered Gepetto, upon his exit from the diner, turned suddenly angry at the sight of Killian and wasted no time getting in his face and yelling in his native tongue. Killian was skilled at languages but not well-studied in that one, save for a few curse words—all of which he heard in the tirade. 

The carpenter didn’t give Killian a chance to reply before storming off, leaving him fatigued and Emma confused. “What the hell was his problem?” she griped. 

“No clue—but I’m willing to bet it was my brother; that’s been happening all afternoon.”

“Ugh, that dick,” she cursed. “But can’t people tell the difference by now?”

“You’d think,” he sighed, knowing that didn’t mean a damn thing if a glamour spell was involved. 

“Sounds like he needs to be punched in his pretty nose to make sure it’s more obvious,” she suggested, stepping into Killian’s space and tapping his own nose.

“You think my nose is pretty?” he flirted back. 

“All of you is. Way more than him,” she assured him, then dragged him into the restaurant. 

He obviously knew he was innocent of the various misdemeanors he’d been accused of, and he was certainly no stranger to being a suspect. But that hurt feeling from earlier crept back up in him as he fielded side-eyed stares from his seat across from an oblivious Emma while they ate. 

Hadn’t he earned this town’s trust? Weren’t they well past any questioning of his actions? Yes, his history was rocky—but he’d literally died for the residents of Storybrooke. 

And it was no secret he had a doppelgänger running around. So the fact they were so quick to turn on him was far more painful than he’d like to admit.

“Babe? Your glass—are you okay?” Emma’s concerned voice pulled him from his morose thoughts, and he realized a whirlpool was threatening to spin out of his glass of water. 

“Sorry,” he answered quickly, and focused on calming the tiny maelstrom. “Just—thinking about everything,” he said, simplifying the truth. 

“I know.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Good thing you’ve got another magic lesson in the morning, huh?”

He groaned in response; she giggled. 

“Come on; let’s get you home. You’ll need your rest,” she said suggestively as she got to her feet, taking him with her, hinting that they would spend time not resting as well. 

The lascivious smirk Granny gave him as Emma paid their tab was less out of place than his other interactions today, but was at least positive. So he did still have some friends, it seemed. 

And as he and Emma finally collapsed in each other’s arms later, sweaty and sated, as long as she was still on his side, who else did he require?

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Though Dorian was no stranger to using a glamour spell, and had certainly used far more dramatic disguises in his life, this one was perhaps the most initially uncomfortable—mainly in how little changed. 

As it was, he and Killian were nearly mirror images to start with—what with their scars on opposing cheeks and the fact that they parted their hair on different sides. So to see such minor differences in his reflection was a somewhat out-of-body experience—this was close to what people actually saw when they looked at him. 

He allowed his minor existential crisis to persist for a minute before finishing the transformation; at least his brother had decent style, if a bit different than his own. (How could he stand these tight jeans?) The false hook over his left hand was awkward, but necessary. 

Anyways. It was time to see if he could pull this off; after all, he was far too wise not to do foolish things now and then. He headed down to the diner (after peeking around a corner to make sure neither Killian nor Emma were already there—though the fact that he’d slept in probably prevented that) and slipped onto a stool at the counter. 

This time, when Granny greeted him, it was much warmer. “Early lunch?”

“Aye; the usual, my dear,” he tested. “And I just couldn’t wait to see you,” he added with a wink. 

Granny blushed and chuckled, then shuffled off to the kitchen. Good; she was receptive to his flirting. If he was bold enough about it, surely that would stir up some ill will towards his brother; just what kind of man brashly flirted with a woman who wasn’t his wife? And there was a reasonable audience, even if mid-morning was somewhat slow. 

So hopefully someone noticed when he grabbed the bottle of whiskey sitting behind the counter and snuck it into his lap. 

A few minutes later, the older lady was back, sliding over a plate of fish and chips; predictable of his brother. “Fresh caught, extra vinegar on the chips—just how you like it.”

“Oh, you spoil me,” he replied, holding back a gag at the smell of the vinegar. He leaned across the counter, continuing, “If there’s anything I can do to repay you, you know where to find me,” then suggestively licking his lips. 

To his shock, she just laughed and patted his cheek. “You know you couldn’t handle me, sweetheart.” And went back to her business. 

Hm. Well, that wasn’t quite the response he expected. But he at least passed for Killian; that was a good sign. (Unfortunately, he had to sell it by actually eating this meal; thank the gods for the whiskey to wash it down.)

He headed down to the marina next, finding the easiest boat he could hotwire (which, with his magic, was all of them) and took a bit of a joyride, then poofed ashore when that got boring. 

After a trip through the pharmacy, where he got a five-finger discount on some mid-range rum, he relieved himself in the shrubs outside a convent, knocked over the displays outside the florist, pretended to need the services of the carpenter but just dumped wood stain over his wares, and dragged the tip of his hook along some parked cars. 

Briefly, he took a smoking break outside the elementary school and let the half-burnt cigarette fall into a bush outside a classroom, setting it alight. He was enjoying watching the slowly growing fire when the room’s window flew open and a petite woman with short, dark hair attacked it with a fire extinguisher. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” she snapped at him.

“No,” he answered succinctly, and transported away, hopefully leaving a scorch mark on the lawn, too.

He’d noticed a friendship between his brother and the librarian—the gorgeous woman who had seemingly questionable taste in men. He’d be shocked if the two of them had kept things purely platonic, despite their respective well-known relationships. And if they hadn’t…well, it was time for him to explore that, even if for his own enjoyment. 

The bell on the library rang as he entered. “You here, love?” he called out, suddenly realizing he’d never caught the lass’s name. 

“Right where you left me,” she shouted; shit, he forgot his brother worked here. That was a close call. He followed the sound of her voice to the next room, where he found her desperately trying to reach something on the top shelf. “Perfect timing; can you lend me a hand? Pun intended.”

“Ha,” he answered awkwardly, not sure if he should be acting offended or not. “But of course.”

He didn’t hesitate to grab the volumes she asked for, but rather than just hand them over, he took the opportunity to move into her space. “Oh, uh, thanks,” she said, trying to take a step back, but she didn’t get far before bumping into a cart. 

“That’s all my assistance is worth? ‘Thanks’?”

“Killian, you know I appreciate you—”

“So let me appreciate you, darling,” he said on a breath, leaning in close. “Don’t tell me you’ve never felt something…more…between us.” Subtly, he raised the blinds in the room so any passers by might see his attempted pursuit of someone who clearly wasn’t his brother’s wife. 

She looked up at him, lips parted, and he was aware of her heightened heart rate. She narrowed her gaze briefly. “No, I haven’t—Dorian.”

“Who’s Dorian?” he lied. 

Her knee found his crotch swiftly and strongly; she might be short and slight, but she was the perfect height to do optimum damage to his manhood. He stumbled back, dropping the books and holding his groin, groaning, with stars beginning to cloud his vision. 

“I can’t believe I almost fell for that,” she yelled. “You really thought I wouldn’t be able to tell?”

“Ah, but you almost did,” he countered, even though his voice was incredibly strained. 

He could see her blushing even through his squinted view. “Never,” she insisted, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “I won’t do that, and I won’t help you.”

He scoffed as his breath started to come back. “What use are you to me? Just a silly librarian; even if you are married to the Dark One.”

She smirked. “I’m used to people underestimating me. I suggest you don’t again. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that painting of yours, would you?”

“My painting?” He wasn’t surprised she knew of it—this was a library, obviously, if even the book he’d inspired was largely fabrication—but he’d left it behind in another realm, hoping the distance (and that particular realm’s timelessness) would prevent its aging, or at least slow it. 

But then—he felt it. A faint heartbeat in his ear, just a millisecond behind his own but the same tempo: the heart of his True Love, continuing to carry a rhythm for him even though it was shattered and locked in canvas. It seemed to be coming from above them; he glanced up, trying to locate it, but didn’t get very far before his gaze was forced away rather painfully.

Belle had slapped him—again, stronger than he expected, but he’d been hit so many times that it hardly stung. “Get the hell out of here, and leave us alone.”

“Alright, alright,” he replied, and immediately poofed away—right into the attic of the library. The drumbeat of the heart was even louder up here, and he was easily able to follow it—while stepping lightly enough to not make a sound—to one end of the cluttered storage room. 

And there it was: his iconic portrait. It…wasn’t pretty. Not that it had been when he’d stashed it in the Land of Untold Stories, but it had definitely continued to deteriorate, though thankfully less than it probably should have. There was part of his soul that certainly felt like the withered, grayed, gnarled mess of a man in the image before him, but only a small one.

Actually, it was a good thing the portrait had made its way here; perhaps, when he achieved his plan, he’d also be able to sever his tie to this in favor of the dagger. He’d leave it here for now—but he’d be back for it later.

He had at least one more stop to make. So he transported again to an alley by the sheriff station, knocked over a mailbox, and casually headed inside. While it would be fun to see how far he could take things with Emma, he had no doubt she’d be able to see through this disguise even quicker than the librarian had. But the other deputy, the blond one—he might be slower on the uptake.

“Hey, Hook,” the man said, barely glancing up from the paperwork he was filling out. “Emma’s doing rounds.”

“Aye; I’m aware,” he said, sauntering closer. “I was here to see you, anyway.”

“Yeah?” The man—David, judging by the name plate on the desk—looked up at him. “What’s up?”

Dorian wasted no time in taking a seat right in front of him on the desk, cupping his (rather handsome) face, and quickly finding his lips.

The ensuing chain of reactions was honestly hilarious: the other man stilled at first, then leaned into it, but then seemed to realize who he was kissing and pushed away, jumping to his feet.

“What the hell was that?” he spat, wiping off his mouth on the back of his hand.

Dorian hopped off the desk and moved closer to David. “I was always curious; you mean you weren’t?”

“No!” he shouted. “Not like—just, no!”

“Was I that bad?” Dorian flirted, tilting his head. 

“No, you were—not my son-in-law,” David sighed, realizing who he was talking to.

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Dorian replied. “And you’re only a halfway decent kisser.”

“My wife thinks I’m just fine,” David threw back, somewhat offended. “And if you’re trying to turn people against Killian, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“You almost bought it.”

“Please; Killian only has eyes for Emma. Not that you’d know anything about True Love, I bet.”

Dorian glowered. “You don’t know anything about me, pal. Maybe get off your high horse with your generalizations.”

David stepped closer and put his hands on his hips; Dorian couldn’t help but feel like he was about to get a lecture. “I don’t know everything about you, but I’ve known enough people like you. I actually had a twin, too.”

“Oh? More than one of you? Must have been terribly dull.”

“Actually, you’d probably have gotten along with him famously; he was a selfish cad, too.”

“And where’s this fellow now?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” David went on. “From what I heard, he got a little too cocky, a little sloppy, and it came back to bite him. Or, well, stab him through the chest.”

“Ouch,” Dorian deadpanned. “And your point is?”

“Maybe you should ease up on making enemies. Because you don’t know which one is going to finally take you out.”

“And what—make friends instead?”

David shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Though I also can’t say you have good odds of finding many here, after all the drama you’ve stirred up so far.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey,” David said, softer, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’ve spent a long time chasing one thing, and it seems like you have nothing else to live for. But I watched your brother change his path; it’s not too late for you.”

Dorian gingerly pushed David’s hand off, like it was something disgusting. “Look, I know you hero types, and I know you mean well and want what’s best for me, or whatever. But I also know this: you have to want to change. Clearly my brother did. Me, though? I find good advice rather annoying. So save your breath.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will, thanks.” And he transported back to his pilfered room at Granny’s.

His conversation with David was already forgotten; the deputy had probably hoped his words would linger and Dorian would reconsider his entire life. But no—he knew what he wanted.

And now, he just had to wait to see what fallout his (mis)adventures today wrought.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Late 1880s

Dorian stepped out of the portal onto a dirty cobblestone alley. Once the gateway closed behind him, he placed his second bean in his inner coat pocket for safekeeping, and sealed it with magic—which thankfully worked; he wasn’t sure what to expect as far as being able to normally access his powers in this so-called Land without Magic, but was glad to see they were so far unhindered.

Of course, the irony of this realm carrying that name was that he had come here seeking magic out. It wasn’t fully devoid, he could tell, but he’d heard that it was far-flung, infrequent, and hidden from the general populace.

Which was probably why it was so dark in this backstreet; what kind of uncivilized society hadn’t figured out proper outdoor lighting yet? He could see some primitive lanterns at the end of the way, on what looked to be a main street, but could smell the fuel in them from here.

As such, he conjured a fireball in his hand to get his bearings. He’d arrived in the corner of an alley that went between and behind buildings—great, grimy brick monstrosities. Some parchment sat atop abandoned crates along one side; he inspected closer, reading The Daily Telegraph across the top of the page, followed by a picture of a man identified as the Prince of Wales, which he had to assume was a meaningful title as no proper name was given.

He further studied the fashion of the man, then glanced down at his own clothes, which were decidedly not of this realm from what he could see. That was easy to fix, though, and with a wave of his hand, he was wearing a garment that closely resembled what he saw in the image: a coat with long-ish tails, slacks, and a waistcoat. He didn’t hate it, but the vest wasn’t quite his style. 

Anyways. That settled, he reached into a different pocket (he’d made sure the contents of those stayed the same regardless of what his jacket looked like) and pulled out a slip of paper with a name written on it: Basil Hallward. From what he’d been told, this man could help him find the magic he needed to get him one step closer to the Dark One’s powers.

(That Rumpelstiltskin bastard had placed so many protection spells over the Dark Castle, it was bordering on ridiculous. Didn’t he know it was once Dorian’s home? But no—the demon wouldn’t even grace him with a meeting to grant him access to his old quarters. Granted, he’d have been an idiot to, but one could hope. But perhaps here, in this land that seemed to reject magic, he’d find that which could break through those spells and reclaim his birthright.)

He glanced down both alleys in front of him. The one towards the street was empty—just brick walls and boarded-up windows—but going the other way, he could see a light glimmering outside an inconspicuous door. 

And if he wasn’t mistaken, the light in the lantern was not fueled by whatever oil illuminated the streets; no, this one was quite similar to the ball of fire in his hand. The portal had placed him in the right spot.

Before he headed to the door, he placed the slip of paper in his own flare, letting it fall to ashes on the stone pavement. Then he extinguished it with a shake of his hand and headed over.

Upon closer inspection, the lamp was indeed his variety of fire magic, though there seemed to be an object at the center of it that kept it burning. Clever, he thought; it meant less mental effort to keep it lit (not that he had to exert much anymore for such simple spells). 

The door itself was painted roughly to match the exterior wall—or it had been, once upon a time, and now was faded and flaking, but he could still make out where “B. Hallward” was written in yellowing letters.

He knocked, firmly and insistently, and then waited. He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d get an immediate answer, or even to think he’d be seen tonight, but there was also no sense waiting.

He listened close to the door for a minute or so, but if there was anything to hear, it was unnoticeable. Then he paced a bit, keenly aware of the sounds of his unfamiliar shoes tapping on the stones.

But after nearly 10 minutes, he had to concede that either Mr. Hallward was out for the evening, or didn’t wish to be disturbed. Well, surely a town of this size had a red-light district; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent a night in such an establishment (usually willingly). 

He began to walk towards the sounds of society, at the far end of this alley, when he paused; he thought he heard the turn of a deadbolt. He turned back to look at the door; it was still shut, but the color of the flame in the lantern had changed to blue. Curious.

He moved closer to it, and to his surprise, a small window appeared from nowhere. There was no glass inside it, but he could see nothing but blackness behind it. “Yes?” a voice called out from the void.

“Basil Hallward?” he asked.

“Who wants to know?” the voice replied.

“Someone who has traveled a great distance to seek you out.”

The voice cursed, probably realizing he’d revealed his identity without meaning to. “What for?” he finally came back with.

“A bit of magic,” he answered, then called forth his own fire again.

The window disappeared and the door swung open. “Come in,” the other man called out; Dorian didn’t hesitate to oblige.

Whatever he was expecting—this wasn’t it. Despite whatever spell lay on the entryway—and he could feel it as he stepped through—it was actually fairly light inside, with more enchanted lamps around the open space, which revealed the absolute clutter everywhere. And, to the back of the room, what appeared to be a painter’s studio. 

“You’re an artist?” he exclaimed, minorly disgusted. 

“That I am, sir,” the other man replied, and Dorian finally got a look at him: he seemed young—younger than him, at least—and the narrow mustache above his lip did nothing to make him appear older. He pushed his dark, curly hair out of his equally dark eyes. “What of it?”

“I came here looking for magic,” Dorian spat. “Not to sit for my portrait.”

“A pity; you’d make an excellent subject, with that profile. But I do both, actually.”

“Both?” He raised an eyebrow, skeptic.

“Aye; let me show you.” Basil beckoned Dorian towards his work bench; he hesitantly followed. The man picked up a vial of what Dorian assumed was pigment off the cluttered surface. He uncorked it and held it out. “Do you recognize it?”

Dorian narrowed his gaze and peered inside. It was just a black powder, but he recognized the smell. “Adder’s fork?”

“Good eye,” Basil commended. “And this?” he asked, holding out a small dish with a bluish powder. 

“Mermaid scale,” Dorian identified. “I don’t understand.”

“Magic works differently in this realm,” Basil explained. “No one here is born with it inherently, but what makes its way here usually requires a conduit—some physical tether. Me, I learned how to embed it in my paint, using these ingredients.”

“And then what?”

“Whatever you want,” Basil answered. “Within reason, of course.” He showed off a portrait of an expectant mother, explaining that the woman and her husband had been trying to have children for several years when he painted her; “Now, she has three children and another on the way.” Another painting displayed a vagabond sitting on a street curb. “His wife discovered he was cheating on her; now he’s destitute and she kept his wealth.”

“So you grant wishes?”

“In a sense. A fertility spell was embedded in this portrait, a curse of ill-luck in the other.”

Dorian glanced back at the work space and saw a good number of potion books—many of them he knew—across a bookshelf above it. “Ahhh,” he sighed in understanding. “Then you likely don’t have what I’m after.”

“Which is?”

“A way to break into a heavily fortified castle?”

Basil shook his head. “Afraid not. But if you have something of its occupant’s, we could probably find a way to cast them out, or at least make them horridly uncomfortable.”

“If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Hope you didn’t come far, then.”

“Only a few realms away.”

Basil whistled low. “Then I at least owe you a drink. What’s your poison?”

“Whiskey?”

He nodded and led him over to a sitting area, where they proceeded to chat over (some damn fine) liquor. Basil was curious about the magical realms—he had some acquaintances who passed through the other worlds who supplied him with his materials, but had never been himself. Dorian wondered how he’d fallen into this line of work, then. 

“The man I apprenticed with taught me; passed on all he knew.” Well, that sounded familiar. 

As such, they got on famously, to the point that Basil offered Dorian use of a spare bedroom in his home for as long as he was staying in this realm. 

What the hell, Dorian thought. The Dark One wasn’t going anywhere—he could enjoy himself for a bit. (It wasn’t like he ever needed an excuse to do so.)

For the next few weeks, Basil showed him about this curious town—London, it was called, and far larger than he realized—and introduced him to many interesting people (and vices; opium was a delight, though he saw enough of the strung-out folks addicted to it to use in moderation).

They went to countless parties, gatherings, concerts, sporting events. At one such dinner, he met a writer named Oscar who seemed to be infatuated with him; he couldn’t say he disliked the attention. The man became a regular fixture in their outings as well (and maybe a few private nights). 

Dorian did oblige Basil to pose for a portrait eventually; far be it for him to deny the world his beauty. “And what enchantment will you weave into this one?” he asked, peering over his friend’s shoulder; Basil had finished painting his face and form, but nothing else yet. 

“None,” Basil replied simply. “You have enough magic on your own. 

(There may also have been a few nights he spent in Basil’s room, as well. He was hardly a choosy lover, so long as someone caught his interest.)

He smirked cockily at the praise and admired his face and form on the canvas. Basil was truly a gifted artist and, in his personal opinion, had perfectly captured Dorian’s handsomeness, strength, and form, down to the color of his eyes. 

However, later that night as he readied for bed, he caught a glimpse of something new in his reflection in the looking glass: was that…a wrinkle?

He pulled at the flesh around his eyes, watching as it stretched and returned. Indeed, there was a fine line—a few, even—in that delicate skin. 

He was 30 years old; he knew it was inevitable he began to look it (even if he dare say he looked better than most men his age). But it was a sudden, stark reminder: the being he was chasing was immortal; he, however, was not. 

(There was probably some sage advice somewhere about avoiding vice to extend his longevity, but…where was the fun in that?)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic​ @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @thisonesatellite​ @killianmesmalls​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @ineffablecolors​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet​ @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells​ @idristardis​ @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @stahlop​ @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

[thefivekins]

(banner photography by Neil Burnell)

ORIGINS.

There once lived two cats, brothers named Cirrus and Nimbus. Hailing from an old village nestled in the highlands, they were sent on a perilous journey to find a new home for their kin on the dying breath of an oracle named Half Moon. Their travels were filled with hardship… not every cat that went with them survived. Still, they carried on with hope in their hearts, receiving guidance from the Badger of the Sea and whisperings of the Fae across the land.

After countless days on their paws, the travellers found it— an ancient stone circle that carried with it a powerful magic they had never felt before. And beyond that… their new home. The group settled on the open moorlands. The travellers looked to Cirrus and Nimbus as their first leaders, two brave cats that led them on a courageous journey to this sanctuary. 

Though the siblings had differing ideas on how to lead. This caused many arguments and divisions within the group. Cirrus felt he was destined to lead and conquer the lands, while Nimbus felt doubtful of their abilities and wanted nothing short of peace. It wasn’t long before the cats split in two; Nimbus and his allies stayed in the moors while Cirrus and his allies left for the forest beyond. 

The brothers, who had been so close before, became strained. Both groups caught the attention of stray cats in the area and within a few moons their numbers had grown. Nimbus, still full of doubt, welcomed new faces but stepped down as leader, giving the position to his mate Turtle. Cirrus became militant, only welcoming outsiders to protect himself and gain power. And despite every aggressive advance, Nimbus felt sympathy for their brother. 

As the seasons marched on, so did the lives on the moor and in the forest. Cirrus had a son named Thunder; Nimbus, Turtle, and a kittypet named Bumble raised a trio of kits named Pebble, Owl, and Sparrow. A mysterious cat called Shadow took interest in the newcomers from her home in the marshes. So did Blueberry, Wilma, and George— a kittypet and a pair of barn cats. These four souls were met with hostility in the forest they once freely roamed. But the moors treated them with respect. They would all prove themselves to be important allies.

Cirrus became increasingly bitter, increasingly paranoid. He exiled any cat who dared to challenge him or simply failed to meet his standards. Many of them went to the moors in response, including his own son. And he was furious. 

Conflict rose again and again. Cirrus continued to get himself in trouble; there were even times Nimbus convinced the moor cats to help him. But the task was thankless, and finally, Nimbus’s faith in their brother began to fade. Destiny or not, Cirrus had to be stopped— and Nimbus was going to be the first to try.

One night, the cats of the moors and the forest met under a full moon. The tension of battle could be felt thick in the air. Nevertheless, Nimbus pleaded with Cirrus one last time. He refused. With a single command, the cats were at each other’s throats.

Blood soaked the grounds of the Four Trees that night. Brother fought brother, mother fought daughter, mate fought mate. It all came to a crashing end when Cirrus, blinded by rage, landed a killing blow on Nimbus. It was shocking enough to make him beg for the fighting to stop as he became fully aware of what he’d done. And as the screeches and caterwauls faded into the night, his weeping was all that was heard.

As the bloodied cats sheathed their claws, something changed around them. The air became cold, a strange breeze fluttered through their pelts. They watched in utter surprise as the spirits of the slain left their bodies right in front of their eyes; they were made of stars. Frozen in place, they all watched as even more descended from the night sky. And once the hollow was filled with glimmering eyes, they spoke:

“Unite or die.”

These were the cats of the StarKin— spirits who were watching over the land— and they demanded peace. They believed that war would tear them apart, that the living were destined for so much more. They told the cats to split into five groups across the territories, and if they did, the StarKin would protect them furthermore. 

The living obliged. Wilma became Star Wind of the moors, Shadow became Star Shadow of the wet woodland, Thunder became Star Thunder of the forest, Blueberry became Star River, and Cirrus became Star Sky. 

Sky’s position came from the Stars as a form of punishment; he had to start his kin from the ground up, and if he ever went back to his old ways, severe consequences would await him.

The five kins were born that night, and all these moons later they still prevail.

[writerofthewinds]

So I was wondering if you could do an agender!reader and Jason. They look so similar that they often get asked if they're siblings. It's a simple friends to lovers fic (because I am a simp and a creature of habit). They're both in the 5th cohort at CJ, before Jason becomes praetor. And Y/N's godly parent in Aurora (goddess of dawn) because they are a little ball of sunshine. A lot of it is up to you, those are really the main details I care about.

I thought I lost you, Jason Grace x reader.

A/N: I diverged from your request. Sorry for the amount of time taken doing exams, and tbh. Law school is hard asf

You and Jason had always been close. From the moment you met at Camp Jupiter, people mistook you for siblings due to your strikingly similar features. You both laughed it off, knowing that you were just good friends. As members of the 5th cohort, you trained and fought alongside each other, earning a reputation as a powerful duo. You admired Jason's bravery and leadership, and he appreciated your unwavering positivity and determination. But as you spent more time together, your feelings for Jason changed. You couldn't help but notice how his blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, or his dimples appeared when he smiled. One day, while sitting on the steps of the temple of Jupiter, you finally mustered up the courage to tell Jason how you felt. "Jason, I need to tell you something," you said, your heart racing. "What is it?" he asked, his expression curious. "I…I have feelings for you," you confessed, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Jason's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a step back. "I-I didn't expect that," he stammered. "Y/N, you're amazing, but I don't think of you that way. I'm sorry." You felt your heart sink, and you struggled to hold back tears. "Oh, okay," you said softly. "I understand." Jason looked at you with a pained expression. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," he said. "But I have to go now. I'll talk to you later, okay?" You nodded, watching as he walked away. As soon as he was out of sight, you let out a sob, feeling the weight of rejection crush you. But despite the pain, you knew you couldn't let this defeat you. You were still a warrior of Camp Jupiter, and you had to keep fighting. So you wiped away your tears, took a deep breath, and stood up. You would get through this, one way or another. After that awkward conversation, things between you and Jason became a little tense. You both tried your best to act like everything was expected, but there was an unspoken awkwardness between you. Your friends at camp noticed the change in your dynamic and couldn't help but ask what was happening. But, of course, you brushed off their questions, not wanting to reveal your feelings or make things more complicated than they already were. As days turned into weeks, you both tried your best to move on from the confession. You continued to train and fight together, but there was a sense of distance between you that hadn't been there before. Despite this, you were determined to keep your friendship intact. You knew Jason was essential in your life, and you didn't want to lose that connection.

So you pushed through the awkwardness, spending time with him and trying to act like everything was normal. You laughed at his jokes, teased him during training, and did your best to be a good friend. And while things never entirely went back to how they were before, you both learned to live with the unspoken tension. You had each other's backs on the battlefield; that was all that mattered. Ultimately, you were glad you had taken a chance and confessed your feelings. Even though it didn't work out the way you wanted, you had no regrets. You had been faithful to yourself, and that was all that mattered. The battle at Mont Talpamais was one of the most brutal battles the legion had ever faced. The attack on Mount Orthys was relentless, and casualties were high. Nevertheless, you and Jason fought, using your skills to kill as many enemies as possible. At one point, the legion seemed to be winning. But then, everything changed. A sudden explosion rocked the battlefield, and chaos ensued. You were caught in the blast, disoriented, and injured when you came to. You tried to get up, but pain shot through your body, and you collapsed back onto the ground. You could hear the sounds of battle, but you couldn't move. Finally, you felt yourself slipping away, knowing this could be the end. Meanwhile, Jason was fighting furiously, taking down enemy after enemy. But as the battle raged on, he realized he hadn't seen you in a while. So he looked around frantically, searching for your familiar face.

But then he heard a scream. It was a scream of pain and grief; he knew it could only belong to one person. He ran towards the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. When he arrived at the scene, he saw your lifeless body lying on the ground. Tears streamed down his face as he fell to his knees beside you. He couldn't believe that you were gone. But as he looked at you, something inside him shifted. He realized that he had been in love with you all along. He thought of all the times you had made him laugh, all the moments you had shared, and all the things that had made him fall in love with you. He let out a heart-wrenching scream, grieving not only for your death but for the fact that he would never have the chance to tell you how he felt. Then, as he cradled your lifeless body in his arms, he whispered words of love and regret, wishing he could return in time and tell you everything. At that moment, Jason realized that life was too short to hide his feelings. So he vowed to never make that mistake again and always speak his heart, no matter the consequences. As the battle raged on, the legion managed to turn the tide and emerge victorious. Jason was devastated that he couldn't find your body in the chaos of the battlefield. He searched frantically for any sign of you, hoping against hope that you were still alive. But as time passed and the battle ended, he realized he had to accept the truth. You were gone, and he would never get to tell you how he felt. His regret was crushing, and he felt like he had lost a part of himself. But even as he grieved, he knew he had responsibilities. He had been elected praetor of the twelfth legion, and the legion needed his leadership now more than ever. So with a heavy heart, he returned to camp and took up his duties.

vAs the days passed, Jason tried to put on a brave face for his fellow legionnaires. But deep down, he was still mourning your loss, and he couldn't shake the feeling of regret. He knew he had to find a way to move on, but he didn't know how. He spent hours lost in thought, trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. Ultimately, his duties as praetor gave him a sense of purpose. He threw himself into his work, determined to be the best leader. And while he would never forget you, he knew he had to focus on the present and the future. But sometimes, late at night, when he was alone with his thoughts, he would let himself grieve for you. He would remember all the good times they had shared and all the things he wished he had said. And he would whisper words of love into the darkness, hoping that somehow, somewhere, you could hear him. As Jason was speaking to the entire population of the legion in New Rome's forum about some crucial decisions, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped speaking and turned to see you entering the forum, covered in dirt and still wearing your armor. His heart leaped in his chest at the sight of you. He had thought you were gone forever, and your sudden appearance was almost too much to handle. He ran towards you, calling out your name, but you collapsed to the ground before he could reach you. He felt a jolt of fear as he saw you fall, and he rushed to your side, calling for someone to get a doctor. His mind was racing as he tried to assess your condition. He couldn't believe you were alive and in front of him. He felt a wave of emotions, relief, joy, and fear wash over him. He stayed by your side, holding your hand and talking to you, telling you he was here and everything would be okay. And even as the doctors came to take you away, he knew that he would never let you out of his sight again. He had almost lost you once, and he wouldn't make that mistake again. As he watched you being carried away on a stretcher, he vowed to tell you how he felt, no matter what. He didn't want to spend another moment living with the regret of not expressing his love. He knew the road ahead would be difficult, but he was ready to face it with you. You were surprised when Jason leaned in and kissed you as you opened your eyes. But you didn't pull away, instead prolonging the kiss, feeling the warmth and love that radiated from him. When you finally pulled away, he asked you what had happened. You explained that your mother, Aurora, had appeared and healed you as you were about to die on the battlefield. But, unfortunately, no one else could see her, and after she had healed you, you fainted and woke up in the wolf's house. It was during dawn, and you prayed to Aurora, who then brought you to Camp Jupiter.

As you finished your story, Jason's eyes filled with tears, and he confessed that he had loved you all along. He told you how he realized his feelings during the battle when he thought he had lost you forever. He spoke about everything that had made him fall in love with you, your kindness, strength, and unwavering optimism. He said he had been too scared to tell you before, but now, he could say it with the fear of losing you finally gone. You felt your heart fill with warmth at his words, and you leaned in to kiss him again, wrapping your arms around him tightly. You told him you loved him and had felt the same way for a long time. As you broke away from the kiss, you both looked into each other's eyes, and you knew that everything was going to be okay. You had both faced your fears and come out on the other side stronger and more in love than ever before.

[nobodyssoldier]

i. a web weaving

ii. digging deeper

name: harun jan polat

age: 47

former house: gryffindor

blood status: halfblood

face claim: yigit kirazci

allegiance: the order of the stag

gender & pronouns: utp

special notes: harun jan polat’s canon name is harry james potter. it has been changed to better reflect his face claim’s ethnicity.

twice-marked by death, twice returned from its embrace. your story begins and ends with sacrifice — first your mother's love burning through darkness like holy fire, then your own choice to stand alone against evil. they called you the boy who lived, but living was always the hardest part, wasn't it? survival carved into your flesh like lightning, prophecy weighing on your shoulders before you could even speak. you grew up in shadows and cupboards, learning early that love was something other children had instead of you. but oh, how you burned with it anyway — this capacity for love that no amount of neglect could dim, this fierce protective instinct that would become both your strength & your undoing.

when magic found you, it felt like coming home to a place you'd never been. slowly but surely, you collected a new family: a best friend's fierce loyalty, a clever girl's unwavering faith, a kindred of redheads who gave you your first christmas sweater. battle found you young — too young — but you faced it with a courage born of necessity rather than choice. your path was never easy: basilisk venom in your veins, dementors in the dark, dragons and mazes and prophecies that tasted like ash. you lost so much along the way: your godfather falling through the veil, your mentor tumbling from the astronomy tower, friends lying still in the great hall. each loss carved another scar, deeper than the lightning bolt on your forehead. you learned that being chosen didn't make you special — it made you responsible.

after voldemort fell, you found joy in ordinary moments: your children's first steps, sunday dinners at the burrow, quiet evenings with ginny. but peace, like prophecy, has a way of shattering when least expected. when the wraiths emerged from shadows, you faced them as you'd faced everything — standing tall, wand ready, buying time for others to escape. at godric's hollow, history's cruel symmetry found you once more: another halloween night, another last stand, another sacrifice for love. death welcomed you like an old friend, and in its embrace, you found a peace you'd never known in life. there was warmth there, and rest, and the absence of prophecy's weight. you were finally free of expectations, of being the chosen one. in death's realm, you were simply harry — just harry, as you'd always wanted to be.

but then the knights pulled you back across the veil, their desperate magic tearing you from paradise. resurrection came with its own cruel price: memories scattered like leaves in autumn wind, leaving you a stranger in your own life. your children look at you with eyes full of grief and hesitation, but you can hardly look back. your wife passes you in corridors, and you feel the ghost of love you must have felt for her but can't quite reach it. sometimes at night, you find yourself longing for death's peace, for that warm embrace where everything made sense. your magic feels different now — raw and wild, as though death's touch has stripped everything else away. spells burst from your wand with unpredictable force, driven by instincts you don't understand.

the prophecy speaks of a revenant standing alone, but you've never truly been alone — not really. even without memories, you find yourself drawn to the same people, making the same choices, your soul remembering what your mind has forgotten. they say you're the master of death, but perhaps it's simpler than that. perhaps you're just someone who never learned to stop fighting, who keeps choosing love even when it hurts, who faces darkness not because you're chosen but because someone has to. there's an ache in you now, a homesickness for a place beyond the veil, but still you stand ready to fight.

iii. connections

one. RON WEASLEY & HERMIONE GRANGER , best friends — "it's okay," he said. "we're together." he didn't say you're okay, or we're alive. after all they'd been through over the last year, he knew that the most important thing was that they were together.

two. GINNY WEASLEY , partner — when my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold, dark earth. no grave can hold my body down. i'll crawl home to her

three. JAN POLAT & LILA EVREN , parents — you taught me the courage of stars before you left, how light carries on endlessly even after death.

four. JAN SIRAC POLAT, ALTAN SERVER POLAT & LILA LUNARA POLAT , children — memory taps a gun to your inner skull & demands you bring back the dead

[psychewritesbs]

Been reading your opinions on the boy of all time megumi and can I just say firstly, thank you for being so good w words BC man you get his character so well and you're so good at getting into all the little details abt him that I can never properly describe to ppl, Like, the whole breaks the trope while following the trope thing?? YOU GOT THAT ALL SO CORRECT THATS EXACTLY IT IT'S ONE OF THE REASONS I LOVE HIS CHARACTER SM BC EVEN JUST RIGHT OFF THE BAT HE BREAKS THE USUAL STOIC BROODING CHARACTER TROPE(THE trope) BY ACTUALLY CONSTANTLY SHOWING although subtly THAT HE DOESNT HATE EVERYONE?? im getting way off track already i actually popped in here to just ask abt how you think the whole sukuna possessing megumi thing will all turn out?? I honestly feel like slapping myself for not seeing it coming tbh like they talked about the head of the six eyes and ten shadows battling it out to the death before and sukuna kept on hyping up megumi like they were so obviously setting that up there and I just. Denied. But I'm just asking BC personally I think that it would really show the final steps of growth for megumi's character if he is actually able to surprise sukuna, even for a little, and come back from the depths of where ever tf he is rn bc yk his whole issue w/ self worth and what he believes he's capable of and I just wanted to know what you think the best outcome for his character would be? Sorry this is such a mess I just have so many thoughts zooming around my brain and I'm trying to...make them make sense...

ITS THE MEGUMI LOVE!!!! Yessssss. Thank you for sending me Megumi love! I love getting Megumi love 🫶🏼.

Man, Megumi is just such a good character. Truly one of Gege's best. Everything he's done with him from how his character is based on the trope while also subverting the trope, to his backstory and his growth arc and how it's been executed... It's poetic justice.

I love Megumi so much, and any time I see someone hate on Megumi for really shallow or toxic reasons I just lose all faith in humanity. It's one thing to not care for him as a character and quite another to dislike him for being a "disappointing deuteragonist" because he's "weak", "hasn't had character development", and "did not master 10 Shadows"..................................................

Bruh...

ANYWAYS 😂 you see... this is the thing... I am trying really hard not to speculate about what might happen regarding Sukuna WHICH IS EXACTLY WHY I'M GOING TO SPECULATE BECAUSE I LOVE SUKUNA BUT FUCK SUKUNA!

ehem. More of me not being normal about Megumi under the cut.

Ok in all seriousness... with chapter 230 and how Sukuna forced Megumi to take the brunt hit of Unlimited Void, something shifted in me.

For some time I've been reluctant to make any predictions about Megumi coming out alive because I don't want to have preconceived expectations coloring my weekly reading experience, but mostly because, like Megumi, I have a tendency to bunt instead of swinging for the fence so as to not experience disappointment. Read this to mean I don't want to get my hopes up about Megumi surviving.

That is not to mention that I took Sukuna possessing Megumi's body personal. idk, something about seeing Megumi lose his agency felt both so wrong and yet so right on a metaphorical level. Wrong because DAMN YOU SUKUNA GO BACK TO YOUR BODY! and right because... as you said, Megumi had it coming both from a narrative and psychological perspective.

From then on, we just saw him sink deeper and deeper into learned helplessness and despair, culminating on this beautiful image of him in the fetal position.

Truly a reversal of ego back into the metaphorical mother (the unconscious) as though he was in the birth canal waiting for rebirth. And come to think of it, in the Japanese fandom, one of the more popular theories revolved around "birth" or something like that.

So with ch. 230, my hope for Megumi is renewed somehow. A lot of people think he's done for, especially after UV. But I'm on camp #this is going to backfire badly on both Gojo and Sukuna... or at least I hope it does.

So....

I'm just asking BC personally I think that it would really show the final steps of growth for megumi's character if he is actually able to surprise sukuna, even for a little

EXACTLY! And see, this is the thing, I don't want to see Megumi be saved by anyone other than himself. If Megumi is saved by others, then he didn't learn his lesson.

Basically, Megumi has taken Tsumiki's place as the Sleeping Beauty that is in need of rescuing. He's become a passive agent in his own life, which is exactly what gave Sukuna an opening.

If Gojo or Yuji, or anyone for that matter, comes in and saves Megumi without Megumi putting up a fight, then this whole growth process is metaphorically and literally aborted.

Like you, I personally think that this period could be a metaphorical gestational period for Megumi and I wonder if he's going to reach a tipping point where the anger he feels is stronger than the learned helplessness or something like that.

I just wanted to know what you think the best outcome for his character would be?

ALL THAT TO SAY THAT YES. Sukuna might be my other fave, but I am looking forward to either Megumi giving him a hard time or straight up beating the crap out of him.

Megumi has earned that privilege.

Right now, I am wondering how UV has affected Megumi's brain and what that will mean for his behavior. My hc is that his negative self-image is partly due to "reason". In other words, reason = his sense of self as the story he tells himself about himself.

But Megumi levels up because of imagination. Now that he's been hit by UV (I understand it's been 5 times?), how has being flooded with infinity affected the left (reason or logic, analytical) hemisphere of his brain?

Another idea I've been keeping quiet about is that part of the rebirth process involves moving through hell and up into heaven (a la Dante's Divine Comedy as a metaphor for a process of initiation or enlightenment). Megumi right now is sinking in hell as he comes face to face with inner evil.

So can we expect him to come back up? Will Beatrice make a cameo? I'm looking forward to whatever the cursed cat is cooking.

I just have so many thoughts zooming around my brain and I'm trying to...make them make sense...

ahaha, same tho.

Hey thanks again for the Megumi love, the kind comments, and for stopping by! Here's to hoping Gege does bring our boy back 🙌.

[hopeandduty]

Day 18: Hackneyed

“You seem troubled.” 

Aymeric’s gentle voice is one of the few sounds remaining upon the streets. The chirugeon had finally insisted that they leave, even though Estinien had fallen asleep hours ago, neither could quite bring themselves to depart. That he was returned to them from Nidhogg’s clutches felt as a dream and it seemed they both feared waking from it.

There should be naught but relief in her heart for his safe return and truly she could not be more grateful that his life spared in the thick of the battle upon the Steps of Faith. Yet she knows upon what power she needed to draw upon to see the battle through, to see the eyes pried from his armour and she knows how Ishgard regards a dark knight. 

It did not seem as though anyone had noticed, but Ciardha cannot help but wonder all the same. Once the dust had settled and clamour calmed, would the whispers of rumours take flight? Would she need put Ishgard to her back as well and never return? 

“If I may be of some aid, you need only say the word." Aymeric offers. "And even if I cannot, I should be glad to listen. After all you have done for us, you will always have a friend in Ishgard.”

“It is kind of you to say.” And a part of her wishes to confide in him. She knows Ser Aymeric possesses a kind heart and has been a true friend. But so too is he the Lord Speaker and she knows better than any the weight of duty. “I will be certain to remember that, but for now be assured naught is amiss.” She shakes her head; lies come all too easily. “It is nothing that a bit of rest will not fix.”

“Then I shall not keep you from it any longer.” Aymeric offers a graceful bow. “I shall look forward to seeing you upon the morrow, my friend.”

“And I as well.” 

Ciardha watches him leave, her eyes more fixed upon the shadows of the alleys he passes than the man himself. She has not forgotten the dagger that found his flank just a moon past, but if they stalk him still they are absent this night. She lets out a small breath when he has rounded the steps. 

“Tell me anything you want, I’ll keep your secrets. You’re safe with me.” The voice comes from Ciardha’s side, syllables drawn out that she need not turn to see Fray rolling their eyes. “What a bunch of hackneyed tripe.” 

Ciardha is never certain if Fray is visible to any eyes save her own, so she turns her steps towards the Forgotten Knight and lets Fray follow suit. To simply stand out in the open makes her conspicuous, even if her careful sweep tells her there are few others around to see. 

“If there were any, I expect Ser Americ may be one of them.” 

“You don't actually believe that, do you?” This time it is her that Fray’s disbelief is directed at. “It’s easy enough to say, but put the truth in their hands, they’ll turn on you like any other. People can’t be trusted; when it comes down to it, they all just serve their own ends. They’ll betray you in a heartbeat before they bleed for you. No one bleeds to protect a weapon.” 

“I may be little more than a tool, a weapon to be used for a cause that is just…” Ciardha shakes her head. She has seen Fray’s face, she knows who truly speaks these words. “But one does not discard a valuable tool all the same.” 

“And what about a fake one?” 

Ciardha’s steps halt. 

“You put on a brave face, but it's not your real face, is it? ‘Ciardha’ is just some delusion you’ve dreamed up and managed to convince others really exists. You talk about telling the truth? How about telling them the real truth?”

“You know I cannot.” 

“Because no one would want a murderer. What would your Scion friends think, to know their precious Warrior of light spied for the Garleans, killed for them, even? That you were the thread that began unravelling the Doman resistance until the entire thing fell apart. That poor little Mizu–” 

“Shut up!" Ciardha’s voice snaps ice cold as the ground beneath her feet. Fray only laughs. 

“That’s right, keep on running. Keep hiding the truth.” 

Ciardha slams the wooden door shut between them. Even if she knows better than to think she can outrun her own shadow.

Fray's last words linger in her ears.

When you get tired of it all... I’ll be waiting.

[emeraldxphoenix]

The thing that's been making @victoriousfidelity nervous all day:

They don’t bear repeating, the things Loki has done to earn back the mad Titan’s trust. Sure, their hands were never clean to start with – almost every Asgardian has fought battles aplenty, the trickster more than most – but the depths they sink to are even lower than those grazed on Sakaar. This time there is no pleasure to distract the mind of a capricious dictator, no fancy spells or flirtatious winks; there is only the cause, only war. Loki deliberately does not count the creatures they slaughter.

Even more deliberately, they do not think of the brand burned into their upper thigh, of the jagged wounds across their back, and the tongue cut from their mouth: the punishment Thanos had insisted was necessary, and which Corvus had gleefully delivered. When it was over the Titan had gazed down upon his adopted ‘child’, voice gravely and tender as he promised the final part of their penance: oblivion, once all the stones are obtained – along with half the universe. And with tear-filled eyes, Loki had thanked him for it.

Their memories are hazy after that, though they are filled with enough pain and killing to make Loki grateful for it. It isn’t until the trickster, now clad in black and gold and dried blood, is sent to Midgard with the Ebony Maw that their thoughts become coherent once more. Maw doesn’t like them one bit. Their one-time torturer, now adopted brother, regards them with open distaste born from their own years of faithful service compared to Loki’s faithless few months. When they make planetfall, the creature binds them and leaves them on the ship, having already served their purpose as an ally with experience of Midgard. In the end, it turns out to be what saves them.

Except ‘saves’ isn’t quite the right word for it when safety is so fleeting. Because Thanos finds them all – Loki, the time stone, the idiots who’ve been dragged along in its wake – and swiftly bends them to his will, claiming the stone for himself and abandoning everyone else except the trickster to die on Titan while they travel to Midgard.

Their single, gossamer chance looms close.

On arrival they are bombarded. Supposedly ‘Earth’s mightiest heroes’, yet they fight like panicked children. Each one hurtling themselves at Thanos in a disorganised frenzy; each one powerless against the stones’ might. It's the perfect distraction: silently, Loki conceals themselves and a duplicate takes their place. Only the witch appears to match him, but her devastating victory – so briefly a moment of glimmering hope to the god – is short-lived. There is no true victory to be had, not while Thanos lives and holds the time stone in his grasp. Everything, it seems, rests on Loki Odinson Laufeyson Thanosson Friggason.

Black boots take one silent, deadly step. Somewhere in the distance is the sound of their brother, of their wife, angry and fighting – or maybe it’s all in their head – but they can’t afford to be distracted, not now. Another step. The end looms closer. Unflinchingly, the Titan crushes the robot skull and grasps his final trophy. Another step, another life snuffed out. Another step, and a moment of admiration for the stone. Another step, and a surge of power as it joins its brothers in the confines of the gauntlet.

Now. Before it is too late.

A flash of emerald eyes and they are teleported astride Thanos’ shoulder, the image of their duplicate fading away as they yank the giant’s head back by his brow ridge and viciously slice a dagger across his exposed throat. There is no exchange of words or looks, not with Loki’s tongue gone and their fingers in Thanos’ eyes, but the god doesn’t doubt for a moment that their ‘master’ knows the identity of his murderer. Black lips split in an insane grin, they slice again, and again, until magenta drips from their fingers and coats the ground before them, until the body of the once-great Titan wavers and begins to overbalance.

It is once he has fallen, neck half the thickness it once was, purple skin drenched in blood, that the god turns their attention to the gauntlet. Lying in the dirt at the end of the dead Titan’s arm, the gold glimmers, stones whispering invitingly. There had been no plans beyond this point, no hopes or dreams or desires… but a careful spell loosens the glove from Thanos’ hand enough to release it. The things they could do with those stones. Loki, ever the survivor, ever the opportunist, slips their hand inside.