#and in strange eons even death may die

[inbabylontheywept]

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

Magic did not make beautiful things. How could it? Raw chaos was not known for its subtlety, and that’s all magic was: Madness and energy. A corruption that ran deep along the soul of the world. Entropy itself.  

But tools don’t need to be beautiful to be useful. A mage would always break under the strain of such power, but they could move mountains before the final crack. Elves could trade their eons for centuries, and dwarves, their centuries for decades. And humans, very rarely, could trade their decades for years. But such trades were rare indeed, for it took a genius to compress the great work into such a short period. There had been a few over the centuries. But most were still learning the simplest of tricks when the bitter end came for them. 

And it was, always, a bitter end. Magic poisoning trickled into everything, dosing out a toxic melange of maladies. Cancers commingled with infections as metabolic errors mixed with the ravages of time. Froth filled lungs choking out desparate gasps were as common as great fungating tumors, tearing their way out of the body in a twisted facsimile of birth. 

It would be too generous to say that many mages died screaming. The truth was, most did. Nearly all. They died terrible deaths, and they lived terrible lives, rotting from within as they channeled the end of all things through their bodies. Their spines bent into arched curves, and their skin greyed, and their eyes turned bloodshot as the blood leaked from every capillary. Just before the end their whole body would stain the way their eyes did, like spiderwebs etched in blood. 

Sylas had been stained that way for the last century of his life. It was a mystery how he lingered on, eking out misery and power in equal fortunes. To sit there in the moment of his death, at the apex of his power, without teetering one way or the other…

It was certainly a way to be among the most powerful magi in a myriad. It was a testament to the depth of his suffering, that even in a cohort as envious as the scholars of rot, there were none that dared follow in his footsteps. A better object lesson about the cost of power could not be found. His veins leaked half empty, his skin sagged and tore in some places, stretching hideously in others. He festered, undying, undead, twisted and knotted with disease and madness alike. 

But a better man for holding the line would not be found. 

He’d been standing in the center of the bridge, watching his cloaked opponent draw closer for almost ten minutes now. He was patient for a dying man, but he’d been dying for almost a century now. He knew he had time to wait. More time than he had patience for walking, at least. His body was twisted from misuse, better at acting as a conduit for raw power than it was for movement. Walking hurt. Standing…hurt less. 

His vision had spent the centuries fading away with the rest of him. The shape was familiar, even when it was at the far end of the bridge but it wasn’t until the man had moved within forty steps that features could be made out. 

Healthy skin. Pale, but in way that suggested scholarship instead of sickness. Hair that grew in a shining golden crown thick and unruly. Sylas had only met one acolyte that had kept their hair past the harrowing. A human from four centuries before…  

And suddenly, impossibly, Sylas recognized the man in front of him. 

“Holloway,” he said in lieu of greeting. This had been a ritual between them once - a dumb joke that they’d kicked back and forth in all those years ago. 

“No,” the man replied warmly, hands already gesturing to the space around them. “Not a hallway. A bridge.”

He’d made that joke the first time they met, in this very place. The lone bridge from the twilight aisles. It was also the last place he’d seen him - Back fading into the mists are he journeyed home to join the fight against the necromancer of Mithrain. In a kingdom two-hundred thousand strong, only a few dozen had survived. 

He’d barely been an acolyte when he left. The stupid fool had never stood a chance. How had he - 

Sylas’s thoughts were interrupted by a dawning awareness that something had gone wrong. He could feel the ambient levels of magic drop. He’d feel this before, watching teams of war-mages work in tandem. Even he couldn’t manage it alone - his mastery could come from doing more with less. One man doing this was like - like drinking away the rising tide. Eating a cow without spitting out bones. Madness. 

And there was only one person in sight that could be the cause. 

He dodged instinctually. There was no telling what hit the spot where he stood before - it wasn’t comprehensible to the mortal mind. Mana bolts were seen by the gaps they left in the world around them. By the places that one’s mind slid away from, no matter how hard one tried. 

Even Sylas had never managed to form one by himself. 

Flames roared to life along both sides of the bridge. The old elf’s back heaved under the strain of the channel, even as he curled the flames into each other, forming a quarter league long arch of fire. 

Then, he compressed it. 

The threat of it was enough to interrupt the second bolt from forming. The elf had been expecting a counterattack, but his old friend seemed to be a little more cautious than that. He felt a wall of mana clash against his own, probing for the artery that connected him to the inferno. 

He pushed back, drove his mind like a sharpened spike into the consciousness probing against him. Memories bled back, strange ones - theorems on the nature of magic, on the nature of death. Gradients directing the flow of soul towards something deep and dark. 

Holloway winced. The move would’ve broken a lesser man, but his mind was as incorruptible as his flesh. Sylas felt something clamp around him, and he realized that the weak spot he’d found was intentional. A ruse. 

The link he held in the physical world, the thing that connected him to the fire, tore without breaking. The spell flared out silently. 

He was dead. He stared defiantly, and was confused to see something gentle looking back. 

“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve turned back and waited,” Holloway said, not unkindly. “I have time. More time than anyone.” 

Mana flowed up the still trapped conduit, burning and bright. Sylas was used to feeling it corrode him, feed into the cancers and sores that had taken root in his body over centuries of abuse. 

But this was different. 

It burned, but in the way that fire did.The rot drank it, and instead of corrupting him, it corrupted itself. Sylas could feel the horrible beauty of it, of cancers blossoming within cancers, of amoebas blighting his infections. It was like witnessing death fall upon its own scythe. 

It was so obvious now that he could feel it. The decay of his body wasn’t truly death, but an extant form of life. From the minute forms that swam in his pus, to the rootlike cancer nodules that grew under his skin - he wasn’t a fallow field. He was teeming with life. Drowning in it. If absorbing magic is what spawned this in him, it would feel the same once it drank deep of the same cup. 

It was beautiful. The cure was in the poison! Of course it was. Life flowed in the gradient of death, and magic flowed with the gradient of life. He’d just needed to stop fighting it. 

He looked in wonder at his friend. Struggled not to writhe with the venom burning itself out of his body. Holloway walked carefully up to him, laying a hand across his burning brow. 

“We shared memories through the link you made. I think you saw the steps I took, learning how to live long enough to become the new necromancer of Mithrain. But I saw you vowing to save the world from the end of all life - and from preventing another Iithin from happening. You remembered me.”

Sylas couldn’t answer. It had been so long since living felt harder than dying. 

“I am the new necromancer of Mithrain - but I am not here to be the end of life. I am here to kill death itself, to set the serpent upon its tail. Ten years it took to learn how to save myself. Four hundred more to learn how to save the living. And now, at last, I can save the dead.” 

He looked across the bridge, towards his homeland of Ilithin. The tomb state of stone and bone and ancient loss. He was imagining something, and for the first time since he’d gone through his harrowing, for the first time since the seed of rot had been planted in his heart, Sylas imagined a world where magic could make something beautiful. 

[starsnores]

Hi. I want to eat your Gamzee (cannibal style)

honestly, he might like that.

[underwaterspiderbird]

never before have i genuinely wanted to kill an animated wolf as much as i do Death from Puss in Boots II

[m1d-45]

judas

summary: who can be blamed for a world wide calamity? the executioner, the judge, or the jury?

word count: ~1.3k

-> warnings: mention of blood, implied death(you, but you revive after), um minor spoilers for inazuma and sumeru archon quest, as well as for kazuha lore

-> gn reader (you/yours) and unspecified traveller (no pronouns)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr

< masterlist >

to see a god is a feat most strive their whole lives toward. to bear witness to one so much holier than you, to view a deity far beyond your time. mortals pray to statues and shrines, each vying for the eye of the heavens, a select few showing off their rewards in the form of a gleaming vision.

but even those with a vision cannot see the stars. true gods- the true god is a memory beholden to only a few, to those that remember the times prior to the archon war. before the creator lifted to celestia, sequestered away far from the petty meddling of people.

they’re missed. they’re always missed. the gods have a hole their gnoses are too small to fill, a deep ache that beats with their hearts, yearning for the one they called ‘home.’ it’s not unlike the feeling one gets on a clear night, looking up to the stars, knowing the world’s so vast and you are so small, unsure whether to be afraid or comforted.

so they wish their god a well recovery? do they grieve the idea that they may die before that happens? do they grab a bottle from the shelf and bear headaches without hangovers, do they sit at a worn table and drink tea nobody else remembers, do they sleep endlessly, hoping to dream instead? what does one do, when so alone? what does one do, when the stars blanket the sky and they are struck with the remembrance of their finite lives?

mortals get up from their blankets. look away, go to bed, rise the next day with the only star they know being the one that warms the stones beneath their feet. but gods don’t tire easily, and the nights are known for stretching far longer than days.

the unlucky ones die.

the cursed are given a false prophet.

“if you remember me, then i don’t care if anyone else forgets.”

the greater lord was kind. too kind. beloved. unfairly so. how strange, she wondered, fading to dust, that she did not see her god greeting her. how odd, she thought, that the closest she had come to heaven was within the moments before her death.

it’s not her fault. it never was. the eyes that watched from celestia were hard with iron and not time, cruel with choice and not purpose. so many died, so many didn’t have to, so many fell under the foot of a fraud while their true colors hid behind a mask.

“do you remember me?”

“do you?”

it wasn’t your fault either. it never was. your chosen warrior, your first picked, saved from the grips of the one who had stolen your place. so many people, so many names, so many conversations held within proxy. the earth remembered, the people rejoiced, and yet it was only your golden companion that questioned the sea.

(the waves calmed. eons old bodies finally laid to rest. the abyss itself stilled for just a moment, just long enough to stop and watch you smile, and even now occasionally lent an ear to your pride.)

how unfair, that you once laughed together but now cry alone.

to lay eyes upon the divine is one thing. to view with one’s own eyes even a fraction of true power is enough to blind the commons, and even the most ancient dragon must bow its head. but to touch? to hold, to grasp, to feel universes thrumming beneath your fingers, the power of giants hovering barely an inch away?

“we named a constellation after you.”

you had said hello. a god, a being so far beyond mortal understanding, crouching to one knee and extending a hand to a child that had fallen. you could have walked by. perhaps on another day you might’ve. but you didn’t recognize the world as your home, and she didn’t recognize you as hers, fleeing to the guards the moment she saw something a little too bright in your eyes.

it wasn’t your fault. the ground is stained with blue and that child’s hand burns with the fire found in the core of a newborn sun, hot and new far too much for someone so young to handle. a samurai will never be able to look at his sword the same way again, but you shouldn’t blame yourself for that either. his hand holds the grip as his own shakes, red eyes struggling to take in what he sees.

the human mind reacts strangely when it sees something it doesn’t understand. it fizzles, stops, the wiring going dull as it realizes its neurons are far too small to comprehend the unusual stimuli. unfortunately, this response does not lend itself to survival, and the drive to live overshadows your cries for the same.

he doesn’t like the visit that part of town anymore. he can’t look at maple leaves without remembering how they stuck to the ground, weighed down by blood. he visits a familiar grave, tucked between two sharp cliffs, lingering far past the settling of lavender melon on the ground. he kneels there for a few hours too long, wondering of all the what ifs.

it’s not his fault either. it’s nobody’s. they were given a candlelight and were told it was a star, even as they watched the wax drip. he was doing his best, and it just so happened that in the blind grasp for a handhold, he’d pushed you away. he couldn’t see. it wasn’t his fault.

“don’t blame yourself, kazuha.”

“the tide does not stop rising when asked. neither does the guilt.”

it wasn’t his fault.

you try to remind yourself of this, at times. so does he. the two of you lie awake at inane hours of night, searching the sky for an answer.

what happened? what went wrong? was it me? was it anyone?

celestia looks down with eyes of fake steel, looking between you and the empty throne behind them. they’d finally caved, thrown the one they puppeted for the vishaps to dissect and the hillichurls to pull apart, but now worried. they’d certainly be punished if it was known they’d allowed this to happen… was it their fault, perhaps?

eyes sought out others, the council known as ‘heaven’ lost for what to do. their eyes joined yours, as yours joined kazuha’s, all tilted up and beginning to turn glassy.

the universe is so big, each star their own system, and it’s so hard to feel like any more than sand when it’s displayed so clearly. maybe it was kazuha’s fault, for not recognizing the light you shed as that of the sun. maybe it was celestia’s, for continuing to entertain an impossible fantasy. maybe it was the earth’s, for guiding you where it thought was safe, maybe maybe maybe. it doesn’t matter. did it ever? your heart burns with grief—love—as you go to bed, sheltered within a hilichurl camp. kazuha stays up too late, punishing himself with the fog of sleepiness that lasts a little too long the next day. celestia doesn’t feel guilt, for when did it ever, but the next day is unproductive, something strange taking place of the air there.

maybe it was nobody’s fault. maybe the world was disjointed, unfamiliar with your presence, stuttering for a moment as it collected itself once more. maybe in that moment of confusion, of flickering light and a burnt out flame, tragedy had struck like lightning. the universe was illuminated, bathed in the gleam of your power, able to see what it couldn’t in darkness.

it wouldn’t happen again, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. scars still ached when it rained, and the skies were weeping as it realized what had occurred in shadow.

[princessofdorkness]

Happy heavenly birthday sweet angel! I’d like to think that wherever you are that you know just how many lives you inspire and continue to change for the better! You live and love on through your brothers, your family, and your music. You’ve helped me through such a dark time these past few months and I’m forever inspired to live life to the fullest and love like there’s no tomorrow because of you. Sometimes people’s souls are so bright that they shine on through time and outlive us all and sometimes heaven needs those bright lights and I believe that that’s why the best always seem to leave us too early. In a month or so I’ll be the age you were when you left which, to me, is pretty poetic, so I’ll be here trying to do something that might’ve made you proud. May we all follow in your footsteps and lead with our hearts while doing whatever makes us happiest for however long we have. ❣️

“That is not dead

which can eternal lie.

And with strange eons

even death may die.”

Long live C.L.B. <3

2-10-62 • 9-27-1986

[artzychic27]

Goth Kids Quotes

Marc: *Sees Ladybug crouching on the rooftop* Who the FNH is that?

Ladybug: *Leaps down to the ground* What does it mean? ‘That is not dead which can eternal lie’?

Ivan/Juleka/Nathaniel/Marc: …

Ivan: … And with strange eons, even death may die.

Ladybug: What does it mean?!

Marc: It means Cthulhu is gonna get rid of all the posers and make everything cool and black and stuff. It’ll be like a Nine Inch Nails concert that goes on forever.

Juleka: Yeah, so go home and put your underwear inside your pants, poser.

Ladybug: You’re going to tell me everything you know.

Nathaniel: No one is stopping Cthulhu, now! All will be sadness! Life will become death! And I shall watch the crimson blood leak from your neck!

Ivan: … Dude, this redhead is hardcore goth.

—

Ivan: We can’t do what she asks us to do. She’s a conformist! Look at her clothes and her hair.

Marc: Yeah, tell you what, new kid. Get the right clothes, dye that hair, some coffee, and then talk to us again.

Ivan: Yeah, if you wanna prove you aren’t a conformist, then you need to look exactly like we do. Then, maybe we’ll consider hanging out with you.

—

Adrien: She was my whole life.

Nino: Oh, come on, dude! All you’ve done for the last four days is mope around! You might as well go hang out with those goth kids who dress in black and talk about pain all the time.

Adrien: Maybe I should. At least they would understand me. Maybe I should go hang with the goth kids.

*Later*

Marc: Life is pain. Life is only pain. *Flips his hair* We’re all taught to life in haply fairytale endings, but there is only darkness. Dark loneliness that eats at your soul.

Ivan: Who needs that Ken and Barbie love, anyway? Everyone’s just walking around like a bunch of conformists. Go ahead and wear your business suit so you can make thirty-four thousand euros a year and buy your condominium. They’re all zombies racing to their graves. Love didn’t work for my mom and dad. Wish it had worked for me.

Juleka: My dad is such an asshole. Bastard doesn’t even know I exist, and he won’t let me go to this concert because the lead singer is this rival singer or whatever. Sucks. Now I can’t drown out the Barbie wannabes at this school bitching at me for not wearing girly clothes like then.

Nathaniel: They’re all a bunch of fascist conformist cheerleaders.

Adrien: …

—

Ivan: Does your mom know you took her car?

Juleka: Do I care?

—

Ivan: If we get the right packaging, we can just FedEx him somewhere far away.

Juleka: If we’re gonna send him somewhere, it should be the most horrible, most miserable place on earth.

Ivan/Marc/Juleka/Nathaniel: … Scottsdale.

—

Marc: If you like dressing in black because it is “fun,” enjoy putting sparkles on your cheeks, and following the occult while avoiding things that are bad for your health, then you are most likely a douchebag vampire wannabe bastard. Because anybody who thinks they are actually a vampire is fucking stupid.

*Everyone in the auditorium cheers*

Ivan: *Flips them off* Fuck all of you.

*They cheer louder*

—

Nora: Okay, hold up! Hold up! You mean that one of us might not really be a vamp kid?!

Ivan: … Uh… Right.

Nora: Well, whoever you are, you better get your ass ready to run, motherfucker, ‘cause you’re a damn traitor! And I’ll bet you it’s this little fucker right here! *Points to Adrien*

[istumpysk]

OPERATION ICEBERG: THE TIER LIST

THEORY:

Curtain of Light

TIER:

Fanfiction: These "theories" are nothing short of delusional fan-crafted fantasies, embarrassingly disconnected from any shred of textual reality.

[Tier list overview]

EVIDENCE:

Oh boy!

First, let's outline the theory.

Please note, like any other fan theory, there are always minor differences of opinion. So, we'll cover the basics that most people seem to agree on.

Daenerys, Jon, and Tyrion are the three heads of the dragon.

To defeat the Others, they will each mount a dragon and travel as far north as possible, beyond a curtain of light, where they will encounter a Lovecraftian, apocalyptic dimension filled with all kinds of monsters.

While they are beyond this curtain of light, they will engage in life-affirming activities in the face of death. Some believe this could manifest as Tyrion learning to love himself, childbirth, or a sexual encounter between Jon and Daenerys.

They will then sacrifice themselves and their dragons to defeat the Others. Presumably, much will go up in flames.

Apparently, this epitomizes the theme of the human heart in conflict with itself and will serve as the conclusion of the story.

Now, for the evidence...

Oops, there isn't any.

If you've ever had the privilege of reading someone discuss this theory, you'll have noticed a glaring lack of textual support. Nevertheless, I'll do my best to piece together a coherent argument for why this could happen.

(Honestly, I'm a bit bitter that I'm putting in more effort to prove this theory than anyone else has.)

What does it mean when something is Lovecraftian?

To borrow from dictionary.com, 'Lovecraftian' pertains to elements reminiscent of the works of fantasy and horror writer H.P. Lovecraft, especially those that depict monstrous, misshapen beings from other dimensions or universes.

George R. R. Martin, a fan of literature, incorporates numerous Lovecraftian references in his A Song of Ice and Fire series and its associated works.

Examples include:

Leng (Island): Inspired by Lovecraft's Plateau of Leng.

Sarnath (City): Likely inspired by the city of Sarnath in Lovecraft's "The Doom that Came to Sarnath."

Ib (Island/Civilization): Possibly a nod to Ib from "The Doom that Came to Sarnath."

K'dath in the Grey Waste: Inspired by Lovecraft's Kadath in the Cold Waste.

Church/Cult of Starry Wisdom: A probable reference to the same cult in Lovecraft's "The Haunter of the Dark."

Deep Ones: Likely inspired by the aquatic creatures in Lovecraft's "The Shadow over Innsmouth."

"What's dead may never die": Possibly inspired by Lovecraft's phrase "That is not dead which can eternal lie / And with strange eons even death may die."

The Drowned God: Possibly a nod to Lovecraft's Cthulhu.

Dagon: An Ironborn-associated name, also an ancient being in Lovecraft's lore.

The Black Goat of Qohor: Possibly a reference to Lovecraft's Shub-Niggurath, the "Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young."

N'Ghai and Nefer: Likely inspired by Lovecraft's N'Kai, an underground realm associated with Tsathoggua.

Are you noticing a pattern? These nods to Lovecraft are mostly found in peripheral settings, with minor association to the Ironborn. George tends to make a lot of references to all kinds of literature in a similar fashion.

I'd hesitate to jump to the conclusion that this implies the existence of a parallel universe with otherworldly monsters, accessible via a portal in the far north. But since this is appearing in the evidence section, I guess we'll do that anyway.

Moving on.

The words "curtain of light" appear in a Bran chapter. One time. In only this chapter.

Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal, and his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed, his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of all warmth fled from him. And he looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. - Bran III, AGOT

Melisandre also references curtains, though they are clearly different curtains than Bran's curtains. Whatever, it's fine.

Shadows in the shape of skulls, skulls that turned to mist, bodies locked together in lust, writhing and rolling and clawing. Through curtains of fire great winged shadows wheeled against a hard blue sky. - Melisandre I, ADWD

x

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again. - Melisandre I, ADWD

There is a place called the Land of Always Winter. It's like the Arctic.

The icy trenches rose around them, knee high, then waist high, then higher than their heads. They were in the heart of Winterfell with the castle all around them, but no sign of it could be seen. They might have easily been lost amidst the Land of Always Winter, a thousand leagues beyond the Wall. - Theon I, ADWD

x

Yet no matter the truths of their arts, the children were led by their greenseers, and there is no doubt that they could once be found from the Lands of Always Winter to the shores of the Summer Sea. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Dawn Age

x

What is commonly accepted is that the Age of Heroes began with the Pact and extended through the thousands of years in which the First Men and the children lived in peace with one another. With so much land ceded to them, the First Men at last had room to increase. From the Land of Always Winter to the shores of the Summer Sea, the First Men ruled from their ringforts. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Age of Heroes

The Others are believed to originate from the Land of Always Winter, where, according to legend, you can also find spooky ice spiders.

However, I should mention, a detail that might be easily missed in the books is that they are currently at Hardhome and continue to press south towards the Wall.

Yet there are other tales—harder to credit and yet more central to the old histories—about creatures known as the Others. According to these tales, they came from the frozen Land of Always Winter, bringing the cold and darkness with them as they sought to extinguish all light and warmth. The tales go on to say they rode monstrous ice spiders and the horses of the dead, resurrected to serve them, just as they resurrected dead men to fight on their behalf. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Long Night

In 2012, George confirmed that future books would explore further and further north. No shit, you don't say. I wonder if Bran's journey through history, where we learn more about the origins of the Others, has anything to do with that.

"And what lies really north in my books—we haven't explored that yet, but we will in the last two books." - George R. R. Martin

Bran uses the common metaphor "the heart of _____ (winter)" in the same passage that the curtain of light appears. Later, in another book, Daenerys enters the House of the Undying, where she encounters blue figures reminiscent of the Others. There, she finds a literal blue heart that appears to be their life force. Drogon eats it. Together, these things might suggest that there is a literal blue heart beyond a portal that needs to be set on fire to defeat the Others.

Also, another time, Theon stands in the middle of Winterfell and uses the same "the heart of" metaphor (common phrase found throughout the series). Shortly after, he references the Land of Always Winter, so I thought I would throw it in to be generous.

He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks. - Bran III, AGOT

x

They were in the heart of Winterfell with the castle all around them, but no sign of it could be seen. They might have easily been lost amidst the Land of Always Winter, a thousand leagues beyond the Wall. - Theon I, ADWD

x

A long stone table filled this room. Above it floated a human heart, swollen and blue with corruption, yet still alive. It beat, a deep ponderous throb of sound, and each pulse sent out a wash of indigo light. The figures around the table were no more than blue shadows. As Dany walked to the empty chair at the foot of the table, they did not stir, nor speak, nor turn to face her. There was no sound but the slow, deep beat of the rotting heart. [...] Through the indigo murk, she could make out the wizened features of the Undying One to her right, an old old man, wrinkled and hairless. His flesh was a ripe violet-blue, his lips and nails bluer still, so dark they were almost black. Even the whites of his eyes were blue. They stared unseeing at the ancient woman on the opposite side of the table, whose gown of pale silk had rotted on her body. One withered breast was left bare in the Qartheen manner, to show a pointed blue nipple hard as leather. She is not breathing. Dany listened to the silence. None of them are breathing, and they do not move, and those eyes see nothing. Could it be that the Undying Ones were dead? [...] Then indigo turned to orange, and whispers turned to screams. Her heart was pounding, racing, the hands and mouths were gone, heat washed over her skin, and Dany blinked at a sudden glare. Perched above her, the dragon spread his wings and tore at the terrible dark heart, ripping the rotten flesh to ribbons, and when his head snapped forward, fire flew from his open jaws, bright and hot. - Daenerys IV, ACOK

x

Only its eyes lived. Bright blue, just as Jon said. They shone like frozen stars. 

[...]

When he opened his eyes the Other's armor was running down its legs in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the black dragonglass dagger in its throat. - Samwell I, ASOS

If you cherry-pick through the text and remove all context, you might be able to piece together a few sentences suggesting that life and love will defeat the Others and that a great self-sacrifice is imminent.

The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. - Bran II, AGOT

x

We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. - Jon VIII, AGOT

x

"Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same." - Sansa IV, ACOK

x

"You're mine," she whispered. "Mine, as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first we'll live." - Jon V, ASOS

x

Someone threw a stone, and when Dany looked, her shoulder was torn and bloody. "No," she wept, "no, please, stop it, it's too high, the price is too high." More stones came flying. - Daenerys VIII, AGOT

x

"You are a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up." "I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly. "You might, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son." - Jon I, AGOT

Daenerys is convinced that there will be three heads of the dragon, and let me tell you, that girl's expectations are always fulfilled.

"If you were grown," she told Drogon, scratching him between the horns, "I'd fly you over the walls and melt that harpy down to slag." But it would be years before her dragons were large enough to ride. And when they are, who shall ride them? The dragon has three heads, but I have only one. She thought of Daario. If ever there was a man who could rape a woman with his eyes . . . - Daenerys V, ASOS

If the author leads you to believe that something will happen, it must be true.

Lastly, I should mention that there are vague references suggesting that George has written other stories with events and themes similar to this proposed ending. However, I can't verify these claims, and unsurprisingly, the works in question are never cited.

Well, that was it.

Say what you will about the "Daario is Euron" theorists, but at least they attempt to back up their crazy idea with actual text from the books.

COUNTER-EVIDENCE:

To put it bluntly, this theory has no basis—no textual support, no historical parallels, no evidence in the companion books, no prophetic visions, no dreams, no myths, no legends, no similarities to the television show, and no foreshadowing to speak of. It is entirely made up, with only a few words from the text as its foundation.

Does that sound like George R. R. Martin to you?

That said, now that I’ve realized his three-fold revelation strategy, I see it in play almost every time. The first, subtle hint for the really astute readers, followed later by the more blatant hint for the less attentive, followed by just spelling it out for everyone else. It’s a brilliant strategy, and highly effective. - Anne Groell, George R. R. Martin's editor

A Song of Ice and Fire is about the people of Westeros putting aside their petty differences and uniting against two existential threats: ice, represented by the Others, and fire, represented by Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. It's not a story about fire defeating ice.

Well, of course, the two outlying ones — the things going on north of the Wall, and then there is Targaryen on the other continent with her dragons — are of course the ice and fire of the title, "A Song of Ice and Fire." The central stuff — the stuff that's happening in the middle, in King's Landing, the capital of the seven kingdoms — is much more based on historical events, historical fiction. It's loosely drawn from the Wars of the Roses and some of the other conflicts around the 100 Years' War, although, of course, with a fantasy twist. You know, one of the dynamics I started with, there was the sense of people being so consumed by their petty struggles for power within the seven kingdoms, within King's Landing — who's going to be king? Who's going to be on the Small Council? Who's going to determine the policies? — that they're blind to the much greater and more dangerous threats that are happening far away on the periphery of their kingdoms. - George R. R. Martin

x

Ice and fire of course are also opposites, they're a duality and there's a lot in my books that are about duality. Certainly the religion of Melisandre, one of the most important characters, I think is basically a dualist religion with the premise that there are two gods. It's somewhat based on Zoroastrianism, and a little bit based on Catharism, Albigenses heresy who I know had some roots here in Spain once upon a time, before they were all killed. The idea of a world divided between good and evil, war between the two, which is so basic to so many fantasy starting with Tolkien, but much more so in the case of Tolkien imitators, was something that I wanted to recast and think about and maybe subvert a little. But I'm still using kind of the language of it, and some of the symbols associated with it. So all of these are grist for the mill, it's not something as simple as saying ice is this and fire is that. They're both many things. And one of the most important things is that both of them, ice and fire will kill you dead. So they're both dangerous in their own ways, hate, love, desire, coldness, they can both be deadly. - George R. R. Martin

x

While the lion of Lannister and the direwolf of Stark snarl and scrap, however, a second and greater threat takes shape across the narrow sea, where the Dothraki horselords mass their barbarian hordes for a great invasion of the Seven Kingdoms, led by the fierce and beautiful Daenerys Stormborn, the last of the Targaryen dragonlords. The Dothraki invasion will be the central story of my second volume, A Dance with Dragons. The greatest danger of all, however, comes from the north, from the icy wastes beyond the Wall, where half-forgotten demons out of legend, the inhuman others, raise cold legions of the undead and the neverborn and prepare to ride down on the winds of winter to extinguish everything that we would call "life." - The Original Outline

x

I have tried to make it explicit in the novels that the dragons are destructive forces, and Dany (Daenerys Targaryen) has found that out as she tried to rule the city of Meereen and be queen there.

She has the power to destroy, she can wipe out entire cities, and we certainly see that in 'Fire and Blood,' we see the dragons wiping out entire armies, wiping out towns and cities, destroying them, but that doesn't necessarily enable you to rule — it just enables you to destroy. - George R. R. Martin

In the established lore of A Song of Ice and Fire, dragons can't cross the Wall and dislike cold and wet weather. How exactly will they get to this Lovecraftian Land of Always Winter, and how will they be of any use in that climate?

The men of the Night's Watch were as thunderstruck by the queen's dragon as the people of White Harbor had been, though the queen herself noted that Silverwing "does not like this Wall." Though it was summer and the Wall was weeping, the chill of the ice could still be felt whenever the wind blew, and every gust would make the dragon hiss and snap. "Thrice I flew Silverwing high above Castle Black, and thrice I tried to take her north beyond the Wall," Alysanne wrote to Jaehaerys, "but every time she veered back south again and refused to go. Never before has she refused to take me where I wished to go. I laughed about it when I came down again, so the black brothers would not realize anything was amiss, but it troubled me then and it troubles me still." - Fire & Blood: Jaehaerys and Alysanne—Their Triumphs and Tragedies

x

Autumn was well advanced when the Prince of Dragonstone came to Winterfell. The snows lay deep upon the ground, a cold wind was howling from the north, and Lord Stark was in the midst of his preparations for the coming winter, yet he gave Jacaerys a warm welcome. Snow and ice and cold made Vermax ill-tempered, it is said, so the prince did not linger long amongst the northmen, but many a curious tale came out of that short sojourn. - Fire & Blood: the Dying of the Dragons—A Son for a Son

x

The big man looked out toward the terrace. "I knew it would rain," he said in a gloomy tone. "My bones were aching last night. They always ache before it rains. The dragons won't like this. Fire and water don't mix, and that's a fact. You get a good cookfire lit, blazing away nice, then it starts to piss down rain and next thing your wood is sodden and your flames are dead." - The Dragontamer, ADWD

x

He saw no sign of dragons, but he had not expected to. The dragons did not like the rain. - The Queen's Hand, ADWD

x

(bonus, for laughs:)

"The things…Mother have mercy, I do not know how to speak of them…they were…worms with faces…snakes with hands…twisting, slimy, unspeakable things that seemed to writhe and pulse and squirm as they came bursting from her [Aerea Targaryen] flesh. Some were no bigger than my little finger, but one at least was as long as my arm…oh, Warrior protect me, the sounds they made…" "They died, though. I must remember that, cling to that. Whatever they might have been, they were creatures of heat and fire, and they did not love the ice, oh no. One after another they thrashed and writhed and died before my eyes, thank the Seven. I will not presume to give them names…they were horrors." - Fire & Blood: Jaehaerys and Alysanne—Their Triumphs and Tragedies

House Targaryen and their dragons played no role in the previous Long Night.

How the Long Night came to an end is a matter of legend, as all such matters of the distant past have become. In the North, they tell of a last hero who sought out the intercession of the children of the forest, his companions abandoning him or dying one by one as they faced ravenous giants, cold servants, and the Others themselves. Alone he finally reached the children, despite the efforts of the white walkers, and all the tales agree this was a turning point. Thanks to the children, the first men of the Night's Watch banded together and were able to fight—and win—the Battle for the Dawn: the last battle that broke the endless winter and sent the Others fleeing to the icy north. Now, six thousand years later (or eight thousand as True History puts forward), the Wall made to defend the realms of men is still manned by the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch, and neither the Others nor the children have been seen in many centuries. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Long Night

x

The Targaryens were of pure Valyrian blood, dragonlords of ancient lineage. Twelve years before the Doom of Valyria (114 BC), Aenar Targaryen sold his holdings in the Freehold and the Lands of the Long Summer and moved with all his wives, wealth, slaves, dragons, siblings, kin, and children to Dragonstone, a bleak island citadel beneath a smoking mountain in the narrow sea. - The World of Ice and Fire—The Reign of the Dragons: The Conquest

Bran's curtain of light is simply a reference to the aurora borealis. For the love of christ, it's not a portal to another dimension.

North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. - Bran III, AGOT

x

Sailors, by nature a gullible and superstitious lot, as fond of their fancies as singers, tell many tales of these frigid northern waters. They speak of queer lights shimmering in the sky, where the demon mother of the ice giants dances eternally through the night, seeking to lure men northward to their doom. - The World of Ice and Fire—Beyond the Free Cities: The Shivering Sea

Speaking of Bran, why isn't he central to this theory? Didn't that sentence appear in his chapter? What is Arya up to? Where is Sansa? Why are the Starks, who are the central characters of this series, taking a backseat in their own conflict, which is unfolding in their own backyard?

(Not to mention the Night's Watch, the wildlings, the northerners, and the children of the forest—you know, the people who are actually integral to this storyline.)

Yeah, the children were always at the heart of this. The Stark children, in particular, were always very central. Bran is the first viewpoint character that we meet, and then we meet Jon and Sansa and Arya and the rest of them. It was always my intention to do that. - George R. R. Martin

x

Whenever I propose analogies like that, fans jump in with their own ideas, but it depends on what team you root for. To me, the Starks are heroes, so they would be the Giants. - George R. R. Martin

It's going to be a pact facilitated by Bran.

What is commonly accepted is that the Age of Heroes began with the Pact and extended through the thousands of years in which the First Men and the children lived in peace with one another. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Age of Heroes

x

Regardless, the children of the forest fought as fiercely as the First Men to defend their lives. Inexorably, the war ground on across generations, until at last the children understood that they could not win. The First Men, perhaps tired of war, also wished to see an end to the fighting. The wisest of both races prevailed, and the chief heroes and rulers of both sides met upon the isle in the Gods Eye to form the Pact. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Coming of First Men

x

According to these tales, the return of the sun came only when a hero convinced Mother Rhoyne's many children—lesser gods such as the Crab King and the Old Man of the River—to put aside their bickering and join together to sing a secret song that brought back the day. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Long Night

x

How the Long Night came to an end is a matter of legend, as all such matters of the distant past have become. In the North, they tell of a last hero who sought out the intercession of the children of the forest, his companions abandoning him or dying one by one as they faced ravenous giants, cold servants, and the Others themselves. Alone he finally reached the children, despite the efforts of the white walkers, and all the tales agree this was a turning point. Thanks to the children, the first men of the Night's Watch banded together and were able to fight—and win—the Battle for the Dawn: the last battle that broke the endless winter and sent the Others fleeing to the icy north. - The World of Ice and Fire—Ancient History: The Long Night

Tyrion Lannister is not a Targaryen; he is not one of the three heads of the dragon. He is the malevolent, vindictive son of Tywin Lannister. He rapes women, he kills women, he marries child hostages to acquire their castles, he will be complicit in the death of potentially hundreds of thousands of people, and he isn't getting anything remotely resembling a heroic ending.

Jaime kissed her cheek. "He left a son." "Aye, he did. That is what I fear the most, in truth." That was a queer remark. "Why should you fear?" "Jaime," she said, tugging on his ear, "sweetling, I have known you since you were a babe at Joanna's breast. You smile like Gerion and fight like Tyg, and there's some of Kevan in you, else you would not wear that cloak . . . but Tyrion is Tywin's son, not you. I said so once to your father's face, and he would not speak to me for half a year. Men are such thundering great fools. Even the sort who come along once in a thousand years." - Jaime V, AFFC

Daenerys and her dragons represent one of the two principal threats in the narrative. Azor Ahai is a misinterpreted prophecy that is intended as a warning, not as the foretelling of a hero.

Since the first book, her sole objective has been to rule foreign lands seized through force. She exploits slaves, consistently engages in brutal acts of violence, and leaves devastation wherever she sets foot. She will intentionally burn King's Landing to the ground, and then she'll be stabbed to death.

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words. "Fire and Blood," Daenerys told the swaying grass. - Daenerys X, ADWD

The idea that Daenerys, Jon, and Tyrion will love themselves or each other, either physically or emotionally, and then collectively sacrifice themselves, is the dumbest climax anyone has ever conceived. You forfeit the right to ever complain about the show if this is what you thought should happen.

Finally, please remember that, by default, the original creators of this theory are always wrong about everything.

STUMPY'S THOUGHTS:

You might be asking yourselves, "How do we distinguish between joke and fanfiction theories?"

I'll tell you. Both are equally absurd, but the fanfiction tier has the unique quality of making you feel like you're reading a story written by a fanfic writer who's in denial about their aspirations to write fanfic.

VOTE:

I welcome discussions. Feel free to reblog, respond, or challenge my perspective—I won't be offended by any of it.

Please note, if "no" is the eventual winner, or if it's competitive, a second poll will be conducted to determine the proper location.*

*won't be necessary for this theory.

NEXT THEORY:

Varys has Tyrek Lannister

[natalievoncatte]

This isn’t really a ficlet. It’s more of a screen test. If I like it and you like it, this might be my next project after my SCBB fic is done. I’ll start posting excerpts of that soon!

CW: Mentions of death and dying, and loss.

Of all the things to kill Lena Luthor, it was a heel shearing off her shoe. It wasn’t even a proper high heel, just a two inch rise on a pair of rather stately shoes from a designer of no particular note. Lena had since passed on the Louboutins, and had long adopted more conservative cuts for her suits and dresses. She’d given up her title as CEO decades ago and now fulfilled the role of director emeritus of L-Corp’s research and development division.

It had been a good life, except for one glaring exception. She’d cured over twenty types of common cancers, developed vaccines, and almost personally reversed global warming. She had only one regret as the heel sheared off her shoe and she went tumbling down the stairs to the floor of the L-Corp lobby.

Curiously, she was only dimly aware of the pain. It was something distant, like it was happening to someone else. She heard more than felt a crushing blow to her hip and when the marble rushed up to fill her vision, the world simply went explosively white and the only thing she felt was cold.

The world stayed white, which had perplexed her. Lena had never believed in any sort of life after death, even though she had a vague sense of the supernatural. Her mother was rumored to be a witch in the Irish village where she grew up, and she’d been told as much when she visited as an adult to seek out her roots. She expected, well, nothing. Not even an awareness that there was nothing, just an absence. As she grew older, on those nights when her mortality came crashing down around her in the fitful depths of the early morning when sleep rejected her, she would rationalize death as simply not having to get up tomorrow.

She did not expect to find herself standing in her old office, the one from a lifetime ago. Her stark minimalist desk dominated the room. Without knowing why, she ran the pads of her fingers along its cool length, a ghost of a sad smile dusting her lips.

The sofa was there, too. She could barely bring herself to look at it. After Kara’s betrayal, she had disposed of it thoroughly and rearranged the office. She’d eventually be driven out of the room entirely by grief and settled into another office on a lower floor and began spending more time at home, but the penthouse gave her no solace, either, and she ended up selling it and ultimately moved the research and development department back to Metropolis and worked there.

Lena’s breath caught at the sight of a familiar photograph on one of her bookcases. She took it in trembling hands, knowing then that this must be an illusion or a dream, because she’d smashed the frame and shredded this photograph in her own two fingers.

It was her and Kara, faces pressed together and grinning, their eyes so radiant with joy that it burned Lena’s heart to see and she immediately hurled it across the room, hurling it at a vase of rare plumerias that Kara had brought for her, leaving behind a full belly and a soaring heart.

A hand plucked it casually from the air and set it on an end table near the sofa. Lena stood her ground, though her legs began to tremble.

Standing in her office was a man she didn’t know, dressed smartly in a black suit that would have been in fashion all those years ago. He had a curiously calm air about him, reserved and almost peaceful.

“Who are you?” said Lena. “I’m dead, right? Are you God? The Devil?”

“I am not a god, nor am I one of the true immortals, though it is said that in strange æons, even death may die.”

“Then who are you?”

“My name is Mxyzptlk. Kara might, perhaps, have told you of me.”

“No.”

He snorted softly.

“Typical. I am a very long lived being, Lena Luthor. My kind measure our lives in eons, and as a wise human once said, a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. For the last ten thousand years, I have been a troublemaker and an imp. Now I shall be something else. I have decided I shall be grand and wise.”

“What does that have to do with me?” said Lena.

“Not you. Kara. I still owe her a debt, and I must balance myself before I truly transition into my next iteration. I am here to balance that debt.”

“How?”

“By giving you the opportunity to give love one last chance.”

“I was never in love with-“

“Do not lie to me.”

Lena took a half step back, grabbing the desk for balance. Mxyzptlk took a few steps closer.

“I am as far beyond you as you are beyond an ant, the very forces of chaos and entropy heed my command. All time is an open book to me. Whether you admit it to yourself or not, you never married because you were hoping they Kara would stop giving you space and time to heal like you said you wanted, but never did.”

“How dare you? You don’t-“

“What Kara did to you, the way she manipulated her identities to confuse you, was cruel. Lying to you for so long was cruel.”

“Then why should I take you up on whatever this is?”

“A do-over. You’ll go back with your memories intact. You’ll have the chance to set right what once went wrong, and so will she. Or you can avoid her entirely and seek happiness elsewhere. You can leave National City behind or refuse her lunch invitations or whatever it is you think you wish you’d done. I’m not here to force you to love her. I’m giving you another chance, in truth, on her behalf. One she would pigheadedly refuse out of some misplaced sense of morals or decency.”

“Have you offered this to her?”

“No. Where she has gone now, I cannot follow. I can’t even show you where she is: her god has taken her home to his warm light. She rests in the lush fields of a prehistoric Krypton she never knew, spending eternity with her family. Rao has even used his strength and purpose to talk Mother Sol into allowing the Danvers into his domain.”

Lena’s voice cracked. “What?”

“Kara passed earlier today on Argo, from old age and cumulative injuries from her time as Supergirl, without a yellow star to protect her from them.”

“It sounds like she’s happy,” said Lena, turning away. “I… I still want her to be happy.”

“Rao is a bold god, a strong and protective one, but he is an honest lord. He does not give her the gift of forgetting, and perfect memory of love lost can be make a hell of heaven.”

“She loved me?”

“As much as you loved her. Enough to let you go.”

Lena’s hands began to shake. “It’s been so long. How-“

There was a knock at the door. Lena jumped, almost falling.

Mxyzptlk flashed to her side, crossing the space without moving.

“Choose now.”

“Who’s out there?”

“I don’t know. Whoever has the strongest claim over your soul, I suppose. You must choose now; to delay a true god is beyond even me.”

Lena swallowed, hard.

“Do it,” she whispered.

The world went mad. Everything was spinning, and trying to throw her stomach out of her body through her nose. The acrid smell of jet fuel and burning electronics stung her nose. The pilot beside her was unconscious.

And then…

The spinning slowed, and she was no longer falling. A gentle sense of lift raised her into the air, the city falling away from the cracked glass in front of her. Very gently, the helicopter came to rest on the roof, and she glimpsed a familiar figure in a cape and skirt, and her heart nearly exploded in her chest. There was a gust of wind that rocked the chopper and ice crystals crawled over the glass, crackling in the National City sunshine.

Then, she was there. Kara tore the door loose in a single, fluid motion and climbed inside, pausing to check the pilot, peering through flesh and bone to asses his injuries.

Then she looked at Lena.

Kara’s breath caught, and her pupils blew wide. Kara stared at Lena like she was something knew, unknown and wondrous, the edges of her lips curling just so despite the self serious tone as she asked if Lena was okay.

It was her. Alive, here, now. Lena couldn’t help herself; she lifted a trembling hand to cup Kara’s soft cheek, without thinking. Her throat nearly closed and no words escaped her lips. She just felt that warm, soft skin and stared right back into Kara’s otherworldly eyes, savoring the tickle of Kara’s loose honey curls slipping over the back of her hand.

“Miss Luthor,” Kara said. “Your heart is racing. We’d better get you an ambulance.”

“You saved me,” Lena whispered.

“That’s what I do,” said Kara, winking at her.

Lena almost died again.

[tgrailwar-zero]

Perhaps once we’re fully on our feet we can join you in jolly co-operation in fighting the foe that has taken over the Moon Cell.

SLAYER: "That's the hope! That Titan that took everything- that Titan that wished to destroy humanity! We're the only ones standing in it's way!"

KEEPER: "We won't ask you to do anything you don't want to, but your help would be appreciated."

SLAYER: "Ahaha! And-- this Solar Cell is a secure box. It can bang on the 'outside' for eons if it wants, it's not getting through. Which gives us plenty of time to prepare and come up with a perfect plan. We were each summoned for a reason. That's right! You must have come for a reason! More allies, willing to go into the fray and join us in saving Humanity!"

PRIESTESS: "…Once the core of the Solar Cell gathers enough power, then we can begin our assault. It'll be far from 'jolly', our adversary carved through true Divine Spirits from the Age of Gods. Just thinking about fighting it gives me the chills, bringing back horrible memories…"

PRIESTESS: "But we can't afford to be cowardly! If something has to be done, then we'll have to do it!"

SLAYER: "Hear, hear! We ride in ready to die, and thus we shall prosper! Ahahahahahaha!"

KEEPER: "Hah, look at you, matching Slayer's energy. Well, not exactly, she's still a few notches higher. Still... I like this, it's better than your usual gloomy self. Maybe you really are feeling a bit more hope?"

PRIESTESS: "Maybe you're right, either way… I can't waver. I am of a unique body, but I was summoned with this strange Saint Graph for a reason. And if that means laying down some dragon-fox wrath, then so be it!"

PRIESTESS: "We'll show that Umbral Star the might of the Sun!"

.

..

...

You felt a shudder.

At this point, you knew the rest.

War, fire, death. It was as if not to torture your brain with irony for much longer, your mind mentally began fast forwarding through everything else. There wasn't any changing the past, after all.

At some point, you recalled that you had slain the Slayer.

...Your fractured memory told you that it wasn't easy.

You recalled the moment of your 'end'. Where you had been cast away, and sealed.

The last time you had recalled this moment, it had been more twisted. More horrifying, more monstrous, more viscous. A beast, clad in shadow, mechanically slaughtering you and casting you into the abyss.

Now, the memory was clearer.

Powerful magic coalescing, a sealing spell beyond compare. The Priestess of the Sun had her hands raised, her expression bitter and filled with betrayal and contempt. A goddess that had seen tragedy, and now was more than willing to enact divine retribution.

A voice screaming. Hoarse.

"For what reason… for what purpose?!" "Show me, tell me, do something! Please!" "Why did you destroy my world…? Why did you crush my dream…? We could have saved everything! Avenged everyone! And now... and now it's gone! Are you happy?! Are you proud?! The war is over before it even began!"

"I'll… I'll curse you! For a thousand years, I'll curse you! May you and your sins burn for a thousand, thousand eternities!"

She brought down her hands with rage, the might of a wrathful god slamming down on you and pushing you deeper and deeper into darkness.

Deeper and deeper.

Blacker and blacker.

Dark, for so long.

You felt your hands let go of the teabowl. Not even a second had passed, it seemed.

The sweet taste ended bittersweet in your mouth. Still, it felt a bit like a jolt. It'd be easy to stay in that memory forever, but waking up was the important part- as hard as it was, sometimes.

RIKYU: "..."

RIKYU: "..."

RIKYU: "I see."

[o-craven-canto]

  Evolution Langdon Smith (1858-1908)

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish   In the Paleozoic time, And side by side on the ebbing tide   We sprawled through the ooze and slime, Or skittered with many a caudal flip   Through the depths of the Cambrian fen, My heart was rife with the joy of life,   For I loved you even then. Mindless we lived and mindless we loved   And mindless at last we died; And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift   We slumbered side by side. The world turned on in the lathe of time,   The hot lands heaved amain, Till we caught our breath from the womb of death   And crept into life again. We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,   And drab as a dead man's hand; We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees   Or trailed through the mud and sand. Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet   Writing a language dumb, With never a spark in the empty dark   To hint at a life to come. Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,   And happy we died once more; Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold   Of a Neocomian shore. The eons came and the eons fled   And the sleep that wrapped us fast Was riven away in a newer day   And the night of death was passed. Then light and swift through the jungle trees   We swung in our airy flights, Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms   In the hush of the moonless nights; And oh! what beautiful years were there   When our hearts clung each to each; When life was filled and our senses thrilled   In the first faint dawn of speech. Thus life by life and love by love   We passed through the cycles strange, And breath by breath and death by death   We followed the chain of change. Till there came a time in the law of life   When over the nursing sod The shadows broke and the soul awoke   In a strange, dim dream of God. I was thewed like an Auroch bull   And tusked like the great cave bear; And you, my sweet, from head to feet   Were gowned in your glorious hair. Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,   When the night fell o'er the plain And the moon hung red o'er the river bed   We mumbled the bones of the slain. I flaked a flint to a cutting edge   And shaped it with brutish craft; I broke a shank from the woodland lank   And fitted it, head and haft; Than I hid me close to the reedy tarn,   Where the mammoth came to drink; Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone   And slew him upon the brink. Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,   Loud answered our kith and kin; From west to east to the crimson feast   The clan came tramping in. O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof   We fought and clawed and tore, And cheek by jowl with many a growl   We talked the marvel o'er. I carved that fight on a reindeer bone   With rude and hairy hand; I pictured his fall on the cavern wall   That men might understand. For we lived by blood and the right of might   Ere human laws were drawn, And the age of sin did not begin   Til our brutal tusks were gone. And that was a million years ago   In a time that no man knows; Yet here tonight in the mellow light   We sit at Delmonico's. Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,   Your hair is dark as jet, Your years are few, your life is new,   Your soul untried, and yet -- Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay   And the scarp of the Purbeck flags; We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones   And deep in the Coralline crags; Our love is old, our lives are old,   And death shall come amain; Should it come today, what man may say   We shall not live again? God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds   And furnish’d them wings to fly; He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,   And I know that it shall not die, Though cities have sprung above the graves   Where the crook-bone men made war And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves   Where the mummied mammoths are. Then as we linger at luncheon here   O'er many a dainty dish, Let us drink anew to the time when you   Were a tadpole and I was a fish.

[muzzleroars]

oughhg. this is a little out there but its a fun scenario imo. my gabe and v2 eventually also face that hardware deterioration problem as well (after a LONG ass time at least) and since those two hang out on the surface, it's a little more difficult to deal with but i like to imagine v2 goes the more proactive route. over time v2 started studying the corpses of angels (mostly consisting of council-sympathizers or individuals with something to gain from trying to go after gabriel) and uses what it learns from that to engineer some kind of esoteric replacement for its failing processors derived from how angels seem to function. its like less a life extention or revival and more like creating a whole new replacement ai that carries some of its old memories and archived information which also has its own distinct quirks that set it apart from the original v2. the whole reason it does this is because once it noticed its systems beginning to deteriorate its objective basically became 'make sure my friend wont be alone in an otherwise empty world' and it drives me fucking crazy thinking about it

THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS BC I GENUINELY WANTED TO ASK YOU ABOUT THIS....and i can absolutely see the parallels between this version of v2 and v1 as it is resurrected in heaven. i do really like v2 taking a practical approach and deconstructing the anatomy of angels in order to reverse-engineer something that may preserve it (SUCH a neat idea, absolutely in love with it), as well as this being an interesting way that it may emotionally and mentally deal with its decay - work on it, fix it, remember why it's doing it in the first place. and it's a good contrast to me because v1 is acutely aware that its death means a distinct loss and isolation for gabriel, yet its mind has so thoroughly protected against it as a way to prevent locking it into an existential dread it could loop on indefinitely, to the point where every processor it has is consumed by it...and that would be leaving gabriel too. so ultimately it does die, the half-measures they were able to discuss before v1's mind had to detach from the conversation proving to not be enough to save it, and gabriel instead must put into motion a plan he couldn't previously articulate.

BUT either through looting god or his own light (MAN....i like both too much), v1 is brought back to honestly be in much the same position as v2 is for you - both mechanical and divine, it now inhabits a life state nothing before it has achieved. i haven't fully determined what this means for v1, but the transition is an uneasy one as code rewrites into esoteric languages and divine mathematics command its logic to impossibilities. additionally, i can't pass up on the idea of quantum ghosts and v1's consciousness coming back from vast, unfathomable reaches that registered only as strange impressions it can barely call senses or even now memories. it gets fucked up basically!! and now gabriel essentially needs to return the favor it gave him eons ago when it helped him through his fall. SO i am curious how it compares with this v2, since like you mentioned, v2 is more creating something entirely new to be carried over into while v1 is essentially god being shoved into the machine. also need to know gabriel's thoughts on v2's plans as it executes them and the results that come of it....ouuuughhh wait hold on a minute let me formulate thoughts for an ask.........

[nosafeharbour]

Day 2: Horizon

For prompt Horizon, as part of FFxivWrite2024. Late-Endwalker.

If this is the end, Albi thinks, it would be enough. As long as her foe greeted death alongside her, it would be a fine cost to pay.

Merely standing upright on the makeshift platform upon which she now sailed through the stars was a struggle, in its own right—as Shinryu streaked through the cosmos, holding fast against the rushing of aether felt akin to a feeble attempt to stand tall in the crashing of shoulder high waves. Eons blurred past, the distant impressions of planets, worlds, the confluence of all that was and would be; but the stars had ever bent to Albi’s whim, and a lack of aether upon which to draw from was now the least of her concerns. The Scions safely back aboard the Ragnarok, and the distance between them rapidly widening, she had no concerns of collateral. It would be enough.

It was strange, to feel comfort at how far away the Scions were to her, now. Her heart felt calm. It was almost as if the smothering, deep sea pressure of her recent grief had finally absolved her of any feeling at all.

“You will never reach it.” The Endsinger cries with a sweep of its wings, aether twisting and converging unnaturally around the motion, as if rotting. The air was thick with it. “Will never reach the deliverance you seek.”

Albi needn’t grace them with a response, and so she does not. There isn't time. She raises her staff, evens her breathing. There would only be one attempt at this.

“Even stars must die.”

She isn’t sure if an incantation is necessary—it certainly hadn’t been when on the receiving end of comparable assaults, amongst the cinders of the Ghimlyt Dark, or within imperial castri. She had never been one to rely on recitation when casting magicks before, so to begin now feels trite. But the words find themselves rising amongst the din of crashing comets and flames, all the same.

From the deepest pit of the seven hells,

Inhale.

to the very pinnacle of the heavens,

Exhale.

the world shall tremble.

—————————————————————————————————

The Endsinger falls. By some miracle, Albi does not. The sole remaining member of the choir clutches Albi’s hand, trembling as she speaks her final testimony. Their song ends with neither bang nor whimper. It is hard to hear much of anything, truth be told, or focus on that final arc as the starbird pivots and soars towards the horizon; Albi’s thoughts are coming through in short, strange bursts, limbs feeling distant and strange. There is a growing drumming within her skull that is drowning out all else.

All else, with one exception. Albi yet rises for the encore. In hindsight it may have seemed foolish to entertain Zenos’s proposition, a decision that could perhaps be attributed to a lack of clarity or clearness of mind. But the drumming dims just long enough for Albi to know what she must do. If she would not make it home, if this was the price she was paying, she could pull another down with her. Putting Zenos down felt like a fitting enough bookend to it all, a holy duty that fills her with one last surge of foolish, divine righteousness.

—————————————————————————————————

She expected to be at peace, thoughts quietened and burdens laid to rest at close of day, but as Albi gazes upon the dizzying firmament above and waits for the end, she finds herself thinking of home.

Her thoughts had been filled with memories of Ul’dah’s markets, back when she had been slipping in and out of delirium in Norvrandt, Light seeping into her marrow. The way the banners of the Sapphire Avenue Exchange shifted in the breeze, carefree and unconcerned with the bustle of the traders below. She had never seen such a shade of green as borne by those tapestries, before or since. She had been resolved to die then too, her only regret not being able to walk those streets with Thancred once more, feel the warmth of the Thanalan sun on their backs. To die a world away from home, lost at sea. But it had been enough.

Now, further away from home by several measures more, Albi thinks of Danann. She had never mustered up the courage to take the boat trip back out to the isle, short as the journey would have been from Old Sharlayan. It was cowardly of her, this she knew—she had strode down to Scholar’s Harbor on more than one occasion with every intention of flagging down a shiphand to take her there, but every time her steps had faltered. Here, at the end of all things, she laments not finding out what had happened to her people, her house, the old school building, if any of it still stood.

Albi thinks of Terncliff, of its cobbled streets. They had all been labouring under blue skies, last she had been there, rebuilding portions of the brickwork that had fallen to disrepair. Albi thinks of Vesper Bay, and the few remaining Scions who had chosen to keep vigil in The Waking Sands. The warmth of the ceruleum lamps used by the Ironworks in their workshops. She hadn’t visited either in far too long. Why was all of this coming to mind, now? Against her wishes, it was regret that met her here like an old friend, not peace. Whatever brazen confidence had spurred Albi onwards to this point had bled out with the rest of her, and she lay there, feeling frightened and small. The time she had been afforded, it hadn’t been enough. She wanted to live. She wanted to—

Inhale.

Exhale.

By some miracle, Albi opens her eyes.

[bloodlunacy]

Anyways my new passion in life is finding ways that the Great Old Ones and the Endless would interact.

Dream and Hastur are playing chess together. Both are holding knives under the table. And yet, you know deep down that neither is going to stab the other because the game isn’t finished. Yet.

Desire HATES all the Great Old Ones who are even close to their realm. They’re all gross and ugly as shit and just. Corrupt and ruin everything. They suck. However, they respect the number of humans who now wanna fuck Cthulhu.

Death is respected by all the Great Old Ones. They know her well. However, they all have a deep, unspoken understanding- with strange eons, even Death may die.

Delirium is their home girl. She shows up and the Great Old Ones know something terrific (and in their favor) is going to go down. They have found ways to court her favor, most especially Hastur. Some say she even gave Hastur the Yellow Sign as a gift, but good luck trying to get a straight answer out of either of them.

Destiny and Nyarlathotep just sit and drink tea and sigh frequently. They don’t speak to one another. They just lament. Anyways they’re best friends

[methemanthatishers]

Under the raging waves, stone and coral bricks lay resting under the pressure of that which many have fallen to. Beings of the unimaginable come fourth when the sea parts, to show us what brought madness upon men. "And with strange eons, even death may die", said the wise man who dared gaze upon the darkness between stars. When the creeping chaos rolls in like the fog of war, all of man may only pray, for they are now nothing but prey. Golden lights pierce the hearts of all, leaving them dead on arrival for man was not meant to dance with the stars.

[oldgorgoroth]

That is not dead which can eternal lie

And with strange eons even death May die

[a-backlog-of-a-man]

Evolution, by Langdon Smith

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish   In the Paleozoic time, And side by side on the ebbing tide   We sprawled through the ooze and slime, Or skittered with many a caudal flip   Through the depths of the Cambrian fen, My heart was rife with the joy of life,   For I loved you even then.

Mindless we lived and mindless we loved   And mindless at last we died; And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift   We slumbered side by side. The world turned on in the lathe of time,   The hot lands heaved amain, Till we caught our breath from the womb of death   And crept into life again.

We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,   And drab as a dead man's hand; We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees   Or trailed through the mud and sand. Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet   Writing a language dumb, With never a spark in the empty dark   To hint at a life to come.

Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,   And happy we died once more; Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold   Of a Neocomian shore. The eons came and the eons fled   And the sleep that wrapped us fast Was riven away in a newer day   And the night of death was passed.

Then light and swift through the jungle trees   We swung in our airy flights, Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms   In the hush of the moonless nights; And oh! what beautiful years were there   When our hearts clung each to each; When life was filled and our senses thrilled   In the first faint dawn of speech.

Thus life by life and love by love   We passed through the cycles strange, And breath by breath and death by death   We followed the chain of change. Till there came a time in the law of life   When over the nursing sod The shadows broke and the soul awoke   In a strange, dim dream of God.

I was thewed like an Auroch bull   And tusked like the great cave bear; And you, my sweet, from head to feet   Were gowned in your glorious hair. Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,   When the night fell o'er the plain And the moon hung red o'er the river bed   We mumbled the bones of the slain.

I flaked a flint to a cutting edge   And shaped it with brutish craft; I broke a shank from the woodland lank   And fitted it, head and haft; Than I hid me close to the reedy tarn,   Where the mammoth came to drink; Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone   And slew him upon the brink.

Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,   Loud answered our kith and kin; From west to east to the crimson feast   The clan came tramping in. O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof   We fought and clawed and tore, And cheek by jowl with many a growl   We talked the marvel o'er.

I carved that fight on a reindeer bone   With rude and hairy hand; I pictured his fall on the cavern wall   That men might understand. For we lived by blood and the right of might   Ere human laws were drawn, And the age of sin did not begin   Til our brutal tusks were gone.

And that was a million years ago   In a time that no man knows; Yet here tonight in the mellow light   We sit at Delmonico's. Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,   Your hair is dark as jet, Your years are few, your life is new,   Your soul untried, and yet --

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay   And the scarp of the Purbeck flags; We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones   And deep in the Coralline crags; Our love is old, our lives are old,   And death shall come amain; Should it come today, what man may say   We shall not live again?

God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds   And furnish’d them wings to fly; He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,   And I know that it shall not die, Though cities have sprung above the graves   Where the crook-bone men made war And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves   Where the mummied mammoths are.

Then as we linger at luncheon here   O'er many a dainty dish, Let us drink anew to the time when you   Were a tadpole and I was a fish.