#and he’s so wrought with grief that his prowess in war means nothing

[a-waterphoenix]

NO NO NO NO BUT HE LITERALLY DOES AND I’M NOT EVEN TALKING ABOUT THETIS TAKING HIM TO SKYROS

In the Iliad, it doesn’t seem like many people actually KNOW Achilles has a choice between fighting and dying a hero or living his days out in obscurity and peace. When Agaemennon sends an envoy to get Achilles back, they not only promise to return Briseis back, NOT ONLY to give him all the riches they’ve been plundering (which includes women cause misogyny), but they ALSO promise to give him rewards AFTER the war:

- “All these things will he give you now down, and if hereafter the gods vouchsafe him to sack the city of Priam, you can come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load your ship with gold and bronze to your liking. You can take twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Helen herself. Then, when we reach Achaean Argos, wealthiest of all lands, you shall be his son-in-law, and he will show you like honour with his own dear son Orestes, who is being nurtured in all abundance. Agamemnon has three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; you may take the one of your choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; he will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give you seven well-established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire where there is grass; holy Pheras and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea also, and the vine-clad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on the borders of sandy Pylos. ”

You don’t promise rewards to someone if that person won’t live to see them, and I doubt that they’re trying to gaslight Achilles into forgetting his imminent death if he returns to being a glorious fighter. In this conversation, Achilles is the only one that knows that this war is, at least materially, worthless. When he’s dead, he will not wear the armour of the countless men he’s slain. When he’s dead, he will not have the countless women from the cities he’s sacked. The only good this war is to him is in terms of gaining glory, and by god has he got that. Prior to Briseis being forcibly taken from him, he is a model warrior. For his skill at battle and his commitment to fighting in the face of impending doom, he is revered by everyone. Greece loves him. Troy fears him. Christ, even the Olympians - not just Gods, Olympians - endorse him. When Agaemennon takes Briseis, it’s the first time he and his reputation are openly insulted. His initial reaction might not be interpreted as too much of an overreaction, especially because a) Agaemennon literally displeased a god and had to pay and b) NO OTHER WARRIOR ever got their women shimmied off to serve someone unless they got defeated and killed, but his reaction to full out refuse Agaemennon’s apology definitely seems to be, especially when Agaemennon is literally bending over backwards to get him back. He elaborates why, in the classic Homer style of “the characters speak their feelings”, which gives some more explanation to why he’s being so stubborn.

“Why, pray, must the Argives needs fight the Trojans? What made the son of Atreus gather the host and bring them? Was it not for the sake of Helen? Are the sons of Atreus the only men in the world who love their wives? Any man of common right feeling will love and cherish her who is his own, as I this woman, with my whole heart, though she was but a fruitling of my spear. Agamemnon has taken her from me; he has played me false; I know him; let him tempt me no further, for he shall not move me.”

He isn’t just mad that Briseis has been taken, or that Agaemennon was such a jerk, or even the slight itself. He is mad, because he has served Agaemennon in a certainly fatal war that he -unlike the men who swore an oath to fight - doesn’t need to be in all for the sake of being a respected hero. He is mad because his father, his country, his SON have been lost to him for eleven years and he will never return to them. He is mad because he willingly chose to die for glory, and during his fight with Agaemennon, his glory did not protect the ones he loved. He isn’t just nursing wounds to his ego - he is questioning his underlying goal to gain a place in history now that he sees how little it actually means for him, and he has come up with an answer:

“If great Neptune vouchsafes me a fair passage, in three days I shall be in Phthia. I have much there that I left behind me when I came here to my sorrow, and I shall bring back still further store of gold, of red copper, of fair women, and of iron, my share of the spoils that we have taken; but one prize, he who gave has insolently taken away”

In the Song Of Achilles, Achilles is still consumed by his (and his mom’s) desire to be revered and celebrated like a god, but in the original Iliad? He wants to go home. Right now, he is cutting his losses to save his life and his own chance at joy because being a hero didn’t help him. And he would have gone home, would have ruled his father’s kingdom, would have married, would have had children, and would have died a peaceful death in bed, if Patroclus hadn’t died.

Patroclus, who he has known from his very boyhood. Patroclus, who has followed Achilles wherever fate takes him. Patroclus, who ran to him weeping like he had never seem when the Greeks where under siege. Patroclus, whose safety he thought was guaranteed by his prayers to the gods who’d always answered him. Patroclus, who should’ve been protected by his armour and his sacrifices. Patroclus, whose corpse came back stripped after a god helped Hector kill him.

When Briseis was taken from him, Achilles realized he was fighting for nothing. When Patroclus was taken from him, Achilles had nothing left to lose.

See if I was Achilles I would have simply chosen to grow old and eat bread with my gay lover instead of going off to war where it was foretold i would die. But that’s just me

[jaskier-cult]

Witcher / Eragon

A Jaskier-centric Eragon AU with Jaskier as the first dragon rider in centuries. Witcher still exist, and Geralt is just trying to get this stupid bard he met (and who someone hatched a dragon egg on fucking accident) to Kaer Morhen before King Stregobor finds out that there’s another Rider to challenge his reign. 

I got this idea from this fanart, by the lovely @polarisss

In this au, dragons are not equal in mental prowess to a human; they’re sentient and respond well to their riders, and can communicate their emotions through mental links, but they cannot speak or act like humans. They’re kind of like really intelligent dogs or horses. And they’re magical. 

So, I was violently hit with the idea of this crossover / au, and I had to write the bare bones of it or I swear I would die. Enjoy or don’t, lol 

Dragons were sentient and far more intelligent than most, but not of equal intellect with elves, and so when the elves arrived on the Continent, they viewed them as mere animals. One elf made the mistake of hunting and killing a dragon for sport and presented it to their monarch as a trophy. This angered the dragons, when they found one of their pack dead and their hide being toted around by the two-legged foreigners in their land. The elf was hunted down by the pack of the dragon killed, but more elves continued to hunt down smaller dragons, to prove their strength and power. Surviving a dragon’s revenge became noteworthy and a great tale to tell around the dinner table.

Over time, though, the dragons started to encroach on the territory the elves had claimed, the further they went for revenge. Then one day, a whole band of elves killed the alpha of a dragon pack, unaware of just who they killed, and the whole pack of dragons attacked without mercy. 

Unable to communicate with the dragons or draw a peace treaty, because the dragons could not utilize language or complex thinking the same way as them, the elves were forced to defend themselves.

This started a bloody war, called The Dragon War, between the elves and the dragons. The elves were smart and fast and could utilize magic, but the dragons were big and strong and merciless, and unknown to the elves, could also wield powerful ancient magic, drawn straight from the land. Dragons lived in packs, but they could communicate among each other, and most dragons became aggressive.

It wasn’t until one day, when an elf called Buttercup came across a lone dragon egg. It had been abandoned in a ruined nest, most likely a victim of a battle between dragons and the elves that had attacked the nest (for elves had taken to trying to wipe out the dragon species at this point).

The elf, in awe with the bright white egg, couldn’t bring himself to kill the dragon inside.

He brought it back to his village in secret, and he nursed the egg for months on end, hoping that the cracked little egg could still hatch despite the trauma it had received in the battle.

To his delight, the egg broke on a full moon, and out popped a baby dragon.

Buttercup named it Vaeta, the word for “hope” in the Ancient Language.

The dragon was small – barely the size of a house cat – and was weak and vulnerable. It bore no scales, couldn’t breathe the elements like the adults of its kind, and had tiny razor baby teeth. Buttercup had no idea how fast dragons grew, and he quickly found out just that – they grew like weeds. Within a week the baby dragon was the size of a sheep dog and was beginning to form beautiful scales. Its appetite was ravenous, and it learned to hunt easily. Buttercup learned that Vaeta was a girl.

Despite its instincts obviously forming, the baby dragon stuck close to Buttercup, and would whine like a dog when left for copious amounts of time.

Vaeta also protected Buttercup from things she deemed as “threats” and would curl up in bed with her elf at night. Buttercup kept her well hidden, until his small village was attacked by other dragons, and Vaeta, far smaller than the other dragons attacking, reared up in the air for the first time and scared off the foreign dragons that were hurting her elf.

The rest of the village was wary of trusting Vaeta, and Buttercup bore the brunt of the blame; should she do anything to harm elves, it was his head on a pike, draped with her hide.

Nonetheless, Buttercup soon found a new purpose in life – to stop the Dragon War.

He figured if they could raise elves and dragons together, they could stop the aggression. The more the wild dragons saw the elves making nice with their dragon kind, the less they would attack. After all, dragon packs didn’t attack other dragon packs.

So, slowly, using Vaeta as a go-between, Buttercup was able to tame smaller dragons.

Vaeta soon fell pregnant and laid a clutch of nine eggs within ten months. The elves had no way of knowing if this was a normal pregnancy for dragons, or if the clutch was healthy or large.

The eggs all hatched, in varying shades of silver and black. Out of nine four were female, called Jasny, Niebo, Pływ, and Magia; five were male, called Srebro, Drzazga, Noc, Palić, and Stal. The elves were quick to try and tame them, only to find out the hard way that they weren’t like dogs and cats. They were even more intelligent than their horses, too. Buttercup ended up helping his dragon, Vaeta, raise her hatchlings with other nursing elves, and then Buttercup set off across the Continent with his dragon to try to stop wild dragons from attacking.

For years, Buttercup studied dragons and took notes and realized the hierarchy they held, their social groups, their intelligence – he was astounded. But then he made the discovery of a lifetime; the dragons, though they lived in individual packs, much like wolves, had a reigning monarch above all. They had a queen. And if he could appease the queen dragon, making the other dragons friendly would be child’s play from there.

Eventually, it came to Vaeta challenging the dragon queen for Buttercup.

Unfortunately, she died a bloody death.

The queen of dragons, impressed with the ferocity of the foreign dragon who clung to an elf like he was her mate, spared Buttercup’s life. She admired the loyalty of the dragon, though unguided it was to a two-legged hunter who hurt their kind. The queen also mourned, for she never wanted to kill one of her own kind for an elf. In grief, also watching a grieving and crying elf, she drew upon the land’s magic and nosed Buttercup with her giant scaled snout. The resulting magic was huge.

It was bonding magic. A treaty to be recognized by all parties; no more blood was to be shed between the scaled and the soft, or shall they suffer tenfold the torture they inflicted. This magic treaty also entailed the queen dragon stepping down, so no dragons’ packs would dare.

The elves took this magic and added structure to it, binding all the new dragon eggs to a counterpart.

This was how the Dragon Riders (Shur’tugal in the Ancient Language, or Argetlam meaning “silver hand”) were created.

The Dragon Riders were a coalition of elves and dragons formed at the end of the Dragon War to forge peace and order between the two races. The Riders were created because treaties between the two races would prove useless to stop fighting; a signed piece of paper meant nothing to a dragon. So, an irrevocable bond was wrought by the elves and the dragons: the elves provided the structure of the spell and the dragons provided the strength, thus creating the Dragon Riders.

When a fleet of humans sailed across the sea thousands of year later, they too were added to the elite order of the Dragon Riders. The role of the Riders became more than uniting the elves and dragons; they became keepers of the peace and fighters of monsters throughout the Continent (previously called Alagaësia by the dwarves who lived there first) and were respected and honoured by the people they served.

Unfortunately, Stregobor happened.

Born in the ancient province Inzilbêth, and one of several siblings (Aleksander, Szymon, Edyth, Casimir, Ozella, Sylwia, [Stregobor], Valerie), Stregobor was accepted into the ranks of the Dragon Riders at the young age of ten, after being traditionally tested for great potential. He quickly excelled in all areas of combat and spellcasting, which filled him with pride, arrogance, and vanity.

Although some of his fellow Riders were wary of his swift rise to power, the majority of the order neglected caution, ultimately leading to their downfall.

Stregobor was chosen by a dragon and became a Rider in his early years.

His dragon Smokwia (derived from Polish “smok” for dragon and “kwiat” for flower), was killed by urgals some years later in a careless accident, when she was not yet full grown.

Stregobor was mad with grief and hatred, and he asked the Dragon Rider council to grant him another dragon. But that wasn’t how it worked – the dragon chose the Rider, only hatched for the person destined for them – and forcing that had consequences. The council refused, sensing his mental instability, cut him from the Dragon Rider ranks, and sent him away.

With his request denied, Stregobor took it upon himself to steal another dragon egg.

He convinced another Dragon Rider named Morzan to leave the gates open to the place where the eggs were stored. Stregobor stole a dragon egg. Then, he forced this dragon, whom he named Zwieraln (derived from Polish “zwierzę” for animal and “idealny” for perfect), to hatched and serve him by dark magic.

He formed the Forsworn, a group of thirteen dragon riders and their dragons loyal to only him, and he killed all the other dragons and riders in existence through ambush, propaganda against Riders, and years of spies and long-fought battles. He made sure to smash all the eggs he could find, so that no one else could ever rise above him in power – or so he thought (for there were those who risked neck and tail to save and hide the last few dragon eggs).

Stregobor proceeded to create a kingdom of his own that most of all the Continent’s people called The Empire of Nilfgaard, through which he ruled most of the Continent (with few exceptions of other strong kingdoms, like Cintra).

With the Dragon Riders wiped out, there was suddenly an influx in monsters that no mortal man could battle, and so people set out for a new form of protection against magic and monsters (because obviously Stregobor wasn’t doing that). That’s how witchers came into creation, when those with too much power and those too desperate came together to create the Order of Witchers and Trial of Grasses, to form perfect monster-fighting machines, and whom would not wield as much power as a Rider so that the humans wouldn’t have to fear being oppressed (for many still believed Stregobor’s propaganda against Riders; they thought the Forsworn were the only “untainted” Riders).

Geralt, at a young age, was abandoned in Carvahall to be raised as a nobody and farmhand by his mother Visena, who was a druid and magician in affiliation with Stregobor in the Nilfgaard Empire. He was eventually adopted by Vesemir when the old witcher realized who he was, and the ties he had; also, Vesemir realized he was Geralt’s real father, an old Rider from the time before Stregobor’s reign turned into a witcher.

Vesemir had no idea that Visenna was pregnant, let alone that she gave birth to a son, and promptly took Geralt in under the pretense of him being a Child Surprise.

The older witcher never wanted his son to become a witcher like himself, but he couldn’t stop the school from taking his boy and training him, preparing him for the Trial of Grasses. At least the young boy was able to befriend Eskel, another boy already at the keep.

They went in to take the Trial of Grasses together.

Both came out a little worse for wear, but alive.

Cat-like eyes, Geralt with white hair.

Lambert was later found almost dead at the edge of Carvahall, a real Child Surprise this time, and was also taken in to be trained into a witcher. He also survived the Trial of Grasses.

Then the witcher schools were burned and raided because people were worried about the “mutants,” because another king with too much power decided they weren’t needed anymore, and they were almost all wiped out like Dragon Riders.

Vesemir mourned the loss of another of his families but was beyond glad for the ones who survived because they were still out on The Path; he was the only witcher to survive the sackings.

Vesemir also still mourned his dragon he had lost so long ago in the raids, one that was grey and silver, a male called Jaciel (derived from Polish “przyjaciel” which means “friend”).

Queue the scene in Posada, with Jaskier approaching Geralt out of interest and eventually recognizes him as “The Butcher of Blaviken.” (The same events transpired in Blaviken, except Stregobor had sent others to kill Renfri because she was a threat to his crown, and also boasted about carrying dragon eggs, which she claimed would hatch only for those against the king of Nilfgaard [which wasn’t true, she didn’t have any eggs]; he used the excuse of her being born under the Black Sun, sent assassins, was going to capture her and torture and experiment on her for her magic and questionable birth, and Geralt coming by and murdering her whole gang and her included was just a happy little accident that meant he didn’t have to fight off any accusations on his part). Anyway, Geralt is known to oppose Stregobor, but isn’t actively trying to usurp him, so he is free to go around and do his witcher duties, but he is heavily hated for opposing the, “oh so gracious and powerful king, and murdering innocents in droves.”

So, Jaskier recognizes him, and being a young half-elf noble (being the son of the queen of elves, and the son of a high-ranking human noble), is yearning for adventure, and follows this guy to the end of the Continent because, “oops, I fell in love with him.”

But the two of them are captured on a contract by a group of rogue elves outside of Ellesméra (the “forest of elves,” and while there is one united queen, there are several noble families and different elven territories), reduced to few in numbers because of racist humans, and they don’t recognize who Jaskier is (as Julian Alfred Pankratz [human name], Julek Dìoiasaeil of Ellesméra [elven name], child and heir to Queen of the elves, Meira Banrighflùr of Ellesméra).

[Quick side note, Jaskier knows he’s half elf, and personally knows his mother, but does not know she’s elven royalty? Like, he knows her as “Meira” and “mother,” and only knows enough elven heritage to know about his roots and biology, but that’s it. He grew up as a human with his viscount father].

And the rogue elves reveal that the reason they left Ellesméra and set out on their own was because when Stregobor was toppling the Dragon Riders and smashing the eggs, they [as a highly ranked noble elven family, Filavandrel being the head of the family] were entrusted to protect and hide one of the last clutches of dragon eggs from the Forsworn; unfortunately, they were not successful, and in their escape they were only able to recover one cracked egg, and even then they weren’t sure it would hatch because of the trauma, or if the dragon inside was still alive.

Jaskier was struck with grief from their story (because he grew up under the Nilfgaard Empire, left to study at Oxenfurt in another kingdom, and didn’t know of Stregobor’s evil).

So, the elves gift Jaskier a magical lute and ask for him to sing of their demise so the king may never come looking for them, and in return for Geralt’s help and coin, give Geralt the last known dragon egg in existence, hoping it would find a safe home at Kaer Morhen, away from Stregobor.

Only, Jaskier cradles the egg one night at camp, and in the middle of the night the witcher and bard wake to it fucking hatching for him.

Of course, right?

Suddenly they have a new objective; get to Kaer Morhen as fast as fucking possible, or so god help me Jaskier, someone will see your bright fucking dragon and then we’re all dead.

This au is also staring Yennefer, taking the place of the mysterious Angela with a werecat, who I’m choosing to make half-elf like Jaskier, and who also likes to spread chaos everywhere she goes (and she’ll have less magic, but is just as badass, and is a genius with potions and knows the Ancient Language).

Jaskier’s dragon is blue and beautiful and is a male he names Dandelion, or some shit like that.

Also, this would be a geraskier (Geralt x Jaskier) fic, because obviously.

Anyone who feels like writing a fic, I’m WAYY too lazy, and I also might post more headcanons if anyone wants more??

[junkyardlynx]

As I entered the cockpit of my war-frame, something of a sigh escaped my psionic and vocal apparati. I had expected something…more. Maybe the Helyne were the remnants of galactic conquerors who saw the destruction and grief that they had wrought and, in their regret, allowed their societies and species to regress until the spark of sentience no longer lit their actions. Perhaps the Helyne were the watchers of the universe, sending their observations to a great cell that recorded all knowledge and meticulously cataloged it.

Yia, thus these were not the answers. The Helyne were…pets. As they always were. Spread by one sentient creature’s earnest wish to share their love with the universe expanded. This made them no less special, but in the moments as the Earth shrunk in the real-time visual feeds, I felt two things. Disappointment, followed by immediate guilt. The blackness of the space between stars swallowed the war-frame and I closed my eyes, allowing myself to process information more efficiently. 

My issue was that I always craved the darker things.

“Was I everything you hoped for, Spiderman?”

The sudden voice snapped me from my thoughts as pinpricked black gave way to a warm and terribly constant light brown colour, a visual effect of the method that powered our faster than light travel. A projection of Emma-Uh lit up the soft golden glow of the cockpit, slender hands on her cheeks in an apparent show of mockery.

“I…yes, to find a remnant of a precursor civilization is alway-”

“Remnant? Wow buddy, you gotta work on your people skills. Listen. I may be a collection of data inside your sick 2030s anime mech, but I have feelings.”

“You are correct, I apologize. Emma-Uh, allow me to begin again. To meet a brilliant mind such as yours would be a pleasure in any circumstance, but to know the pinnacle of Earth-form achievements personally and to talk to them inside of Ashir is quite another. I am glad to have found you.”

“Okay, two things. Three, maybe. Let’s just start at one. One, my name is just Emma. The “uh” was a vocalization of hesitation. Two, if I had cheeks they’d be burning so watch it with the compliments. Three, is Ashir the name of your Ikari Shinji wet dream here? Four, why does it look like I spilled my mocha latte over all of everything?”

I was momentarily floored as I began to process the information. Translators were never good for popular culture references, so I filed “Ikari Shinji”, “wet dream”, and “mocha latte” away for later. The burning cheeks part…that I understood. Embarrassment causes a similar reaction for my people, lighting our psionic nodes up a peculiar purple. Best to play dumb though, I conclude.

“I apologize once again, Emma. It was not my intention to misname you, nor cause a simulation of physical agony.”

“That’s not what I…I mean…” My only thought was that her reaction was “cute.” Pointed retaliation. I continued.

“To answer your questions, Ashir is the name of my exalted war-frame. As Radiant Prime, I am naturally the most fit to pilot our finest craft, but that aside, Ashir is a dear friend to me. He spends most of his current existence in a form of stasis, acting as the core and power system of the war-frame. It is for this reason we describe them as war-frames - all machinery and technology is a housing for the being at the heart of it.”

“Wait, like, an actual perso- ah. I see now.” She was silent for a time, arms crossed in front of her torso, head inclined in thought. When she spoke, her voice was distant, analytical, but not cold. Just immersed in her thoughts.

“Your species commands immense psionic power. Psionic power, being the manifestation of thought and emotional energy leaving imprints on the world. Theoretical uses range from telekinetics to mind-reading to seeing into memories of the past. You also appear to be long lived, but that’s just conjecture based on your physical form. Psionics were something we dabbled in but it never got out of its infancy because the kids kept frying their minds. No proper channeling organs. No natural aptitude. But you. Those crystalline nodes. With training you could turn your entire body into a conduit. Training, or…an accident…” She trailed off.

“You have the framework of it, as it were. The greatest fear in psionics is losing one’s self in the flow and to become unable to turn off our connection. That being becomes a torrent of power, suffering something akin to a death of the self as a singular mind cannot separate from the flood. Two options remain at that point. True death, or service. Ashir kept enough of himself to choose service to his friend. So we shackled his disintegrating form to a binding crystal and built him a new existence..” Mutual silence filled the war-frame. In the aftermath of this revelation, the geometry of the space felt akin to one of our necropoli, quiet and permeated old grief.

“Well, I’ve heard of friends giving you a ride but this is a whole other level.” Her humor was appreciated. As if in affirmation of this Earth-form, the golden glow of the cockpit intensified and became laced with warm reds.

“I believe he likes you” I attempted a smile. Though Ashir did not often directly communicate, he retained awareness of what happened in the confines of his form, and would often reflect his emotional state with the lighting. I…made many attempts to avoid blue lighting.

“As for the color of the space outside, its the determinate average colour of this galaxy. Our war-frames and ships use our unique power sources to complete normally impossible feats. I’m sure you know of the idea of folding space - connecting two faraway points by “folding” the distance and punching a hole through.“

Emma nodded, whispering something about “can’t fucking believe Dune got it right” under her breath. What did sandscapes in desert climates have to do with this?

“Our method is similar. A psionic who becomes a conduit is privy to an unprecedented amount of information. They see their current point in space, and their destination as well, and every single connection between the two - from dead space to blazing stars. We observed a peculiar law of the universe thousands of cycles ago. To merely observe changes the outcome of an event. If simple observation has such an effect, can you not affect events with raw willpower? And so, the psionic sees himself in space-time, sees his destination and determines that he has arrived at his destination. With the backing of such psychic force, the universe cannot challenge this without creating a paradox of observer inconsistency. We do not move the stars, but they move for us.”

Emma was stunned for the first time. It was an expression that I could find nothing but charming.

“So you lie to the universe so hard it gives up? That. That’s awesome. But in, if the travel is as instantaneous as it sounds, why has it been twenty minutes in a Starbucks latte for us?”

Through cross referencing of Ashir’s databanks on Earth broadcasts and media, I found that a latte is a drink of steeped bean juice and cream. It sounded delicious. My only record of a Starbuck pertained to the late human period of Galactica, in which living robots overthrow their creators. Was this their downfall? Dark, to be sure. Returning in the blink of an eye to the question at hand, I answered.

“Though we move instantly, the universe refuses to bow to our will completely. We are forced to wait an amount of time before we can leave a set boundary field, or we risk causing a chain reaction of paradoxical inconsistencies. So…ten more of your minutes, I’d estimate, given the distance from your Earth to my Empire.”

“Huh. Wait. Your Empire, Ves? Like, you run it or…”

“Emma, perhaps I should have explained. In our Empire’s military, we are granted titles based upon our rank. The titles are named as such for the beacon of knowledge we have proven to shine with, along with a numerical designation.”

“The words Empire and military make me suspicious of what kind of knowledge that is, you know. But uh, illuminate me. Hehehe. Illuminate.”

My lips formed a wry smile at the joke. Ashir and I built a very good translator to be able to allow such easy jokes.

“Very well. An enlisted member is first ranked at Dull. Disparaging, but with promise. From there, Dim. At the top of the main corps, Gleaming. No numerical designation is given for the first three ranks, because we simply do not have the patience to ascribe numerals for trillions of people. From there, Glowing, Lustrous and Lucent. The leap from being a Gleaming soldier to a Glowing one is quite large, and as such, Glowing receive a numeral. Our lowest Glowing is Six Hundred Thousand, Forty Three. The numbers shrink from there, to a mere four digits for a Lucent.”

Emma was miming at me, nodding furiously and pretending to take notes. As if she needed to. I knew first hand her sharp intellect.

“We have specialists above those, each in lateral ranking. Penumbral officers are those who have delved far into the psionic record and lost a piece of themselves in exchange for martial prowess. Incandescents are those that work with psionics to create dazzling illusions for both recreation and war. But from there, the ranks thin considerably.”

“Yayayaya, you’re all really bright kids. This sounds like a practiced speech so I’m gonna hurry you along.” Her flippanch betrays her voracious eyes, eagerly devouring this alien culture. Through years of study and bloodshed alike, I have learned that most sentient races with classical “faces” perform many of the same expressions. She craved more. More of this second chance at existence. A bemused part of me eagerly awaited her first contact with a Shalui. Most were visibly bewildered.

“As you wish, oh enlightened one. Speaking of, Enlightened is after Lucent. Its said that one reaches this rank when their actions have left a permanent mark upon the starscape. Much like you.” Emma was quiet, but her digital form averted its eyes as its cheeks flushed a sweet red.

“After that, Luminous. And last, Aureate. There are only twenty Aureates, and one could bring down a star system with just their War-frame and personal armaments.”

“Okay, well, that’s somewhat terrifying if cool in a wish fulfillment power fantasy kinda way. You guys sound very warlike, but I suppose humanity doesn’t get to talk about other species being warlike. Anyway, I didn’t hear about any Radiant.”

“Ah. Yes. I am Radiant Prime. There are only two Radiants, currently. The war prince and his younger sibling. She is Radiant Second.”

“So, Ves…you’re an older brother?” She skirted around the question, obviously wanting me to answer as clearly as possible.

"Yes, Emma. I am first in line of the royal family. My mother’s royal, personal title is Her Burning Will, and has been for the last four hundred cycles. Those equate to years in your parlance. The hellion that is Radiant Second is named Selin, and I love her dearly. Even if she insists on being a…royal pain in my side when she gets the chance.” I couldn’t help but fill with pride as I spoke. I had been bred and engineered for royal perfection and bearing, a kingly child since I emerged from my crystal, but this went beyond that. I rarely had the chance to speak about my beloved little sister and my strong, amazing mother.

"Your job description is literally war prince and your mom has been top dog for 400 years. I. I went to MIT.” She went silent again. I assume that whatever institute she attended was quite prestigious on Earth, to have turned out such a person.

“Well, you’re just Ves to me. Or is that gonna lead to my deletion at the hand of some uppity noble?”

I laughed. My psionic nodes sang joyfully and my own voice rang out with them.

“No, Emma. We encourage people to treat us as they would any other. Even if not…well. No one would harm the Radiant’s charge. Especially since I plan to make you a member of the royal court. It’s more like an extended family than a traditional court, being composed of close advisers and trusted compatriots.” My words ended with a flourish as we returned to normal space, and the shining capital of Iluria Mari sprawled out before us. The cockpit retracted as I set Ashir down on the red grass of the Imperial Courtyard. Golden pedals shining with bioluminesence whirled around us and the smell of my beloved Haja fruit trees warmed the air. I wished she could smell it.

“Family…”

“Yes, family. I cannot accept that you have been alone for so long after your wondrous deed. You deserved more. I demand the universe repays its debt to you, and I make it so with my will. Welcome home, Emma.”

[legault]

Galdrar (FE Rarepair Week Day 1: Blessed/Curse, Tibarn/Reyson)

Title: Galdrar

Author: legault/pinksnowboots (fic blog)

Warnings: Mentions of violence, non-explicit sexual content

Words: 3306

Summary: Most beorc and laguz are under the incorrect impression that because herons are beings of order, and beautiful to boot, they cannot harbor darkness inside of them. Tibarn used to labor under that same misapprehension, but that was before he met Reyson.

AKA a more serious take on the infamous “ I had to tie him [Reyson] down to a bed to keep him there” line.

Written for Day 1 of @ferarepair-week2k17 for the prompts blessed/curse. Thanks so much to the mods for holding this event and to everyone contributing to it, I’m incredibly pumped about participating!

Also read on AO3!

Most beorc and laguz are under the incorrect impression that because herons are beings of order, and beautiful to boot, they cannot harbor darkness inside of them. Tibarn used to labor under that same misapprehension, but that was before he met Reyson.

Reyson is so beautiful that sometimes it hurts to look at him, but even that pain is only the merest shadow of what Reyson can truly do.

Tibarn is among those who pluck the last remaining herons out of the burned wreckage of their home. Lorazieh is unresponsive and barely breathing.  Reyson, on the other hand, is very much alive and looks like he survived the fire by absorbing it, eyes blazing and wings covered in soot, vowing that whoever wrought this destruction on him and his people would face the same destruction in return.

Reyson insists on flying with them rather than being carried like his father and sister and glares at anyone who suggests otherwise. Tibarn lets him try, watching him rise erratically, looking for all the world like an avatar of vengeance.

He makes it several feet before his strength gives out and he begins to plummet through the air, looking for all the world like a particularly angry fallen angel.

Tibarn catches him well before he hits the ground. Reyson is incredibly light, so light that he almost feels unreal, like he lacks something grounding him on this mundane world.

Reyson’s eyes flutter, exhaustion and grief beginning to creep in as his adrenaline runs out.

“I did not ask you to do this.” He rasps, eyes flashing angrily at Tibarn and at his own helplessness.

“I know. But I am not going to let you fall.” Tibarn tells him, unsure if he is referring to saving Reyson from crashing to the forest floor or making a promise of a much wider scope.

“Chief!” One of Tibarn’s men calls to him. “What are we going to do with the herons?”

Tibarn looks at Lorazieh, barely clinging to life. He looks at the ruins of what was once the brightest and most peaceful of the laguz kingdoms. He looks at Reyson in his arms, struggling to maintain consciousness, skin burning with rage and grief.

“We’re taking them home.” Tibarn declares, sending a wave of mutters through his troops. Tibarn is still a relatively new king, and taking in refugee herons is a bold move, especially given that Phoenicis is not particularly friendly to outsiders.

“My home is gone.” Reyson murmurs, as if speaking from a dream.

“Yes.” Tibarn says, tightening his arms around Reyson. Even if the truth is harsh, it is better than telling a lie. “But I hope that will not always be the case.”

Reyson does not reply, having finally slipped into unconsciousness.

Reyson eventually becomes accustomed to Phoenicis, but Phoenicis never truly becomes accustomed to Reyson. Lorazieh fits their image of what herons are supposed to be like: beautiful, docile, and quiet. Although Reyson is beautiful, he is willful and imperious. He orders Tibarn’s servants around and wanders around the country without regards to his own safety, requiring several of Tibarn’s men to serve as escorts. He observes the customs and speech of hawks and tries to imitate them, sometimes injuring himself in the process. He even speaks frankly to the the king himself, adressing him as an equal and not as a king. Reyson may be a prince, but his kingdom is gone, and to the citizens of Phoenicis, it looks like he is ungrateful for the help that Tibarn has so graciously provided.

Reyson is grateful, but he does not show it in words. He shows it by slipping phrases borrowed from Tibarn into his own speech, by trailing Tibarn and watching as he spars with his men, by attempting to grow stronger at the expense of his own body, unsuited as it is for a lifestyle of meat-eating and vigorous exercise.

“You don’t have to be a fighter to be valuable, Reyson.” Tibarn tells him, for the umpteenth time. “Everyone has their own strengths, and none are more valuable than the next.”

“Perhaps in theory. But physical prowess is the language of battle.” Reyson replies, in the tone that Tibarn has come to know means that he will not be budged.

“That may be, but if you continue to push your body to do things it was not intended to do, you’ll be no use to anyone.” Tibarn says. “Besides, you don’t need to worry about battle. For that, you have me and all of Phoenicis behind you. If you ever need someone roughed up, just say the word and I’ll take care  of it.”

“That’s not the point!” Reyson says, voice uncharacteristically shrill. “I owe you a great debt for saving my life and taking my family and me in, and I will not ever be able to repay it if I have you fight all my battles for me.”

“Are you still going on about that debt thing? I’ve told you, you don’t owe me nothing. And even if you did, you’d have paid it ten times over with your companionship.” Tibarn says. “If you feel like you need to do more, you could try singing for us once in a while.”

“I do not sing any longer.” Reyson says, voice suddenly hard. “Besides, I have other reasons for wanting to grow stronger.”

“Is this about revenge?” Tibarn asks cautiously.

Reyson says nothing.

Years pass, and Tibarn begins to hope that perhaps Reyson’s soul is beginning to heal. He retains his fiery temper, but vengeance is no longer at the forefront of his mind. He spends his days with Tibarn and does not speak of debt. Although he still does not sing, he smiles often and even begins to laugh, and when he does he seems to radiate light.

(“Why don’t you sing anymore?” Tibarn asks. “I thought herons were famous for their song.”

“Herons are creatures of balance, and the power of the galdrar comes from the balance in our hearts.” Reyson says. “But I have not felt balance since the destruction of Serenes Forest. If I were to attempt to sing a galdrar now, I do not know what sort of destruction it might bring about.”)

Tibarn cannot imagine life without him, and he often wonders if Reyson’s heron empathy means that he knows the immense and overwhelming fondness that Tibarn holds for him.

Then one day Reyson disappears, and Tibarn’s world seems to spin off its axis. Reyson leaves a note saying that he will return, but he does not say when, and although Tibarn trusts him, he cannot shake his feeling of unease.

Then Nealuchi comes and tells them what has happened: Reyson had been sold to the Duke of Tanas by Naesala, king of Kilvas and Reyson’s supposed friend. Perhaps the king of Kilvas had planned to rescue him, but it has become irrelevant because Reyson has escaped on his own.

Tibarn’s restlessness turns to white-hot rage at the king of Kilvas and the duke of Tanas, with a flash of pride that Reyson escaped without needing to be rescued. This news is not good news, but it gives him focus, and a deadly sense of calm. All there is to do is find Reyson, and he will do just that. (And then he will visit Naesala and well...Reyson is not the only one who aches for vengeance.)

They find Reyson in what’s left of Serenes Forest, and suddenly it all makes perfect sense. When he asks Reyson if he is considering singing a galdrar of destruction, he is only seeking confirmation for what he already knows.

“Yes.” Reyson says, fearsome in his resolve. “The humans will pay for the genocide that they have committed against my people.”

“Reyson, this isn’t right.” Tibarn tries to reason with him. “Herons are creatures of balance, and the galdrar was not mean to be used this way.”

“Balance is something I have not had for twenty years now, and I have not missed it.” Reyson says, defiant. “But what I have missed is justice, and I will mete it out while I have the chance.”

Reyson’s eyes flash in a way that Tibarn has not seen since the day he pulled Reyson out of the rubble and Tibarn sees that he has to try a new tactic.

“Reyson, you’re right.” He says. “You’re right. The humans destroyed your forest, and they killed your people, and they deserve any justice that you can deliver. But these humans are not the humans who killed your family, and now is not the time. Come home, and I promise that whatever you want to do to get your revenge, you have my support and the support of all of Phoenicis.”

Reyson looks at Tibarn, eyes boring into his. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.” Tibarn says, promising recklessly. “Anything you want Reyson, I promise.”

Reyson does not reply for a moment, thinking, then finally says. “Alright.”

Reyson flies over to them and Tibarn releases all the tension he did not realize he’d been holding in his muscles. “Thank you, Reyson.”

“Let’s go home.” Reyson says, and Tibarn’s heart leaps because Reyson has never referred to Phoenicis as home before.

Somehow before they return home, they discover Reyson’s supposedly-dead sister and get caught up in a continent-wide war. But more importantly, Tibarn finally gets to hear Reyson sing, and it is more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. When Reyson and Leanne sing, the forest literally comes alive, color and life returning to what was once barren and dark, and Tibarn feels his heart swelling as he watches the plants grow.

One war ends and another begins, and throughout all the political turmoil, Reyson is his constant in his life, beautiful and stubborn and passionate. He begins to sing again, both in the course of battle and in the quiet moments in between, and he focuses his anger more specifically, onto the beorc who wrong him rather than onto all beorc.

One thing that does not change is his stubbornness. Herons are not meant for war; the chaos of the battlefield saps their strength and their bodies are too frail to withstand more than a single hit from an axe or an arrow. Despite all this, Reyson insists on flying into battle with them, confident that Tibarn will protect him and insistent that he will contribute in whatever way he can.

Tibarn usually does not even try to refuse him, unwilling to patronize him and knowing that it’s a lost cause anyway, but when Reyson passes out hours before they are supposed to meet Ike for battle, Tibarn decides that Reyson is not going onto the battlefield when his body cannot even keep him awake. They have been fighting constantly, so much that even Tibarn, who is usually invigorated by battle, is exhausted, which means that Reyson must be on the bring of collapse.

He pulls a blanket over Reyson and is about to leave when he realizes that if Reyson wakes up, he will follow them. In a fit of desperation, he spies a length of ropes and uses it to loosely tie Reyson’s wrists to the bed, hoping that Reyson will still be asleep when he returns.

Reyson is not asleep when he returns.

Reyson is the first thing that he checks on when he returns from battle, wings still smelling of blood and running on battle endorphins and nothing else. When he enters the tent, he encounters a very awake and very angry Reyson.

“Tibarn.” Reyson says, voice cold and firm. “Untie me now.”

Tibarn does, undoing the knows in a matter of seconds. As soon as Reyson has his hands free, he slaps Tibarn across the face, hard. He can see Reyson wince in pain as his hand strikes Tibarn’s cheek, but Tibarn does not feel any physical pain, only the sting of being slapped by the person whose opinion he valued most.

“What were you thinking?” Reyson hisses.

“I was thinking that I didn’t want you to die today.” Tibarn shoots back, suddenly angry.

“I think that should be a decision for me to make, not you.” Reyson says. “All my life, laguz who were not herons have treated me as someone fragile, who cannot take care of himself and cannot be trusted to make his own decisions. You have never treated me like that.” Reyson fixes him with a cold glare. “Until today.”

“Reyson, you were already asleep.” Tibarn says. “If you were to wake up and head to the battlefield, not only would you risk your own life but you’d risk mine, Janaff’s, and Ulki’s.”

“Well then perhaps you should wake me up before flying into battle!” Reyson shouts, stunning Tibarn into silence.

The air is thicker with tension than it has ever been between them as they look at each other, unsure of how to continue.

Reyson breaks the silence. “Tibarn, I know you mean well. I know you meant to protect me. But what you did made me feel like I am a bauble for you to protect, and that is something that I will not bear. Naesala treated me like a bartering tool when he sold me to advance his own ends. Duke Tanas-” Reyson spits the name, voice dripping with venom. “-saw me as a prized piece of art, to be insured and appreciated. More than anything else, I cannot abide being treated like I am an object, no matter how treasured, and especially not by you.”

“I’m sorry.” Tibarn reaches out, slowly to give Reyson the chance to back away, resting his hand on Reyson’s when he does not back away. “I didn’t realize how it would feel to you, because believe me, I never want to make you feel that way. I was only thinking of how I thought I lost you once, when Naesala-” Tibarn says his name with as much venom as Reyson says the name Duke Tanas. “-sold you, and I couldn’t bear to have that happen again.”

“I know that sometimes I am a liability on the battlefield rather than an asset.” Reyson admits. “But I hate to be left behind.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you on the battlefield.” Tibarn says, squeezing Reyson’s hand. “In fact, I’d rather have you where I can see you so I can personally watch your back. I fight better when you’re around too, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t know if you realize it, but we all rely a lot on you and your galdrar in battle.”

“But no one can fight every battle without rest, and I know that the chaos has been taking a toll on you. I won’t force you to stay back again, but I do hope that you’ll rest when you need it. We need you on the battlefield with us, but we need you alive even more.” Tibarn pauses. “I need you alive even more.”

Reyson suddenly kisses him softly, free hand cupping Tibarn’s cheek where he had slapped it before.

“What was that for?” Tibarn asks when he pulls back. “Not that I’m complaining.” He adds, smile edging into his voice.

“An apology.” Reyson says. “For not realizing that my own reckless behavior was causing you pain.”

Reyson draws back, extricating his hand from Tibarn’s, but Tibarn loops an arm around Reyson’s slender waist and draws Reyson back to him, kisses him long and hard and deep, one hand on the small of Reyson’s back and the other in his hair.

When they pull apart, Reyson is breathing heavily, eyes dazed. “Was that an apology too?” He asks.

“No.” Tibarn says. “It was a promise. Firstly, that I will never try to make your decisions for you again.”

“And secondly,” Tibarn kisses him again. “That no matter what manner of reckless thing that you do, I will always be by your side.”

"Thank you.” Reyson says, catching one of Tibarn’s hands in his own, lacing his slim fingers between Tibarn’s much larger ones. “Thank you.”

They fall into bed together, and as Tibarn undresses Reyson with a sense of almost-reverence, he realizes that it feels like they have always been heading to this place, to the two of them, together in every sense of the word. That it was never a question of whether they would take this step, only how and when.

Tibarn wants to take his time to explore every inch of Reyson’s body, running calloused hands along his lithe frame and peppering soft kisses along Reyson’s even softer skin, but Reyson is impatient, insistently drawing Tibarn back up, kissing him with the un-heron-like fierceness that has always defined Reyson, hands roaming wildly over the vast expanses of Tibarn’s chest.

Reyson moves his mouth to Tibarn’s neck and bites down, hard. Tibarn welcomes the pain, just as he welcomes any sensation, any feeling that Reyson brings.

“You don’t have to be so gentle.” Reyson whispers, lips brushing his ear with every word. “I am not breakable.”

“You are the least fragile person that I have ever met.” Tibarn replies, running his hands through Reyson’s long hair, fascinated. “I’m not gentle because I think I could break you. I’m gentle because I think the world has already brought you enough pain, and I don’t want to ever cause you any more. I want you to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are loved.”

Reyson’s eyes glint with feeling and he says no more about pain or gentleness, only kisses Tibarn again.

Reyson lets Tibarn press him into the mattress and fuck him slowly and gently, wings brushing Reyson’s with every thrust, eyes never leaving his. Tibarn strokes him firmly with his hands, strong and callused but still gentle, and when Reyson cries out his release it feels like a galdrar, not a dirge of ruin or an aria of rebirth, but something that rings much truer in his ears and in his heart.

“You do know that I love you, right?” Tibarn asks, arms and wings enfolding Reyson in a warm embrace that makes Reyson feel safer than he ever has before.

“Of course.” Reyson says, unable to stop the smile that finds it way onto his face as he feels Tibarn press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Good.” Tibarn says. “I figured you did, what with your heron empathy powers and all that, but I had to check.”

“Actually, it’s not because of my powers.” Reyson says. “I have never told anyone this, but my empathy has always been stronger for negative emotions than it has for positive ones.”

“That sounds frustrating.” Tibarn remarks.

“Quite.” Reyson agrees. “Especially since herons are supposed to be beings of peace. But it does mean that I know that you feel frustrated with me sometimes, but you worry when I am in danger, and that you feel my pain as if it was your own. I cannot feel your love for me directly through my empathy, but your words and your actions have left me with no doubt.”

“And here I was thinking you’ve known all along that I’ve had the hots for you for almost twenty years now.” Tibarn chuckles.

“Tibarn,” Reyson says, voice suddenly serious. “I hope you realize that I love you as well.”

“I guessed as much, but I’m not sure I’m convinced.” Tibarn says, a smile in his voice. “I might need you to say it again.”

“Oh no,” Reyson says. “If you want to hear it again, you’re going to have to work for it.”

Reyson smiles at him wickedly, and it’s such a far cry from the times when Reyson barely talked, would not smile, and would not sing and Tibarn’s heart has never been fuller.

“I think that I’m up for the challenge.”