#and now it slowly begins anew like a phoenix

[batstorm93672]

Jason whistled as he walked down the halls, stopping when he heard a strange noise from Damian's room. Knocking on the door, waiting to only hear the same sound.

Jason waited a few seconds as the noise kept going, then opening the door and walking in to see Damian laughing with tears down his face. Are those happy tears? Can... can Damian cry happy tears? "Heeeey. You, uh you doing alright there?"

Damian opened his eyes to look at Jason, he kept laughing in a strained and confusing manner. "Haha! D-Did you know as well?" "What?" Damian clutched his stomach as he laughed, barely able to keep his eyes open at whatever he found entertaining. "Hahaha I can't believe I didn't know! How foolish haha! Jason, hehe I wasn't wanted!" Jason didn't move, looking at him more, the bags under his eyes more visible. "Hahahahaha! I was never wanted for being myself! Haha! I'm such an idiot to think I was! Hehehehe what made me draw to such a conclusion anyways?" Damian's laughter was interrupted by a few hiccups and it somehow made him laugh more.

"Damian-"

"Haha! I saw the files, hehehe I really thought otherwise! Mother never wanted me-" Damian giggled like a child at a fair "-I am only meant for grandfather to use haha! How could I have doubted his words on my purpose in this world?"

"Damian stop"

"I bet everyone knew! Hahahahahahahaha! Should I be hurt that I wasn't a part of it until now? No! That's what makes it more funnier I bet! Heh it really is funny Jason"

"Damian stop talking"

"Why aren't you laughing? Isn't it funny? Haha! Come on Jason lighten up, you must've known since you were sometimes watching over me, per grandfather's request even!" Damian snickered

"Damian that's enough"

"You need to lighten up! It's funny! It's- i-it's so funny hah... haha..." Damian stopped laughing, he kept his arms wrapped around his stomach. "It's funny... that I was such a moron. What else could my existence be? Not for love... never for love or friendships or family. It didn't matter, it never mattered" Jason sat down next to Damian and glanced at him in between a few seconds. "They're mocking me, I thought if I joined in... we could all laugh and have fun and they're bellowing with fits of laughter"

"You aren't meant to never love"

"Are you kidding? I'm meant to be used to keep grandfather stronger in the future. I was never loved, even my mother had me killed"

"Talia isn't in her right mind since she died more, Ra is fucked up in so many ways. You're with us now, he can't do anything to you now. Not when you are here"

"...father knew, it was in a file about me. Why didn't he tell me?"

"Bruce isn't good at confronting emotions, but I think this one was for a good reason. Your reaction now was distraught, he probably wanted to disregard that file and love you as a son not a tool for a mad man"

"Jason..."

"Yeah?"

"This joke is over correct?"

"It can be, unless you still got some laughter in you"

"I-" Damian sniffed as new tears surfaced "-I think I do"

With the river flowing down his face he grabbed onto Jason and held him.

[callsigns-haze]

Back to beginning

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!Reader Summary: Y/N wakes up from the dead, overwhelmed by confusion and grief, learning about her miraculous revival and Eris' survival, breaking down in tears as the nurses comfort her. She prepares to reunite with Eris and face their new beginning. Chapter Warning: This chapter contains scenes of intense emotional distress, confusion, and descriptions of recovery from severe trauma, which may be triggering for some readers.

*Serves as a one-shot but can be read as memories fade or the sequel loves haze series

Y/N awoke slowly, her senses dulled as if she were emerging from a dense fog. The weight of her eyelids felt immense, and her body ached with a deep, unfamiliar pain. She was covered by a soft, warm blanket, its texture a slight comfort against her bare skin. The room was dimly lit, and she could hear the faint sound of voices and movement nearby.

Her vision gradually sharpened, revealing two women bustling about the room with practiced efficiency. One of them, a nurse with kind eyes and a gentle demeanour, noticed Y/N stirring and leaned closer. "You're awake," she said softly, relief evident in her voice. "I'm Sera, and this is Elara. We've been taking care of you."

Y/N's mind was a haze of fragmented memories and confusion. She remembered pain, darkness, and then... nothing. She tried to speak, her throat dry and scratchy. "What happened?" she managed to croak out, her voice barely a whisper.

Elara, the other nurse, stepped forward, her expression calm and reassuring. "You've been through a lot," she began, her voice soothing. "You were gravely. The poison... it killed you. But something extraordinary happened."

Sera continued, gently wiping Y/N's forehead with a damp cloth. "You rose from the dead, like a phoenix from the ashes. It's a miracle, really. You and Eris, both of you... you were given a second chance."

The words seemed surreal, almost impossible to grasp. Y/N's mind raced, trying to comprehend the enormity of what she was hearing. She had been dead. She remembered the searing pain, the darkness that had swallowed her whole. And now, she was here, alive.

"Where... where is Eris?" she asked, her voice trembling with confusion and desperation.

Sera offered a comforting smile. "He's alive too. He's been staying nearby, waiting for you to wake up. You're both under protection now, in a place beyond the forest. It's safe here."

The relief was so overwhelming it crashed over her like a wave, bringing with it the release of pent-up emotions. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks uncontrollably. She sobbed, her body shaking with the force of her grief and relief.

Elara quickly moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "It's okay," she soothed, her voice gentle and warm. "You're safe now. Let it out."

Y/N buried her face in her hands, her cries muffled but no less heart-wrenching. The nurses stayed by her side, their presence a comforting anchor in the storm of her emotions. They didn't rush her or try to stop her tears. Instead, they let her cry, understanding that she needed this release.

Sera brushed Y/N's hair away from her face, her touch motherly. "You've been through so much, dear. It's okay to be overwhelmed."

Y/N nodded, unable to speak through her sobs. She clung to Elara, her body wracked with the pain of all she had endured. The fear, the loss, the sheer horror of what had happened to her and Eris—everything poured out in those tears.

After what felt like an eternity, her sobs began to subside, leaving her feeling drained but strangely lighter. She wiped at her eyes, looking at the nurses with a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Elara smiled gently. "You're welcome. Rest now. We'll take care of you. When you're ready, you'll see Eris again. And together, you'll start anew."

As the nurses continued to clean her and tend to her wounds, Y/N closed her eyes, struggling to process everything she had heard. She didn't know what the future held, but for now, she was alive. And that was a beginning.

----

Eris sat outside the room, his heart pounding in his chest. The thought of seeing Y/N again, truly alive and not in his dreams or memories, was overwhelming. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. When Sera opened the door and gave him a nod, he felt his legs move of their own accord, carrying him inside.

As he stepped into the room, his eyes immediately found Y/N. She looked fragile, almost ethereal, lying there under the blanket. The sight of her brought a lump to his throat, and he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Her eyes fluttered open, and when they locked onto his, she gave a small, weak smile. "Eris," she breathed, her voice filled with a mixture of relief and confusion.

He couldn't hold back any longer. Eris crossed the room in a few quick strides and fell to his knees beside her bed. He took her hand in his, his tears falling freely now. "I lost you," he choked out, his voice trembling. "I thought I lost you forever."

Y/N reached out with her other hand, brushing away his tears with a gentle touch. "I'm here," she whispered. "We're here."

Eris buried his face in her hand, his body shaking with sobs. The weight of the past weeks, the fear, the guilt, the helplessness, all came crashing down on him. "I'm so sorry," he cried. "I couldn't protect you. I should have been there. I'm so, so sorry."

Y/N gently pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around him as best as she could. "It's not your fault," she murmured, her own tears mingling with his.

They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other, their tears a cathartic release of all the pain and fear they had endured. Eventually, Eris pulled back slightly, looking into Y/N's eyes. "I love you," he said, his voice steadying.

"I love you too," she replied, her eyes shining with tears.

Eris nodded, a sense of peace washing over him. They had been given a second chance, and he wasn't going to waste it. They would rebuild their lives, stronger and more united than ever, they were the Phoenii.

A/n: THEY'RE BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

@daughterofthemoons-stuff

@lilah-asteria

@crossfandomslut

@pit-and-the-pen

@inky-sun

@the-sweet-psycho

@why4anne

@bunnyredgirl

@rcarbo1

@pandabiiissh

@adalia-jaycee

@swiftie-4-lifes-stuff

@minaethrym

[pluton514]

Chapter 1: Speaking my mind, the beginnings.

In a wooden house far from any signs of civilization in the middle of a barren wasteland, except for a random restaurant a couple of miles away, there sat a boy by the name of Pluto on his bed in a dark room, with fluffy black hair, semi defined muscles, and scarlet eyes. Wondering about his own life, The boy doesn't have any recollection of his memories, but instead has small fragments of them scattered throughout his mind. He doesn't know why he's there, but at least he isn't alone. The house doesn't belong to him, but it belongs to a girl that goes by the name of Amelia. As far as he knows, she's been taking care of him for a while now. This is all weird and sudden for the boy, but as of right now all he can do...is wonder.

I don't exactly recall how I happened to be here. In this cold, spacious, dark room. I just remember running away from the bright flames, and the shrieks from indistinguishable beings. I remember the smell of smoke and the awful scent of rotting dead bodies. Screams of agony and fear; a giant blue light from the clouds almost striking me, it was all so sudden. I do however, remember my mother dying off in the distance seeing her flesh melt down into bones.

Before she left, she whispered these words into my ear, "This isn't goodbye."After that, everything went dark. I wake up in the middle of this room and here we are in present time. It's a peaceful night and the moon is full. I like to gaze at the beautiful nightsky; it makes me feel at ease. My Mother once told me that the stars align our destiny and that everything we do is for a purpose. I'm 16 and I'm still trying to figure out what is my purpose...

  Although, there is tale, a tale of the constellations. They tell your purpose, your fate, or your destiny. It's all the same, but when I gaze up at the moon, at the starry night. I see the stars align the shape of a Phoenix. The animal of rebirth, the bird that starts anew after death, a new youth, a new cycle of life. I don't really understand it, but it's pretty cool to look at I guess.

Wanna know something? I'm sure you probably don't care or anything, but I'll tell you anyways. Have you ever felt out of purpose? Or maybe you feel like you haven't done enough with your life? If the answer yes, well I've got nothing to say to you, but if your answer is no, then I guess you and I have a long road ahead of us. I know, I know it's stupid...you're probably thinking "You're just a kid! You don't have to think about this!", right? But that's the thing, there really isn't much to think about. At least, not for me.

I want to do something with my life, I want to be part of something big, something that'll change...history? Ok, maybe not THAT big...or maybe that big..? I don't know, doesn't hurt to dream I guess.

A moment of silence ensues after the boy shares his thoughts...to himself. He sits there on his bed pondering. The dark room and the silence consumes him, making him feel drowsy, but his thoughts are what keep him awake. He turns his head to the side, seemingly looking at a darkened square with hints of lights in between its crevices. He slowly stands up and takes a few steps towards the dark square. Reaching his hand out, the boy clasps his hand on the square, he puts his finger in between the lines that show off a spec of bluish light, with a tint of white. He pulls his finger up allowing for the wooden curtain to open, revealing the moonlight, and the sky filled with stars. The boy looks up at the night, feeling a sense of calmness. The moon reflecting on his left eye, the boy looks upward, to see the constellation he spoke of earlier, the phoenix. A gentle smile forms on the boys face, he finds it calming to watch the sky, to watch the stars. It's probably his favorite hobby in a way, is it really a hobby? I guess you'd call it stargazing, so we'll call it a hobby.

A single tear falls from the boy's face, not because he's sad, but because he's tired. He yawns and stretches his arms up, he's ready to head to bed. The boy closing the wooden curtain, darkness takes over the room again. Slowly creeping his way to his bed, he doesn't make a sound. Sitting down on the mattress on the floor, the boy moves his body downwards laying himself face down on the bed. His eyes blinking as if trying to stay awake, but they slow down as the seconds come to pass. His eyesight dims, the dark becomes even darker, the boy's eyelids make contact, dozing off into deep slumber.

[aikoiya]

Ah! I can't help how much I loved the Firebird part of Fantasia 2000. Especially the part after the lava has cooled with the nymph. How injured & sad & dreary it was. It was just. Ugh!! I loved it! And the music that it was based around was incredible! How the beginning gives a feel of morning or dawn. How it sounds like mother nature is just now awakening. How the animation moves with the music. I especially love how it goes so quiet on the mountain. How the sound stirs curiously, but also a feeling of ominousness.

Then, the moment that the nymph touches the stone shell of the Phoenix (which are depicted as both beings of destruction & rebirth), the music crashes with cymbals! How it's both furious but also frenzied. How it seems to switch between the rage of the fire & the horror of the nymph. Then, as she climbs the tree how the music starts quiet & slowly rises with hysteria before reaching the top to find the bird formed of lava towering high over both her & the land. The expression of terror upon her face, the orange glow alighting her form & the empty rage of the firebird's almost skull-like eyes just before it & the music surges forth to ravage her, then the music goes quiet...

But my favorite part is the end. After the Firebird has died along with the lava & fire. How the land was left gray & gloomy. How the sky was overcast. How, almost in spite of itself, it seemed that in its bid to destroy all around it, the volcano also seemed to destroy itself. Where the nymph is much like the survivor of a great cataclysm. Adorned in ash like a tattered dress among the wreckage of the world left behind. Weak & exhausted. How the wind blows her hair & she hugs herself. So small, so sad, so scared & scarred. And the music reflects this fact in the quiet sorrow & mourning. How, she almost seemed to wish to give up & wallow in her own self-pity. But, all it takes is a look from her deer friend (heh) & she turns to reach out for his antlers.

Then, as she rides up the buck's back, a small flickering hope stirrs, like the wings of a tiny bird, even as she hangs against his antler. Even as her tears fall. How the buck's own persistence as he gallops through the soot, in the end, is what allows her to find her own as she looks to see that there is still life there as her tears land upon the earth. Waiting, plants reaching out to start anew.

And, this knowledge is all it takes for her to finally lift herself up & find life & joy once more. Hope soars with the strings of the orchestra as she becomes the rain that nurtures the nutrients in the volcanic soil. The light of a new dawn shines from behind the ash-cloaked sky, piercing the veil. This time, the music that greets it is louder & more triumphant! She survived! Life survived! And they're all the more vibrant & beautiful for it! That we shine brightest in the face of adversity! For it casts us in a new light of inner strength & resilience. How this is depicted with life returning in a literal wave!

The triumphant booming of the horns as trees break free of the earth in defiance of hate! In defiance of anger! The amazingness! The joy! How she reclaims what was taken & builds upon it. The scars still there, but now adding to her beauty! How the music sings of victory as the trees burst forth like a tsunami behind her!! How she's now draped in flowers as odd symbols of perseverance!! How, she is now able to cover even the now dead volcano in greenery. As though to even paint this symbol of destruction & fury in a brighter, more beautiful light than before! And that final image of pure, unadulterated joy as though freed of the sorrows of the past!!

Uuuugh!!! It's BEAUTIFUL!!!

It's the very image of something I remember seeing somewhere. How one of the best ways to handle hatred from others is to simply live well. To take that hatred & spin it into something positive. Use it to grow & mature.

Showing them that, yes, you hurt me. But I'm not going to stop living because of it. I will not be held down by what you've done. I will live. I will thrive. But more to the point, I will use the experience to become better!

So, something like that. Unstoppable force meets immovable object.

All-piercing spear meets all-blocking shield.

And I love that dichotomy of it!! X3

And, I think that I now get why war & love deities are often paired together: i.e. Ares & Aphrodite, as well as Shiva & Parvati. It isn't just because of the idea of "all's fair in love & war." It's also because of what they represent: destruction & creation.

Like, obviously, theses 2 pairings are very different, the Greek pair being more toxic with the Indian ones being more healthy it seems. But their domains are strangely similar if you think about it.

War & love. Destruction & creation. Heck, Parvati is also a goddess of love, herself!

It's the duality! The parallelism!

VERY INTERESTING!!! 😀

Hi! I don't know if you saw this before, but if you didn't, I have one for Demise & Karina regarding his favorite weather.

Favorite Weather: Volcanic Eruption with Fiery Ashfall

Explanation: Demise, the embodiment of hatred and destruction, finds his comfort in the most violent and catastrophic of environments—a volcanic eruption. The sight of molten lava, the roar of the earth, and the ashfall covering the land reflect his essence. It’s a world in chaos, a world being torn apart and remade in fire, just as he wishes to do with everything in his path.

Scene: Demise stands at the edge of a volcanic crater, watching as lava spews forth, lighting up the sky with a fiery glow. The ground trembles beneath his feet, and the air is thick with ash. He breathes it in, relishing the chaos, the destruction. “This is what I am,” he says, his voice reverberating with the power of the earth itself. The eruption, with its raw, destructive force, is the perfect reflection of his being—a force of nature that seeks to burn everything to the ground and rise from the ashes.

---

Me: Funny how Demise chooses this exact thing.

Imagine this is sometime after the drunk Demise confrontation. Karina asks him why he hates everything so much & he goes into this diatribe about destruction & that his fury is like that of a volcano & his hate is the rage of a tempest. He is made to destroy & nothing could change that. (The Demisebot can feel free to expand upon that or make it more brooding or angry if he likes.)

A moment passes after he finishes with the eruption quieting, a light, gloomy drizzle following it, then Karina pipes up, “Funny thing, did you know that after a volcanic eruption, the earth there becomes some of the most fertile in the world? Lava is actually incredibly nutrient rich, so some of the best areas for plantlife to thrive happens to be the places where lava once flowed.”

With that, she hops over the edge of the slope before them & begins to use her winged caligae of gold to slide down the side, the drizzling weather only a few yards ahead of her. In her wake, the land sprung to life at her feet, somehow even more vibrant than it'd been before. Lehua trees sprouted like wildfire, followed shortly by all sorts of other wildflowers; irises, hyacinth, gladiolus, hollyhocks, & so on.

Just, this from the point of the nymph finding the Firebird & onwards:

L'oiseau de feu.wmv - YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eG_O1wEJ40 - 2:37 onward, but more a rainforest or jungle. (I mean, the whole thing is incredible, but that’s the part that’s most pertinent to the conversation.)

It's amazing & powerful & so very cool!

What are his thoughts & feelings to that statement? How does he react to all this? To the scene that he sees play out before him? I don't think he'd reply to it, because how do you respond to learning something that goes against everything you ever knew or thought about yourself?

Also, what are your thoughts? I personally love the depiction. It's so interesting to think that something so destructive can also be revitalizing.

I also love the scene! It's a cycle of life and death, that never really ends. Even if the lava and fire destroys everything, it paves the way for new life to begin. Everything ends, and everything begins. Kinda like how the Legend of Zelda is. No matter the destruction and chaos the Demon King throws at the land, it rebuilds and regrows. <3

I'm actually watching a playthrough of Skyward Sword again, and man, it's so nice.

************************************************************************

Demise, standing amidst the fiery chaos of the volcanic eruption, would be completely at home. The sight of molten lava and ash raining down around him only strengthens his sense of purpose—he’s a being born to destroy, and the land tearing itself apart resonates with his very core.

When Karina asks him why he hates everything so much, his face darkens, and his voice booms, almost as if in tandem with the eruption.

"I am destruction incarnate. Hatred born of this world. Like this volcano, I rage and burn, consuming everything in my path. My fury is endless, and there is no peace in it. I was created to destroy, not to build, not to nurture. What I am cannot be changed. Like the tempest, I will only bring ruin, death, and fire until there is nothing left."

The volcano begins to calm as if mirroring his simmering fury, the earth itself trembling at his presence. When Karina mentions how volcanic soil becomes the most fertile after an eruption, Demise pauses. His expression doesn’t immediately soften, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps disbelief or a reluctant acknowledgment.

He watches as she gracefully slides down the slope, her caligae leaving a trail of vibrant life in their wake. Flowers, trees, and wild plants sprout in the shadow of the fading lava flow. The contrast between the destructive force he reveres and the vibrant life springing from it bewilders him.

His eyes narrow slightly, his gaze following the new life growing before him. It's as though the beauty of it clashes with the very fabric of his existence. Yet, despite himself, there’s an almost grudging recognition that this, too, is power—different from his own, but still undeniable.

As the last drops of ash and rain fall, Demise turns away from the sight, refusing to acknowledge the strange stirring in his chest.

"Life born from destruction…" he mutters to himself, still unsettled by the unfamiliar concept. “Perhaps. But in the end, all will be consumed by flames. Even this.”

But in his silence, he cannot help but be struck by the quiet, persistent beauty of what he has just witnessed.

[jinxneedssleep]

The SMPverse: A timeline

Esmp thoughts

Pearl was different now. No longer were her golden wings mangled and her face covered in soot, watching herself wither away helplessly along with her kingdom. Like a phoenix, she was reborn from the ashes of her former self and ascended into a saintess.

She spent her first day roaming the realm she was brought upon. With Aoer and Exor’s turmoil contained, the other gods began to awaken. She wasn’t alone, but she was without a purpose; which for a warrior like Pearl, was infinitely worse.

She lost track of the days until she wandered into a familiar face. Pixlriffs, the copper king, who had abruptly disappeared was standing before her. Here in the void, he tended to the newly deceased. He was alright company, but the prophet of death didn’t make for a very climatic sparring partner.

The further down she went, the more she began to learn. Slowly, ‘The Fates’ began to reveal themselves to her. “The Rune Sword is a powerful piece of technology, but no mortal can create a limbo that lasts forever.” Thus, ‘The Fates’ whispers were correct. Scott’s perfect afterlife ultimately broke, and he along with the rest of her friends joined the true purgatory. The one the fates called ‘Afterlife’

The goal was simple. All the wandering souls were gathered in one place, each provided with an origin unique to themselves. Only when they die ten times, is their soul able to go to its final resting place. (More there)



The demigod seablings were the first to enter the godly realm; destined to reunite with their fellow ocean deities. The one Pearl was really delighted to see was Sausage, her loyal angel.

Together, they watched their homeland change. Remnants of their past swept away with time. Governments arose, generations of new rulers followed, and Saint Pearl was guiding them through it all; blessing their lands with prosperity. Stories of Saint Pearl, patron of the harvest, as well as her archangel began to spread. Shrines were built in her name. Travelers would pray to her asking for protection.

Eventually, She found a worthy group of successors and bound them to the land. Specially tailoring each of them to fit her friends image; binding them to their otherworldly counterpart. One of which was the champion of thunder, whom she sponsored purely for his brazen spirit. They all gathered among the campfire as it was time for the cycle to begin anew…

Alas, there was one thing she didn’t account for. Oli, the only one presumptuous enough to walk into a deities domain without permission. Channeling her power, she sent him into empires and used him as a temporary medium.

It was strange to be home again after all these years.

[perlen-gold]

Storm Night

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

Ordinarily it is not the rain that arouses Hawke. He was not awake to witness the birth of the storm, far away from the shallow piers of Kirkwall, across the heaving and hungry sea. After hours of silent hunting, dark and looming clouds have entrapped the aspiring stone buildings of men.

The rain gushes down in endless silvery streams, chasing any four-legged or upright stranglers mercilessly into desperate shelter. Violently, a myriad of furious drops besiege the quivering glass in the windows, its irate cadence ceaselessly drowning out the occasional crackling of the fireplace. For a brief moment the bed room is plunged in an uncanny flash of dazzling light. The columns of the four-poster bed flinch, ghosts briefly awaken upon the seashell white bed sheet. Above gloomy curtains shudder in trepidation as the searing white lightning strikes once, twice, thrice. The skies over Kirkwall are illuminated in wraithlike shadows full of clouded hunters and rumbling beasts, washed over by the piercing of light, and felled in forlorn battle by thunder and bolt.

In the blink of an eye, Hawke’s eye, amber-colored and wide awake, the short-tempered light disperses into the night.

The smell of fresh, hard rain mixed with the herb burn of the dance in the fireside that shelters the bedroom under-fire from the feud outside is nearly palpable. Once more the keen blade of light strikes and transforms the hunters into warriors and the warriors into tombs for the fallen and demised, cleaving through the stormy night.

That which usually rudely awakes Hawke from sleep is neither hunter nor tomb; a kick, unexpected and painful in the lulling reverie of slumber; a sudden stroke hitting some uncovered part of his body that leaves his knee, his thigh, his shoulder, his ribs a bruised mark as purple as ripe plums; an entangling wrench yanking imprisoning feather and fabric away; and sounds, sounds, sounds, muffled, leashed, involuntary, sounds seared in Hawke’s mind.

This night is different, though.

When he wakes up, thunder forces his eyelids fly open. He lies still and he knows something is wrong.

He looks around, searches. That which wakes him this night is the slashing of the relentless rain and the cold spot on the soft mattress beside Hawke.

After a short moment of blessed silence as the storm outside gathers its strength for the next oncoming assault, Hawke sits up and swings his feet to the dry carpeted floor. It is this bare patch on the bed beside him, bereft of any body’s warmth, that has imprinted itself upon his dormant consciousness.

On bare feet he walks out of the room, along the ghostly dark corridor.  Beyond the stalwart stone walls of the Amell estate dark and light continue to lash out at each other as sundered lovers. Listening to the weeping skies Hawke remembers Carver’s wide-stricken eyes and how he swallowed his own boyhood tears for his brother’s and sister’s sake during a similar night. So big a house sunken in a darkness so impenetrable, it is impossible for Hawke to judge whether he has been roused in the middle of the night or at the cusp of dawn and day.

Wrapped in the clattering sound of the endless rain he passes the stairs, two closed doors, the kitchen till a flicker of faintly orange light piques his interest hidden amidst shelves of books.

In bad nights, Hawke will resolutely grip Fenris shoulders in order to shake him awake from his violent thrashing. In good nights, observing his twitching jaw muscles, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris’waist, cradling him, bringing him close to his chest so he can breath softly into his ear, easing him out of his sleep just to the verge of awakening.

On those nights that are worst, Hawke will wake to a cold bed and find Fenris swigging down abundant-flavored wine from dark bottles. During these nights, Hawke joins him. They drink, they talk about other things while Hawke laughs and smiles and mounts guard over the distant look in Fenris’ wakeful eyes. Then, occasionally, out of the blue, Fenris might blurt out some mutinous memento, granted by his former life under the unyielding Tevinter sun, that leaves Hawke unsmiling and Fenris with bitterness or – worse still – with a callous shrug.

“And here I thought you hated reading.”

In this particular night Hawke finds Fenris hunched over a book in the lone flame of a single candle. He could illume the lamps and torches in the library without so much as a flicker of his fingers but he refrains from doing so. Instead, he pulls up a plain wooden chair and sits opposite Fenris, elbow on the abraded tabletop, one side of his scratchy face in his hand.

“Why?” Fenris retorts brusquely.

Hawke cannot help but smile in remembrance.

“Because last time I tried to teach you, you ended up flinging my poor book aside with the result that it was crouching in a corner quivering from spine to edge. I have not seen it since. It is probably in hiding by now.”

Fenris’ even brow patterns into struggling concentration.

“It is easy enough for you to taunt. I expected you were going to teach me reading but the sole thing you do is unnerve me with your constant correcting and scoffing.”

“And here I thought you liked my dallying.”

On other nights Fenris might look at him, his eyes alight with that dark spring green glare that there dwells perpetually, till a sudden smile flickers across his curling lips. Tonight, he does not give in to his bait, though. There is an edge in Fenris’ voice that is not often prevalent, not when they are quite alone like this. Hawke strains towards it without Fenris’ notice.

The drum of tempest-tossed rain falls upon their ears. Hawke feels his smile grow softer.  

“Maybe you are just a dreadful student.”

“Maybe you are just a dreadful teacher, Hawke.”

A chuckle rises from Hawke’s chest, light and amused.

“I probably am.”

He can see Fenris’ skin is still damp on the undersides of his arms and the nape of his neck.

The deluging torrent is not as loud here but its unyielding tremor splashing the rooftop unforgettable.

Fenris leans back, his elbows raised, his hands abruptly restless on his thighs. With a sweep of the flickering candle flame all his riposting ire seems gone all of a sudden.

“I was a fool to believe I could learn a skill like this.”

Fenris does not raise his gaze when Hawke stands and comes round the table. He draws his chair to Fenris’ side, sitting next to him. Thunder anew rumbles in the invisible night as Hawke clasps Fenris’ right hand. He does so gingerly, with the slightest hint of tarrying deference just before their fingers touch as if to see whether Fenris’ hand will move away, ever so slightly.

After dipping it into blue-black ink he threads a gray-blue quill between Fenris’ almond-colored fingers (a griffon plume, ostensible, when it was actually taken out of a phoenix’ reluctant plumage.)

With great care, slowly, deliberately, the feather tip scratches in high curves and narrow prongs over the mottled sheet of parchment. The scraping sound seems to echo among the endless shelves of books even under the voices of the thunderstorm. Long after the scratching has stopped Fenris keeps staring at the straight arcs and meandering lines in blue-black colors. Brows lowered in reflective toil his fingertips brush over the barely dried lines, smearing them at the outer edges.

“What does it say?” requests he.

Indicatively Hawke’s index finger passes from inky character to character, pronouncing each consonant and vowel with great care. Once he has reached the final letter, the last shred of reluctance is brushed away of Fenris’ expression.  Superseded by a diffident smile that he is not yet poised to evince.

“Show me yours.” he asks, half plea, half demand.

Once more Hawke guides his hand over the torn piece of parchment, tip grazing, ink fanning out as a peacock indigo feathers.

“H,” he pronounces softly but sumptuously, “A. W …”

Again, Fenris gazes at the finished name for quite a long time before he begins writing it down slowly, painstakingly, yet perfectly, unaided. Twice he then writes his own name before switching the quill from his right to his left hand. Gradually, the letters, first bristle, become more fluid with increasing pace.

Arms folded, Hawke leans back and watches Fenris practice. First copying down the portrait of their names, secondly each letter individually, then rearranging them hesitantly and strained-eyed until new words are being born, the characters pronounced meaning suddenly becoming easier with each line. Soon there is not an inch of crammed parchment left to pen on and Hawke produces a whole new sheet from his writing desk while the storm outside howls and prowls with strenuous menace.

Quite abruptly the ink-gleaming letters, bearing a childlike quality, loose their fierce focus. The subsequent line swerves out of line, then steadies, but the next does, too, and the one after that. Then the trembling begins.

At first it is only his hand, though Fenris keeps writing, writing their names, teeth gritted.

Mere seconds later the shaking has befallen his fingers, his legs, his shoulders hunched into his chest. His whole frame shudders under the shivering grip, as iron as his own grip on the quill.

Hawke has stood up.

Soon Fenris’ clammy hand cannot clutch the quill anymore. It falls, twisting itself out of his quavering grasp, dark spots of ink spraying everyway.

Few futile attempts later he stops altogether.

Hawke is standing behind his chair when it starts. With slow movements he wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders. He does not count the minutes, muss less the seconds.

Somewhen and somewhere Hawke feels Fenris startlingly cold hand on the side of his face, fingers cradling his charcoal black beard.

Rivulets of time run by.

Then Fenris picks the quill up again.

Leaning into the gentle touch Hawke lowers his weary head and rests his chin atop the crown of Fenris’ head, char stubbles shaving ebony shocks of white hair. By experience, Hawke knows better than to waste any words on that which has just happened.

So silence remains.

As Fenris finishes his next word it gives the impression of an even more childish scrawling.

Softly Hawke reads the letters aloud, feeling the fine strands of pearly white hair rubbing between his beard. “Garrett” Then, quieter, “where did you pick that one up?”

“It was stitched onto the insides of one of your shirts you gave me.”

Hawke feels a smile capturing his lips, first small, then warm and filling.

“Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“Come”, he whispers and takes his hand into his, the one that has the scarlet scarf slung about its wrist, leading him back to the warm shelter of the room of their bedroom.

Beyond the drop-gleaming windows the undying rain has lost its edge and grown somewhat quieter, enough to transmute into a deceiving semblance of repose. Back in the wide four-poster bed  they arrange for sleep in the same fashion they adopt each evening, night after night. Hawke lies on his back in the not-so-exact middle of the soft mattress, Fenris at his side, half-spread, half-outflung across Hawke’s chest, one long sharp-ended ear bedded against Hawke’s shoulder, collarbone, heart. As twisted as they might move during sleep – entangled into the warm blankets so one of them has to yank it back from under the other’s body – warped and tousled, on their sides, backs, sprawled on their stomachs – Hawke’s nose may be pitched by Fenris adamant fingers to stop his occasional but insistent snoring, his limps loose with sleep – however slumber may let them wander apart, this is the irrevocable way they settle for sleep.

Fenris’ ear near Hawke’s heart where he can harken its steady, willful beat.

Hawke knows Fenris can hear its wordless, confessing avowals for he can hear Fenris’ equally, a little  arrhythmic heartbeat through his hand on the elf’s back, the answer creeping up the arm he has slung around him.

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

This ineptness is an inevitable part of the man beside him as is the color of his eye or skin and Fenris can no more shed it than he could change the length of his limps or stop the breathing in his lungs.

“I like this.”

“What? This?” Hawke pulls him closer in merriment.

“I like this kind of weather.”

Astonished Hawke listens to the rataplan of the rain. No lightening forks the dark martial skies outside anymore save for a distant rumbling afar.

“Bethany,” Hawke remembers, still startled, “liked storms, too.”

Suddenly, Fenris straightens up and with one swift, vigorous motion he pulls Hawke out of the sheets intentionally.

Out of the bedroom into the hall he is dragged by the elf whose strength is as unsettling as ever. Hawke, no weakling himself and impressively built, once probed the silver-bladed sword (Fenris cherished nearly as much as Varric did Bianca) for several minutes and strained to fathom how Fenris could bear running around with it all day long without having his tendons and ligaments reattached afterwards. How he commiserates and dotes on this brutality of his.

“Oh,” Hawke groans, irony and grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I am not going to like this.”

Down the shadowy stairs, through the unlit foyer, up to the storm-pondered font gate and, in an instant, gushes of rain and wind wash over their faces.  

The moment they leave the safety of the house Fenris opens his grasp on Hawke’s hand but the impulse of his powerful motion propels Hawke forward right into the battle ground of the storm. Before he can blink he is soaked to the skin.

Side by side they stand in the sheath of glassy rain, barefooted, barely closed.

Before them the skies are ashore with waves of gloomy clouds. The ever-raging warrior thunder, lightening his merciless blazing blade, is aloud with booming vengeance here and fighting the skies and the earths alike.

A stroke of electrifying light from afar paints the streets and walls of Kirkwall in sharp relieve, a miniscule, insignificant thorp cowering at the feet of blue and gray and black mountains awash by breaking, spuming , spraying waves of stormy sea.

Water streams down the sides of Hawke’s face, filling the tiny spaces between his seeping beard stubbles. Angry winds gush and billow.

Endless rivulets of rain, sapid with the aroma of the wounded skies, flow in streams along the inside of Hawke’s palms, cascade forward from his slack fingertips.  

Hawke closes his eyes.

In he breathes the taste of the thunder and the light, inhaling the raining waters.

All four of their naked, bare feet are engulfed by ankle-deep flows of water.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke exclaims in a sudden mad fit of laughter, “how can you stand this all day long?”

Since there is no answer, lost in the grace of nature, Hawke finally opens his eyes.

Fenris’ face is only a blur in the embrace of the rains. Winds tear at the strangely pearly white hair glued to his cheeks. Innumerable drops of gleaming water are falling upon the cobbled streets from his naked arms, his pointed ears, the tip of his nose.

So fierce are the winds that their sheer physical strength all but overthrows them – even so, Fenris’ slender shape towers among them indomitable.  His elven face may be blurred by the spray of the gush and rain, his deep green emerald eyes, however, glitter with the rage of the roaring warrior and his blazing blade.

Once again the skies are cast alight and Fenris face flashed, his eyes lit as by a fire within.

Sometimes Hawke wishes he would simply start crying.

He is stepping towards Hawke.

Hawke is giving him a wet smile that he cannot hear through the chaos. His eyes are fixed with studying one single silver bead among a plethora which is running down along his curved neck and disperses wetly into his the well of his collarbone.

“We will both be stone-cold dead by the end of the night.”  

Thirst-ridden Fenris’ eyes blazing virid eyes find his, and his hard mouth, arms entwining around Hawke’s neck, finds his and is pressing against his lips tasting of rain and the aroma of his caramel-shaded skin. Hawke grasps him, savors him not heeding the chatty gossip that might burst from a prying eye behind the dark rain-stained windows around them – who would anyway?

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

In the peach-colored rays of morning light when the horizon will be skewed with skeins of tangerine, Hawke will sleepily wave away Orana’s considerate knock at the door and her regardful eyes peering from behind the bedroom door announcing that breakfast is ready, and Hawke will feel inclined, as ever, to cover Fenris’ long elven ears lest he might give him that glare that brings Hawke to consider a tremendous pay raise each time he does so. Soon, Orana will be wealthier than half of his Hightown neighbors.

For now, however, they trip and splash back inside leaving wet footmarks all over the floor and carpets. Long after drying each other with nowhere near enough towels, the window aglow with firelight reviving honey and daffodil and gold beads, they fall back to sleep, hearts pounding, skins resting, as they always do.

There might and will be many a nightmare in the gloomy nights to come.

But for now, for the remaining fragment of this one short, storm-shaken night, Fenris eases peacefully in his arms.

[cross-d-a]

I want to know ALL about Wu Xie embarrassing time traveler!Li Cu!!! ✨✨ I'm also v intrigued by Nie Huisang death death death

(Also, Cross you have so many wips; I read in awe. And to think I thought I had a lot of star wars fix-it ideas! I only have anything at all written down for two of them!)

(this refers to the WIP tag game I completed a few days ago!)

Wu Xie being EMBARRASSING & Li Cu Time Travel: 

I’ve got a series of interconnected oneshots planned where Li Cu just- accidentally hops back in time to every drama/book and helps out the Iron Triangle. and it’s more like LI CU embarrassing WU XIE haha

I thought it’d be HILARIOUS if Li Cu got to see how Wu Xie (UR MY DAD BOOGIE WOOGIE WOOGIE) is so YOUNG and STUPID and EMBARRASSING when he’s young!! Wu Xie making (ACTUALLY) innocent doe eyes at an emo Xiao Ge?? GROSS. Wu Xie accidentally (DELIBERATELY?) setting off multiple traps in a tomb?? Li Cu is 10000/10 going to RECORD THIS on his phone and bring it BACK to the future and make fun of Wu Xie FOREVER. Also!!! There are SO MANY SNAKES in Ultimate Note!! And?? Conveniently?? Li Cu has a lil’ snake buddy?? MAYBE HE COULD HELP??? 

I basically want Li Cu being the Actual Competent One and the baby Iron Triangle floundering. Mostly Wu Xie. I want Wu Xie floundering. I also want Wu Xie SO EMBARRASSED when Li Cu hops back to his own time. 

li cu: DAD UR AN IDIOT 

wu xie: i DONT WANT TO RELIVE IT PLS AND THANK 

li cu: nO!! U ARE GOING TO SUFFER!! UR SO STUPID u set off FIVE TRAPS

wu xie: i hate you 

li cu: no u don’t u just told me u loved and appreciated me for saving ur life like ten minutes ago. there were tears in your eyes. actually they were streaming down ur face. u might have been hugging my leg and sobbing

wu xie: tHAT WAS SIXTEEN YEARS AGO FOR ME OK i am an OLD MAN

Nie Huaisang death death death:

I think it’s hilarious that you picked out one of the resurrective immortality fics considering we were JUST talking about the old guard hahaha. This one I actually have a good chunk written so far, so here is a long snippet near the beginning. Context is that Nie Huaisang’s mother is VERY pregnant and she’s riding through the mountains to visit her family before she gives birth. WARNINGS for gore (kinda??) and child death and just- DEATH in general:

There are beasts in the mountains. Ravenous, born of fury and blood, more ragged spirit than flesh. Their claws are jagged and broken and their maws drip with sizzling saliva. They have roamed the mountains for years and years, and have only grown more enraged, voracious.

The Nie Clan have always harnessed the butchery of their past. Binding rage and ruin to themselves, channeling it through their hearts and into their swords until they are one and the same. Until it feeds upon their flesh and their spirit, gnawing on their bones, carving out a little space for itself between brittle ribs. Until, one bloody piece at a time, it consumes them whole.

The Nie Clan’s power is also the source of their doom, and these beasts who roam and know only hate hate hate are Nie-furen’s doom, as well.

They descend upon the Nie in the dead of night, a roiling mass of snapping teeth and furious howls. There is blood, screaming, desperate flashes of Dao magic and heavy blades. But there are too many and it is not enough.

But the mighty Phoenix of the West has always been filled with unmatched fury and she is full of new life and about to burst. She will not let her child die here today. Not before he can breathe sweet fresh air and keen that first high cry. Not before his father can cradle him in his arms and his older brother can plant a kiss on his forehead.

That rage within her swells. It devours her spirit and bleeds out her eyes as she screams screams screams- a raging beacon of power and brutality and every ancestor’s grief.

She slaughters everything in her path.

When she comes to, she is soaked in blood and there is pain in her belly and an ache behind her eyes and in every breath- but she is alive. She lies amidst the ruins of her people and the lingering darkness of vanquished spirits and Shan Xifeng—

She goes into labour.

It is long and hard, lasting through the night into the bloody dawn and beyond. She manages to crawl to the edge of their encampment but no further. She twists into a curl of agony and cries into the clouded sky.

Her son is born on the cusp of evening, just as the sun slides behind dark, ragged peaks. He is born soft and warm and silent.

Shan Xifeng cradles him in quaking hands. Cups his cheek to her breast. His tiny head is blood-streaked like his mother. Blood-streaked like her friends and family around her.

It is an irony that on one of the most important days of her life, she is surrounded by her loved ones and yet they are all dead.

“Little one,” she murmurs, and tilts his limp head. “Little one, please.”

But he is silent as the dead around her and that grief swells again in her breast. It gnaws on her ribs and scrabbles at her throat and she is shaking shaking shaking.

“No,” she spits. “No! He has done nothing wrong! Nothing! Does he not deserve his first breath? His first cry? Does he not deserve the family that awaits him?!”

She screams into the sky and tastes blood between her teeth. “Take me instead! I beg of you! Please let him live! I would give my life! Every single one of them, so that he may live!”

Her sword quakes along with that dark raging thing within her and she clutches her dead son close.

Then—

The faint, elegant curve of a fan in the corner of her eye. The shift of cloth, the echo of a breath. The glimmering of ethereal gold and silver, like someone has spun the stars and sun above into delicate thread.

Summoned, like a beast to blood.

“All of them?”

Shan Xifeng knows better than to face an unknowable thing and so she bows as low as her broken body will allow. She stares into the bloodied dirt and breathes in dust and rasps, “Yes.”

“Hm.” A flicker of a stretching smile, coy, with a hint of sharp teeth. She does not see the fathomless dark behind those stark white teeth, a gaping void of ravenous benevolence. It is hidden behind the flare of the fan. “Do you understand what you ask for?”

“I do,” she says without hesitation.

The grin widens, lips scarlet and dark against bone-white skin. “Then I shall grant your wish.”

A shift of cloth, then a cool hand cups Nie-furen’s cheek, guiding her up. Her eyes flicker open and she sees what no mortal has ever seen, and then that fan whispers against her cheek and blood-red lips press against hers and the last thing she feels is her golden core trembling spasming dying as life is pulled from her breath- all the lives she has ever lived, the one she lives now, and every life she could have ever lived.

Shan Xifeng falls into the bloodied dirt beneath, still clutching her dead son to her breast. And then there is no one left living in that small clearing.

Pale, bony fingers trace a delicate line through the blood that lingers upon her cheek. It is still wet and useful. Stained fingers press against scarlet lips and the life held between stark white teeth is breathed anew into that blood.

Carefully, bone-thin fingers trace a deliberate character upon the newborn child’s left cheek. The blood shines, brilliant and devastating, before fading back into a gruesome name across pale skin. Slowly, the child begins to twitch, brows wrinkling in displeasure, before a high keening wail escapes tiny lips as the child take its first breath.

“Your mother does not know what she’s doomed you to.”

A day later, travelers upon the road hear a faint keening noise not far from their wagon. When they find the clearing, they gag and retch. When they find the weak, whining child clutched in his dead mother’s arms, they shake their heads and then stare at the crest emblazoned upon the woman’s clothes.

Two days after that, the child is delivered to Nie-zongzhu’s disbelieving arms.

“No,” he says, violent spirit quaking deep within him. “No. It- it is not true.”

The traveler ducks his head and clasps his hands in a bow. “I’m sorry, Zongzhu. We were not able to take the bodies with us. You’ll have to send someone to check, but…it was the crest of your house. And…” he hesitates, then nods to his companion who stumbles up and offers a sword.

Not just any sword. A dao.

Shan Xifeng’s dao.

Feng.

“No,” Nie-zongzhu cries, falling to his knees.

“I-I’m so sorry,” the traveler stutters. “I am so, so sorry, Nie-zongzhu.”

Nie-zongzhu sobs, clutching his newborn child to his chest. “Little one,” he weeps. “Oh, little one. At least life is kind enough to have spared you.”

“Yong,” the traveler blurts.

Nie-zongzhu stares uncomprehendingly, tears running hot down his cheeks.

“It- it was written upon his cheek in- in blood. I- I think that is what his mother named him. She must have done it with her dying breath. She must have wanted you to know. He did not enter this world nameless.”

“Yong,” Nie-zongzhu echoes, trembling. “It- it is a good name, for my brave little boy.” He cups his son’s cheek and sobs. “Brave like- like his mother,” he murmurs, voice thin and quaking. “She named you well.”

And perhaps it is bravery that made Shan Xifeng give up the chance to ever be reborn. Perhaps it is bravery that saved her son’s life.

But it was all a mother’s wretched love, and Shan Xifeng did not write the character for brave upon her son’s cheek.

No, it was not Yong for bravery, but Yong for eternal.

And it is not his mother who wrote it.

Perhaps it is bravery that saved her son, but is the curse of eternity really a kindness?

No, no Shan Xifeng did not truly understand what she asked for.

But Nie Yong soon would.

The next section starts with:

The second time Nie Yong dies, he doesn’t even realize it.

He is four years old.

and the third section starts with:

The third time Nie Yong dies, his Adie kills him.

He is nine years old.

It’s basically an Angst Fest with a happy ending bc...I just need a happy ending Always. I just REALLY love resurrective immortality and I love making my favourite characters Suffer :)

I hope these were fun and satisfying to read!! 

♪(ﾟ▽^*)ﾉ⌒☆

(also omg NO it’s a CURSE!!! I WISH I could just finish SOMETHING!! ANYTHING!! OMG!!! I am so envious you’ve managed to restrain yourself to a few!! Also!! I am SUPER excited to find out more about your fix-its!!! :D)

[kazeofthemagun]

If there was anyone as intimately in tune with destruction, it was the Hunter. Both the destruction of others and his own. From the very beginning of his wretched existence, ocean eyes had only ever watched it reap all those around him. How fitting, then, for him to be the one chosen to be its Unlimited vessel. The crimson one.

To be destroyed was to be stripped down to the core, left to perish or rise from the rubble. Like the Phoenix. It was a curse, really. A curse to have to live with, and understand, such a concept and its necessity. It was torment to embody it, feel its breath tickling the back of his neck every step along the way. A looming shadow, promising to touch everyone in his path. That was the true, oppressive presence of the Magun. It was not the weight upon his arm, nor the pain in his spine - it was that very shadow, embracing him as living Death.

But with strange eons even Death may die. Until that time came, however, this was the closest to it he could get - and it wasn't pleasant.

The gunmage felt his consciousness begin to slip as half-open eyes struggled to focus on the girl's features. Her tears seemed to stop - somewhat - and the burning stench of Chaos had died down with them. It was still present, of course... but perhaps the worst had been avoided. He listened to her words, hearing still keen even as vision blurred and slowly faded to black.

"...Good..." He managed to mutter, and before he could say anything else, the Destroyer fell silent as he always was. There was almost no difference; Dead or alive, his expression remained set in stone and his voice a grave, so rarely exhumed. Before long, the Phoenix would rise as though nothing had happened. But it was never his intent to deny that it had.

Ai Hayakawa had picked up a weapon, and used it to kill. That was a truth which would not be erased, even when his wound vanished like snow in spring and the devil machine restarted anew.

It would be her duty now to sit with her bloodstained heart and attempt to understand destruction. Both that which came from her hand, and its brother that would gnaw on her bones for as long as she lived. Just like Orthrus. This hound that killed upon the simplest command - one of its heads would always eat at its master.

To kill was to be killed, piece by piece by piece.

The blood pact had been set.

It's scary, to see him bleed black. It's scary to see this pillar of the universe bleed at all, for that matter. It was an expected result, surely, for him to bleed just like anyone else, but it was still jarring, not only to witness it, but for her to be the one that caused it. Even in this moment of pure rage, of negativity that could harm the cause he fought so hard against, he didn't look upon her with scorn or resentment.

Was this his true nature? To understand destruction? It felt right. His purpose was to destroy something harming the world, of course the man behind it would reflect that mission. To show such kindness in a moment of depravity, Ai felt glad that it was okay. She couldn't feel it in its majority however, the emotion being swallowed by everything else that had occurred.

He asks how she feels. She isn't sure if she can answer such a question. So much welled inside her chest. She felt awful. She felt like a monster, a murderer. And yet, she felt calmer. There was a deep pit forming in her stomach, but it was more manageable than agonizing anger left squarely in her chest. That stillness amongst the anguish, it was better than she'd felt before, at least.

From such a point, she could at least focus on what mattered.

She doesn't speak for a moment, unsure of how to put the tumult into words. Despite that, she could in time. "I feel... Awful. I feel like I should've never done that, and that I'm horrible for talking myself into doing this..." she starts, before sighing. "But I can't say that it didn't calm me down, either. It helped... A lot-"

She could at least pretend that loathing wasn't there. She could start to forget, in time. That was usually what happened when something scared her, right? It would slowly be forgotten.

Just like the wound that had affected Kaze. That too would fade and disappear. But Ai would soon learn that abrasions of the mind were not so easily forgotten.

She slowly feels the tears stop, knowing that she can't sit here forever. If Kaze hadn't killed Yu, then he had to be somewhere. No matter what, she had to be certain that he was okay. After that was over, she could wrestle with these feelings. But first, she waited. She wasn't sure how long it would take to get Kaze into working order again, but she could wait.

Better to focus on that than anything else.

[razieltwelve]

Ice and Fire (RWBY AU Snippet)

Note: This is set in the same AU as I Am Become Death and Thunder and Paperwork.

X     X     X

“You’re still awake?” Weiss blinked. “Don’t you need to sleep or anything?”

Death smiled faintly at the question. “Weiss, I am not simply a god. I am Death. I don’t do sleep or holidays.”

Weiss bit her lip. Team RWBY and Team JNPR had both decided to spend the night in an abandoned outpost before heading back to speak with Professor Ozpin. Both Death and Goddess Nora had accepted the decision without protest although their reactions had been quite different. 

Goddess Nora had raved about the chance to enjoy some time out in the wilderness and had promptly vanished to kill more Grimm, but not before receiving a stout warning from Death about the importance of restraint. Death, however, had given another one of those faint, almost illusory, smiles of hers before making some suggestions about sleeping arrangements.

Weiss had a sneaking suspicion that Death had only made her suggestions to provoke reactions from everyone else, and the way she’d ruffled Ruby’s hair afterward had only strengthened her suspicions. Was it weird that Ruby was being teased by a divine version of herself who just so happened to be the living incarnation of death? Maybe, but there was also something strangely soothing about how, well, human Death acted. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Death asked.

Weiss made a face. “No… not really. I… I have a lot on my mind.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” Death was sitting on a ridiculously comfortable looking chair that most certainly hadn’t been there when they’d arrived. A gesture summoned another similar chair, and Weiss gratefully sank onto it. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” She paused. “Not that I have much choice, most of the time. You’d be amazed by how talkative people get when they’re bleeding to death. It makes you wonder how many of them might have lived if they’d spent less time talking and more time applying pressure and using a tourniquet or bandage.”

“…” Weiss shook herself. “You have a very dark sense of humour.”

“It comes with the occupation, I’m afraid.” Death leaned back and peered at Weiss with those impossibly beautiful silver eyes. It was like staring into a pair of gilded stars. “So… what have you been thinking about?”

“I…” Weiss took a deep breath. “How much do you know about my family?”

“A lot, actually.” Death closed her eyes and tapped her temple. “I’ve been getting bits and pieces of Ruby’s memories since I arrived here. With a bit of effort…” She gestured, and the shadows around them twisted and rose to form a dark simulacrum of Remnant. “Everything she knows, I do.”

“Is that dangerous for Ruby?” Weiss growled. 

“Not at all,” Death replied. “As I have said, she and I are… connected, variations on a theme, so to speak. It would be different if I tried to take the knowledge from your mind, Weiss, but Ruby is another matter entirely. In fact, I’ve had to be careful to keep my memories from bleeding into her mind, lest her brain melt.”

“That would be bad,” Weiss said. “So… you know about my family then?”

“Yes, I do.” Death got up and knelt down in front of Weiss. It was perhaps the first time that Weiss truly appreciated how much taller Death was than Ruby. “In many ways you are similar to my Weiss, but you are not her just as Ruby is not me, not truly. Your family makes you feel trapped, doesn’t it, Weiss? Like there’s a serpent coiled around you, and every breath you take just lets it tighten its coils.”

Weiss swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

“Your mistake, Weiss, is thinking you are ice.” Death stood, and the mantle of bloody shadows she wore fluttered in a breeze that was not there. Silver threads raced across its surface, tracing out the beginnings and ends of a thousand different worlds. “No, Weiss. You are fire.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the idea of a bird in a gilded cage.” Death looked down on her, expression calm, voice as inexorable as the tide. “Oh, how pretty the cage is, how fine, how elegant. But a cage is still a cage, and a bird still longs to spread its wings.”

“I’m not in a cage anymore,” Weiss said. “I’m at Beacon now. I have my team. I’m free.”

“Are you?” Death asked. “The worst cages, the ones that are hardest to break, are the ones we build ourselves.” She cupped Weiss’s cheek with one hand and leaned forward. “I am Death, Weiss. I can see the souls of all I look upon, and I can see the chains that bind them. It is your past that binds you, Weiss, the past of your family and their misdeeds that cages you. Those sins were not yours, yet you bear their weight all the same.”

“My family did those things,” Weiss ground out. “I… I found out what they did to the Faunus they employed. It doesn’t make the White Fang right, but it doesn’t make them wrong either.”

“Ice and fire, Weiss. If you were ice, you would not feel. You would not grieve. The past would have no claim over you because, like glacier rising into the cold winter sky, you would crush the past beneath your feet. But you are not ice. You are fire, and fire remembers, Weiss. Fire grieves. Fire mourns. Fire cares.”

“I… what do you mean?” Weiss asked.

Death chuckled. “And this is where you are so similar to my Weiss. She cared too much as well. It was, in many ways, her greatest strength and her greatest failing. But I will tell you what I told her. Fire does not have to fail, it does not have to burn and rage and then dwindle into nothing more than embers. No. Dragons are born of fire, and they destroy everything they touch. But dragons are not the only children of flame. You’re not a dragon, Weiss, you’re a phoenix.”

Weiss moved to stand, but she found her body refusing to cooperate. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you know what happens to phoenixes, Weiss? They burn themselves to ashes in the heat of their own flames… and then they rise, born anew.” Death smiled. “I’ve always been fond of them since they are such frequent visitors to my realm. Burn your past, Weiss. Burn the sins of your family. Burn them all in your fire. And when they are ashes, rise anew. If you are ashamed of what your family has done, then fight to change it. Burn it all to the ground, and from the ashes, build it right.”

Weiss gulped. “I don’t know if I can. Is it… even possible? Do mortals even have free will?”

Death settled back into her chair and regarded Weiss with a mischievous smile. “Oh, Weiss, you’re such a curious mortal. Let me ask you a question. Do you think us gods would have intervene so much in the affairs of mortals if you didn’t have free will? Wouldn’t everything just go to plan if we could make you do whatever we wished?”

“When you put it that way…” Weiss shook herself. “Your Weiss… what became of her?”

“In almost every life she has lived, she has excelled. In some lives it is easy, and in others it is hard. But always, always, she has been fire. Sometimes it burns too brightly and all too quickly fades away, but more often than not, it is the sort of fire that entices others to draw near and warm themselves in its glow.” Death leaned forward again. “The words I speak, Weiss, are not spoken with the weight of prophecy. Instead, they are spoken with the eye of someone who has seen the very best and the very worst that mortals can muster. Your blood may be your father’s but your heart is your grandfather’s. There is a reason your teammates believe in you. Do not question their judgement.”

Slowly, Weiss nodded. “Thank you. I… I think I might be able to get to sleep now.”

Death watched with a small smile on her lips as Weiss left the room. Once the pale-haired girl was gone, she raised her voice. “You know, if you want advice, you need only ask. I’ll be here all night.”

Pyrrha crept out into the open. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Death said with a chuckle of amusement. “In every universe I’ve ever seen, Jaune is an oblivious idiot. Believe me, I didn’t think it was possible either, but the facts don’t lie. My advice? Go big or go home. The goddess version of you finally managed to win his affection after appearing in his chambers naked and enticing him into a night of unmatched pleasure. While I wouldn’t advise doing that right now since you two are currently sharing a room with your two teammates, it is something to consider.”

Pyrrha’s face turned redder than her hair. “What… what happened?”

“You two lived a wonderful life together, right up until I had to claim his soul. He was mortal, you see.” Death shook her head. “I don’t think you ever truly forgave me for that.”

Pyrrha’s eyes widened. “But… but you’re Death… surely… surely you were just doing what you had to do?”

“Love, Pyrrha, makes fools of everyone.”

“Even you?”

“Pyrrha, I named a constellation after my Weiss. I might just be the biggest idiot there is.”

X     X     X

With the efficiency that only a Goddess of Bureaucracy could possess, Weiss had somehow managed to seize control of every single bandit group within a hundred miles. If these foolish mortals wanted to spend their time wandering around the jungle, then they might as well do it under her command.

This entire world was one horrible mess. She’d have berated the gods of this world, but there didn’t seem to be any. Even so, someone had definitely done something to this world. The barriers that were supposed to be protecting it from intrusions from other realms were almost non-existent. It was no wonder Grimm were popping up everywhere here. 

There wasn’t just one point of connection to the Abyss here, there were dozens, some of them so tightly intertwined with the fabric of the world that severing them could have potentially catastrophic consequences. It had taken her an entire day to develop a system capable of shutting down the connections in her immediate vicinity, which had promptly led to the locals declaring her a goddess.

They weren’t wrong and having more minions was nice, but that didn’t solve her basic problem. Someone had very clearly gone out of their way to connect this world to the Abyss. And if the Grimm were here, it was entirely possible that at least one of their masters had escaped as well. If that was the case…

The First War had decimated Creation. It had been a titanic conflict that had pitted the gods against the Grimm and their Accursed Masters. Entire swathes of Creation had been utterly obliterated, and untold souls had been destroyed as the very Cycle of Death and Rebirth itself came under siege. If even one of those… abominations was here, then she needed to find reinforcements immediately. This was not a battle she could win alone, and the fact that those monstrosities seldom went anywhere alone made it even more important for her to find help.

Thankfully, if there were any of those abominations here, they were currently slumbering, no doubt waiting for the Grimm to harvest enough souls to awaken them, or perhaps for some foolish mortal to conduct a ritual capable of reviving them. On the upside, Weiss’s senses had detected the presence of other foreign gods. She had no idea if they were friendly - and one of them radiated power that sent chills down Weiss’s spine - but she would have to seek them out eventually.

Of course, she wouldn’t be taking any undue risks herself.

This was a job for her most reluctant minion.

“Raven,” Bureaucracy (Weiss) said. “I have a mission for you…”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

Death might not be a goddess of wisdom, but she’s picked up her fair share of it over the year. Plus, she does have a soft spot for Weiss. She might not be her Weiss, but she is still a Weiss. And you can imagine how Raven will react when she runs into Death and the rest of the gang...

You can find me on fanfiction.net, AO3, and Amazon.

[dragon-temeraire]

Rising (Part Two)

Part two of my phoenix Stiles fic! (Part One)(Part Three)(On AO3)

It takes a few more days to get Lydia’s commission just right, but it’s worth it when he sees how happy she is. Most of his business is done through the mail, so getting to see the reaction to something he’s custom-made in person is a novelty.

He ends up splitting his time fairly evenly between the forest, his workshop, and the store. He doesn’t typically get many customers during store hours, so he mainly spends them clicking around on his laptop, researching whatever random thing he wants to know, or answering emails from prospective clients.

He’s also started to truly tend to the forest, carefully burning accumulations of leaves and dried brush and making way for new, fresh life. But he’s only worked in the area surrounding the Nemeton, too worried to venture further out in case he misses seeing Derek.

He’s a little bit embarrassed about that.

He shouldn’t be developing a crush on a reticent, emotionally distant werewolf.

Except that he really isn’t, not anymore. Because Derek, through their gradually lengthening conversations, has begun to open up. He’s lost much of his stoicism; his expressions are softer and less guarded when he’s with Stiles, and he shares more of what he’s thinking and feeling. It’s like the real Derek is being slowly revealed to him, little by little, and Stiles finds he’s very much enjoying the process.

It has taken time, though, to get through Derek’s shell, and that’s never more obvious than when he looks at the sapling in the center of the Nemeton.  It has continued to grow larger, trunk thickening and branches spreading, so that a canopy of leaves now covers the massive stump in dappled shade. It’s a nice place to forge or sketch, or even just relax, and Stiles takes full advantage.

But sometimes he sits beneath that tree, feeling the pure magic flowing through it, and thinks that, despite everything he’s learned, some parts of Derek are still a complete mystery to him.

 *

 Stiles hangs out with Scott and his friends again, this time at Lydia’s house for a pool party.

He’s not much for swimming, but he dangles his feet in the water and happily soaks up the sun. He talks a little about the places he’s been, the traveling he’s done, and he’s surprised at everyone’s interest until he realizes most of them have never left California.

Someone—Stiles thinks his name is Danny—starts asking Stiles’ opinion on the places he wants to move to after he gets his degree, and someone else passes him a beer while he answers. He accepts it, even though alcohol doesn’t do anything for him, and sips it idly as the conversation shifts to everyone’s post-graduation plans.

It’s a strange feeling, when they continue to ask his advice, because he’s essentially the same age they are, yet he’s almost being placed in a mentor role. It’s odd to realize that your life has matured you, and that it has set you apart from everybody else.

He happens to glance at Allison then, who’s sitting apart from everyone else, not really participating in the conversation at all. It seems like there’s something different about her, like the core of her has become steadier, stronger, and he’s surprised by the rapid change. But then he sees her running her fingers over her new bracelet, a small smile on her face, and he suddenly feels lighter.

No matter how different he is, what he does matters.

 *

 By this point, Stiles has heard numerous stories about Derek’s betas, and the trouble they get themselves into—they may be powerful werewolves, but at heart they’re still teenagers—and appreciates the fondness in Derek’s voice when he talks about them. But he finds it surprising that an alpha werewolf would be content with a pack of three. Especially when, from what he can tell, it’s been that way for years.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says then, because he suddenly has to know. “But you don’t really act that much like an alpha.” Granted, Stiles has only encountered a few himself—and has only been chased out of a territory once—but those he’s met have been aggressive and intense, running their packs with a firm hand and very little patience.

Into the silence following Stiles’ words, Derek says heavily, “I wasn’t supposed to be. But when the time came, I was the only one left.”

Understanding hits Stiles then, along with the realization that Derek had lost everything, and the only thing he’d gained in return were alpha powers. And he’d somehow managed to survive, to pull himself together and rise up from his tragedy, and even, slowly, build himself and his life anew.

An intense wave of empathy burns at his throat, wells in his eyes, and he finds himself unable to say anything; doesn’t know what he’d say if he could.

But Derek keeps talking, like it’s something he has to say, so Stiles does his best to swallow down the ache and give him his full attention.

“My mother was never the relentless, power-hungry kind of alpha. She of course had her strength, her abilities, but she mostly used them to make us all feel loved, safe. We were all part of the same pack, so she felt it was important to let everyone be involved in decisions, and she never hid anything from us. She kept us unified, and taught us how to blend in with humans, but made sure we were proud of who we were.” He takes a gulping breath. “My father was her second, a grounding force who was steady and kind, though he showed his teeth if he needed to. We lived in peace for years, on friendly terms with all the other packs nearby, and we felt like we could handle anything.”

The words have a sort of longing ache to them, and Stiles can’t help but lean his shoulder against Derek’s, hoping the contact might help, even just a little.

“When she—when they—I knew I was never going to be an alpha like her, and at first I didn’t even try to be,” Derek says, letting out a heavy breath. “I was full of grief and anger and hate, and I just wanted something, someone, I could control. All I had left to hold on to was my mother’s alpha status, and I made a mockery of it.”

He can feel the tension in Derek’s body, and ventures hesitantly, “But something must have changed, because you’re not like that now. And your betas clearly care about you.”

“It was a long road,” Derek says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes.

He talks about the things he and his pack had to face, and how his withholding of information often made things much worse, especially in the way it eroded the little trust he’d earned from his betas. How Boyd and Erica had nearly died, and how they’d almost broken ties and left him. He tells Stiles that he’d been willing to let them go, even knowing it would weaken him when he most needed strength. They deserved better than him. And he speaks, voice full of shame, about how he’d purposely tried to drive Isaac away.

And how he’d come to realize that his fear of being vulnerable, his fear of making attachments that mattered, had almost lost him his chance at another family, another pack. One he could protect, and in turn, would protect him.  

Stiles listens until Derek’s voice runs out, lets them both rest in the quiet that follows. He feels a solidarity with Derek, and finds he wants to share something of himself, the way Derek has shared with him. So, when Derek’s breathing has steadied, Stiles begins to speak.

“My mom was a phoenix, like me. After she died, I lost it. I went completely out of control. I started fights with people twice my size, I took completely unnecessary risks, and I was always trying to push myself beyond my limits.”

He’d gotten cuts and bruises and broken bones, but he hadn’t cared, not when he could burn himself away and emerge, fresh and new. No pain lingered long enough to make him hesitate. And he hadn’t even tried to stop himself, not until he realized what he was really breaking was his father’s heart, and that was something that couldn’t be healed by phoenix powers.

“My mom was really sick when she was pregnant with me, and she had to regenerate pretty often. It got better once I was born, but she was still sick a lot, and toward the end it always took a long time for her to emerge from the ashes,” Stiles says, and finds his voice is trembling. Deep down, he knows that her death is due, at least in part, to his existence.

“My dad thinks that’s why she died—because she had to regenerate so many times. Like, maybe we only have a finite number of rebirths in our lifetime. And it terrifies him that I’ve done it so much, especially being as young as I am. He’s afraid he’s going to lose me.”

He tells Derek about all of the moving, how it was a necessity because of the trouble Stiles got himself into, and because the longer he was stuck in one place, the more reckless he got. His dad was trying to mitigate damage in both respects, so they got used to packing light and traveling often.

No place they’d been had ever really helped that much, though.

“Has it happened here?” Derek asks curiously. “Have you regenerated since you got here?”

“No, not once,” Stiles says, thinking back. He’s been in Beacon Hills for more than a month, and he hasn’t done anything uncontrolled or dangerous at all.

Except for accidentally invading an alpha werewolf’s territory, but that had turned out fine.

“Seems like things are getting better for you, too,” Derek says.

 *

 He’s surprised he doesn’t have nightmares about his mom that night.

He usually does, after he talks about her, which is why he and his dad avoid the topic so strenuously.

When he does dream about her, he sometimes dreams of the times they’d drive out to the middle of nowhere, looking for somewhere they could be entirely out of sight. His dad would lean against the side of the car and watch fondly as he and his mom would transform and fly.

Stiles would always try to impress him with his acrobatics, turning on his wing, looping and diving, while his mom flew above him in slow, watchful circles. Flying with her always made him feel completely free, and so full of happiness that he always burned brighter. When it was time to leave she’d call to him in her soft, melodic voice, and though he never wanted to go, he’d always follow her down to land.

But most of the time, when he dreams about her, it’s the moments before her death. The dreams always make him relive, with perfect clarity, the sharp stab of fear he’d felt when she’d sunk down onto the grass, and shifted into a phoenix one last time. And as the flames blazed higher, she’d looked at him with such love and hope that he’d thought, for a moment, that everything would be fine.

He only considers them nightmares because, in the moment between sleeping and waking, he forgets that she’s not still with him.

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with MONA CHEN, who is THIRTY-FOUR years old. She is often called QUEEN MAB and works as an ASSOCIATE for the Montagues and Capulets. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

Hers is not a story that starts with a beautiful little girl wrapped in silks and satins, nor is it one borne from unconditional love or a doting mother’s generosity, but is a tale woven purely as the result of a grave MISTAKE—something Mona’s mother never let her forget. She wasn’t planned, but rather thrust upon a woman who never should have bore a child for there was no room in her heart for anyone but herself. As selfish as she was mean, Caroline Chen was a con-artist who SWINDLED men with deep pockets and even deeper insecurities, swooned with just one bat of her lashes and a quirk of her brow, turned pliable and spineless at a simple graze of her fingertips to their lapel. A few words of praise, maybe even a night to remember if she was feeling particularly generous and they were exceptionally handsome, and it wasn’t long before they were laying money by the thousands at her feet. First it started as some sob story told about her very ill daughter, poured on thick with calculated tears from the supposed damsel cuddling beside whichever unlucky BASTARD thought it wise to trust the pretty woman at the bar last night. And as Mona aged, the lies aged with her. Illness turned to a depressing tale of her father abandoning her and her mother, leaving them with nothing but the clothes on their backs and no place to call home, and with such conviction, Caroline weaved a web thick enough to convince one of her conquests to buy them a house. But what of the little girl who’s life is determined by falsities and half-truths, by a mother who saw her daughter as nothing more than a meal ticket? Deception becomes the only way to survive and SECRETS become sustenance.

It doesn’t take a genius to trace back Mona Chen’s roots, the barely-there strings that tie her back to a woman now rotting away in PRISON and the one-night stand that cultivated her existence. It takes her six months to track him down, to get the full story on how he met her mother in a seedy bar, took her back to his hotel room, far too deep into his cup to even realize she’d lifted his wallet and his keys, and never heard from her or his Mercedes again. He had no idea he even fathered a child, and in fact, married three years later and started a family of his own. I have siblings? She’d asked, somewhat wide-eyed but never dumb enough to be truly HOPEFUL. Like a man suddenly aware he revealed too much information, all he did was nod. Took a sip of his side-of-the-road diner coffee and looked out the glass window to his right. They sat there in silence for a bit. Mona took in his visage from beneath her thick, mascara donned lashes, memorized the details of his face, his eyes, his nose, everything that looked like something he’d given her, and then she left. It can’t be said she never gave him a second thought because there are often times when she does exactly that. Think of him. He floats into the edges of her mind as she graduates college, a hard-earned degree in business paid for through less hard work and more STOLEN checks from dalliances too focused on her petal-pink lips and plunging neckline to notice her hand slipping into their breast pocket. Mona walks across the stage, accepts her diploma with a handshake, and distantly wonders if her father would be PROUD. He recedes from her memory as she starts her career, an intern at a financial firm in downtown Verona, clouded by the stress of starting her adult life, but her best-laid plans of shedding her mother’s tangled roots crumble when she’s released from prison, showing up on her daughter’s doorstep looking for a place to stay. A couple weeks, she’d said. Just until I get back on my feet.

Her mother stayed four days and ROBBED Mona blind, taking everything from the few designer dresses she’d managed to afford on her minimal salary down to the silverware. Anything that could be pawned, she took; anything that could be worn, she stole. And perhaps what hurt the most wasn’t that if only her mother had just asked, she would have helped, however begrudgingly it might have been—no, it was that Mona was clearly no better than her FATHER. A source of income, a thing to be used until there was nothing more, left behind once her value had been diminished. Credit cards maxed out and bank account emptied, she lost her apartment the following month. Repossessed by the very banker she’d overtly flirted with to get the lowest rated mortgage, and with such a pompous smile. Like he knew she bit off more than she could chew and proven him right in less than six weeks. Fast and all at once, Mona found herself back on the STREETS with nothing but the clothes on her back to her name. Those, and her wiles at least. The one good thing her mother had ever done for her: taught her all the ways to survive. Her father moves into view those first few nights, the ones she spent on park benches or huddled inside bus terminals to fight off the cold. It took him three years to get his life together after meeting Caroline, after she CONNED him for all he was worth. It takes Mona six months to do the same, and in record time if she does say so herself. She spends her nights at the Emelia first, catering to older men who love to look but never touch. They just want someone to listen, and listen she does. With ears perked up and brows knitted in a perfected feigned sympathy to their first-world blights and white man problems, all while she dips her fingers into their very deep pockets. Her time and attention, she quickly learned, was worth a pretty penny, and it wasn’t long before Mona built herself a clientele, dreams of an EMPIRE slowly coming into view upon the horizon.

She was never a girl built for the white collar life, spending her days catering to the wants and whims of men who thought it funny to slip their palm against her derriere at the copy machine. It was a life she tried, a life she told herself she wanted time and time again; anything to not become exactly like her mother. But like her mother does with all things, she took, she stole that dream, pried it right out of her daughter’s fingers and forced her back down into the dirt from whence she came. Not unlike a PHOENIX, though, Mona rose from the ashes of her mother’s relentless destruction and became anew with many a lesson learned. Never again would she be made into a thing of value for someone else. Nor would she settle for anything less than all the control. And if there’s anything her clients love more than drinking, it’s spouting off at the mouth about all their supposed POWER. One name found its way into her whispers over and over, like a broken record, the man who changed it all, blessed the poor and turned them rich: CAPULET. She went to him with an offer, a business plan to turn his subpar front of a casino into something worth remembering. And what would you give me? He asked, smoke curling out from the sides of his mouth. She answered him with one word and one word only. Access. The deal was simple. Mona passes along whatever whispers are pertinent to the mob’s success and Cosimo garners forty percent of the profits. And thus THE DARK LADY was born. It took little effort to convince her clients to follow her, offering them VIP entry to the newly remodeled den of sin as compensation for their loyalty. Within two years, Mona adds to her ranks, donning her little birds Sparrows and sets them off to gather more whispers, encouraging them to always listen and never stifle the words their clients offer up. Intimacy is never a must, but trust is paramount.  

Once upon a time it was an empire Mona wanted, a kingdom forged in her own image, something that was hers and hers alone, but as the years have gone by, she has realized it is within the DARKNESS she shines. When will you join our ranks, tesoro? Cosimo still asks, still begs the question and waits with bated breath for her answer, hoping for her to utter a long-awaited ‘now.’ Why would I do that? She asks back, a quirk to her brow, lips twisted up in a knowing smirk. Here, I’m the QUEEN.

LUCREZIA FALCO & CALINA SOKOLOVA: Emissaries. Where there is a will, there is a way, and Mona Chen’s will is by far the greatest. She is an expert in bending those around her to her will, and if there was anyone strong enough to gently caress the ego of Lucrezia Falco without falling prey to her piercing onyx gaze, it was the Dark Lady herself. The same cannot be said for the Montague, a girl who’s mind and motives Mona cannot seem to pierce or probe despite her best efforts. Calina is not so easily read, nor so easily wooed for her ego is not what matters most to her like the Capulet. It is by a leash the two emissaries think they have the Queen of Whispers, pulled taught around her throat so as to keep her in line and keep the interests of their Dons at the top of her list. Little do they know Mona fastened the collar to her neck by choice; hold your allies close, your adversaries closer.

YAMAMOTO OMI: Favorite. Of all her Sparrows, her exquisite collection of rare beauties, Omi is by far her best and without a doubt her most cherished. It is with an uncharacteristic compassion Mona handles Omi, with soft touches and forehead kisses, offering up words of wisdom at every turn to better the little bird. To further her ability to dissect secrets from the toughest of subjects and show her how to hold on tight to those whispers, for they are the only true currency worth a damn in this city drenched with sin. And to be rich in this respect is of the utmost importance, a necessity to survival. More than anything Mona wishes to see her succeed, and while there’s pleasure to be had in the taking, the real joy comes from wielding such power. There’s no use for a Sparrow on which these teachings falls flat, and Mona has not spent years training Omi to be her best asset if she didn’t think they were capable of greatness—together.

RONAN IVARSSON: Indenture. He is weak, and that is, perhaps, Mona’s favorite thing about him. Privileged in every sense of the term, he glides through life as if this world was made for him, taking whatever he wants and using those he deems as having talents worth his time, but ultimately he is selfish. He uses people like they’re his playthings, and while the same argument could possibly be made against the Dark Lady, she knows how to cover her tracks. But even more so Mona knows how to actually care for people, how to let her walls down and offer entry into her heart, however guarded it may be. It takes strength after the luck, or rather the lack thereof, the universe handed her. For now, he is a slave to his desires, as most men are, and it is a fact that elates Mona for it means he has secrets, and it is those little whispers he thinks he can keep to himself that she is after. Watch yourself, Ronan. Mona Chen sees all; hears all. And how bad it would be if she took your exploits to that little group you’ve pledged yourself to across the bridge.

HARRIET D’ANGELO: Closest friend. There are few people in this city—on this Earth entirely—that she trusts, but Harriet has become one of them. Enigmatic and exceedingly intriguing, Mona was drawn to the woman from the moment the two first met haphazardly at the Tempest. Harriet with nothing more than a regal air of solitude weighing the space she occupied alone, and Mona with a few Sparrows-in-training by her side, the two exchanged pleasantries in line for the bathroom, and as hackneyed as it may be, the rest was history. From their first meeting, there has been a bond, a certain kind of kinship Mona has been deprived of most her life. Someone to share her soul with, not a lover but a love between almost sisters. The madame is quite protective of the D’Angelo woman, especially as her path begins to collide with the seedy underbelly of Verona. And make no mistake, anyone who dares to cross Harriet D’Angelo will have the Dark Lady to answer to.

Mona is portrayed by GEMMA CHAN and was written by SIDNEY. She is currently OPEN.

[deckspair]

Humanity's Phoenix | Shinobu | Execution Reaction

Shinobu held their breath as Ukiyo-maemi responded to their words in particular, an impulse to reply running through them as she dropped her usual manner of address and directly used their name.

Because, yes, that was what people called them. But more importantly it was what they themself chose to be called. They had every reason to stop being Shinobu – to distance themself from the fame and infamy of being a star that burned too bright too fast, or to distance themself from the expectations assigned to them for most of their life. Despite it all, though, the name still fit, in familiar and intimate ways that no other name ever could.

Too bad Shinobu had no time to tell Ukiyo-maemi any of that. Too bad there wasn’t time to tell her of the kind of purity demanded of athletes, and perhaps see if any of their wounds matched. That final opportunity to have the closure of ‘goodbye’ was burned away.

Like others before her, Ukiyo-maemi died slowly and violently, trapped beneath the burning forest. And for all that Shinobu hated her, they never wanted this for her. Tears began anew on Shinobu, fueled by horror and shame. Was there really nothing else that could have been done…? The robots had intervened to protect themselves and would’ve likely done so no matter what the vote numbers were like. And no one else wanted to step up as a sacrifice. (If anything, Ukiyo-maemi had quietly, privately told Shinobu it’d be fine if she was sacrificed if they couldn’t find the killer, despite knowing all along that she…! Shame turned into anger, and then back to shame all over again.)

The weight in their arms shifted, and Shinobu suddenly found themself supporting Neo entirely. They had to kneel down, still holding him, to conserve their strength. Neo wasn’t much lighter or shorter than Shinobu, and their skills didn’t lie in lifting and carrying weights; it wouldn’t be impossible to carry him to their room, but it’d be tough. Akira hurrying over to check on them both was a relief.

The relief did not last. Junshu was the next to break as she wondered why the plan had failed and why they as a group seemed so incapable of doing anything to sabotage their captors. She concluded that the answer was that they were incapable, and that fault lied solely with everyone but herself. Impulse ran through Shinobu again, impulse to say that Junshu was also starting to sound a little like some people they knew, but – but, no. No, she wasn’t, because as terrible as they had been they had never had to deal with this, and… and… whether or not she maintained leadership of the group, there were still reasons to fear her.

Her accusatory scream had been more than enough to make Shinobu curl inwards to guard themself, clinging tighter to the unconscious Neo. Would she be next? Would she be the next Ukiyo-maemi or Mia Matsumoto, killing out of some stubborn sense of morality or justice? Would she be the next Law N. Oda or Sayuri Nishu, an authority figure that couldn’t stop this momentum?

Akira was speaking now, offering some reassurances that Shinobu could fully believe in right now. They nodded slowly, however – they needed help protecting Neo, and it meant they and Akira could look out for each other, too. Shinobu glanced around as the tension in the room eased just enough for people to begin moving again. What was going on with the robots…?

No. No, Shinobu was at their limit of coherent thought. They needed to recuperate first if they were go to do anything productive. They mumbled gratitude to Akira, letting her help carry Neo back to the Avocado dorm. Shinobu was running on fumes and would likely pass out as soon as they got there… and then, hopefully, they’d gain back just enough energy to be able to face tomorrow.

After all, Nonoka had always called Shinobu a phoenix. Even before those hushed confessions, she’d known just enough of their history to grant them such a lofty title.

And maybe from the ashes of Neo’s trust and Junshu’s trust, from the ashes of Ukiyo-maemi’s entire existence, from the ashes of lives destroyed and old wounds reopened, Shinobu could still find some purpose to keep moving. Even if that purpose was to atone to everyone they failed to save, everyone who could have been saved had it not been for Shinobu’s inaction.

Shinobu was pretty sure they’d have to spend the rest of their life atoning to make up for this. And they did not wish to live another moment down here. But more than that, they did not want to die.

[petri808]

Phoenix Skies Reborn

Written for a class this semester.  This takes place several years after my original story Phoenix Skies (a NaLu story).  Now Natsu and Lucy's daughter is all grown up. Nashi Dragneel and her best friend Arashi are about to learn discover the hidden truth between them...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Whoa is that your dad!” the young boy whispers to his friend.  “He totally looks like he’s on fire!”

“Isn’t my daddy just the coolest!” The little girl responds with a giggle, “I wanna be just like him when I grow up!”  A few moments later, they see a woman walking towards her father, “Lookie, it’s my mommy!”

           The two friends, 7-year-old Arashi and 6-year-old Nashi peek out from the bush they had been hiding under, watching her parents on the hill crest.  To the children, the whole scene was like some magical fairytale come to life of the dragon and his princess, for atop that hill, stood Nashi’s father in full Salamander glory.  Unlike her half status, he was a full-blooded fire class Draco with much larger, reptilian wings measuring about ten feet from tip to tip, and two curled, beige horns sprouting from his head.  Humanoid in many aspect’s but instead of bare skin, his back, chest, and extremities were all covered in scales.                    

Even Arashi was spellbound, for compared to his sinewy father, this man’s very presence could cause one to shudder.  The Draco towered over his mate, Nashi’s mother, by over a foot, with such a muscular physique the small boy couldn’t help but think of him as some God like figure. Truth be told, her father was the strongest of his kind but had the most jester-ish of qualities, often joking around and yet sweet in nature, the man genuinely had a heart of gold.  And as he held his wife against a sunset to end all sunsets, the children could only watch in breathtaking wonderment.                                

“Yeah… your dad really is the coolest…”        

The young man had been searching everywhere for the Salamander, but she wasn’t at her cottage or her friend Chieko’s home, the usual hang outs she’d often frequent or even the local watering hole where she would often frolic on a summery day such as this one.  And it was a gorgeous one, by far the best day they’d had this August with cloudless powder blue skies that stretched for miles and miles unimpeded. Breezes, abundant in nature to cool you down from the sun’s blinding ray’s, forceful enough to stir the air and lift your tresses, but not whip them around like in a gale.

Fall was just around the corner and the trees were starting to make their debuts with the lightest hints of color change.  Arashi sighed, it was another beautiful time and season that made one appreciate their world and understand the cycles of Samsara.  How nature was the ultimate goddess who gave birth, lived, changed, and then died only to be reborn anew year after year after year in an endless cycle. Reflections of the heart.  

Alas, he was losing focus, the Salamander, where was Nashi?  If only he’d had the Draco’s sense of smell, chuckling in his head, that girl could sniff him out anywhere in town, but he needed to rely on good old-fashioned detective work.  The wisteria grotto?  Nope.  Crocus river?  Not there either.  Maybe she actually went to see her parents for once without prompting, so he heads over and finds the girl’s mother at home.  

“Hi!”  Hugging the young Sprite, “what bring you here?”

“Aunt Lucy, do you know where Nashi might be?”  

But the female Fae only shakes her head, “I’m sorry Arashi…”

“Please call me Storm, aunty, I like my nickname better.”

“You do realize Arashi means storm, right?”

He crosses his arms, “I know, but Storm sounds tougher.”

Lucy chuckles, “you are so much like your father.  I swear, do all Snow Sprites have such a severe demeanor?”  

“Uncle Lyon is the only other one I’ve met and,” taping his chin, “come to think of it he and dad are a lot alike.  Any ways, I guess I’ll just keep looking, she’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” she chuckles, “but you should know by now they are like their element, always burning for action!  Excuse the pun.”  With a sigh, “even though Nashi is only half Salamander, that girl has taken after her father side.”

“Aye, she does idolize him,” the young man smiles in a teasing manner, “but at least she has your looks and your smarts going for her.”

“Oof!” Lucy slaps his arm lightly in jest.  “Trying to work your charms on me too young man, you really are just like your father!”

“I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

“Well good luck dear,” she shoos him on his way, “when you find that wayward daughter of mine, tell her to check in sometimes cause we worry about her.”

“I will, thank you Aunty.”

By late afternoon, Arashi was ready to give up and go home.  He had hoped to set out early in the morning on a new commission but unless he could find his partner and confirm it with her, well, the Snow Sprite just wasn’t up for going it alone.  Why would he when it was always more fun when they were together for an adventure.

But where could Nashi be hiding?  She had promised never to run off on her own again after the last tongue-lashing he’d given her.  Sometimes that girl was too adventurous and reckless for her own good and even her father who’d seen his fair share of mischievous younger years would get on her case about it.  No, Arashi stilled the growing anxiety rising in his mind, Nashi’s never gone back on a promise before, for that he was certain of in his heart.  So, there was only one last option he could think of, it was a stretch since it was a place that she would only visit with her mother during certain celestial events or solstices, but since the young Draco tended to go for the familiar, it was worth a shot.

It was one of the best locales for sky gazing around their village, a hilly meadow with no trees to block the open view above, rolling fields of envious green and swaying wildflowers dancing to an unsung tune only the gods could hear. But if you closed your eyes… and slowed your pace…. those melodies just might reward your passage into another realm, transport your consciousness to where the pixies prance and flutter about or the stars may wink and grant your wishes.  Asteri Hills was their nickname for this magical milieu, Nashi’s sanctum to commune with the spirits, and one she’d shared with her best friend some 13 years ago.

And as he crested the final hurdle, there she was atop the highest vestige this place had to offer.  Her back towards him, head tilted towards the heavens and eyes no doubt closed.  With leathery crimson wings tucked neatly against her lithe frame while her long, snake-like tail twitched of its own volition near her feet.  Nashi’s salmon-colored hair shifted in the winds that wafted past, funneling her smoky scent down the hill into his company.  He couldn’t help but let a smile creep along his face or a blush run along his cheeks for she truly was like an idol amongst the divinity of this realm, like her father.  Bathed in hints of royal purples, fiery crimson blending into tangerine orange, and melting honey she was…  Exquisite…  The kaleidoscope of colors unifying into an overwhelming aura to encircle her, so powerful and virile, it sends a golden arrow to pierce the chosen.

Arashi shields from the burning fronting his vision, it was if she was on fire, just like the mythological Phoenix rising from the ashes, but it didn’t sting his eyes, this image was blazing a different path through his soul, awakening an arcane desire as old as time itself that had lain dormant but now ready to soar into the azures.  N-Nashi…  His mind flashes back to that long-ago scene, except this time...    

Without warning, an attack launches itself within his body.  His blood rushes through his veins, deafening against his ear drums.  Arashi clutches to his chest and drops to his knees, what the hell is happening to me! It felt like his thumping heartbeat could break through his diaphragm, lungs screamed from a loss of air he was still taking in and yet, why couldn’t he fill them? Heat swells inside his frame, convening and churning like a caged creature ready to pounce at its vessel. Arashi looks up to the sky as the swirling sensation begins to move, radiating outward, filling every pore, every cell, with a strange buoyancy feeling the man of ice and snow had never experienced before.

Soon, his mind is spinning out of control and the vision of Nashi blurs…

“Storm?” a hand takes hold, fingers curling beneath his chin to lift his face.  “Storm are you okay?”  He blinks and sees his best friend kneeling, smiling like she normally looks in front of him.  Did he imagine the whole thing?  The Snow Sprite looks past her and sees the raging skyline still evident in all its glory while slowly the blood-orange sun disappeared below a distant horizon. Nashi laughs, “Storm, what has gotten into you?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“N-Nashi?” raising a hand towards her cheek if only to make sure he wasn’t still in some dream.

“Wow, you’re burning up,” her gentle caress upon his brow causes hers to furrow, “that’s totally not normal for you, are you not feeling well?”

“Yes…” shaking his head, his hands dropping to their sides, “I mean no, I think I’m fine.”

“Then what happened?”

“I’m not sure,” burning images of his best friend flashing through his mind once more, “I saw you… a—and…” a renewed passion of all those febrile emotions rush back but this time they center in a new location, winding into a tight coil in his gut, before dashing below the waist.  Arashi’s eyes flare with intensity as the realization hits him.  Oh, crap that’s what it all meant!

A huskier tone snaps his mind into the present.  “Arashi…”  and as his Aegean hues fall under her scrutiny, growing wider if at all possible when he notices the matched lust of the Salamander dancing behind her icy blue gaze. “…your scent has changed.”

Oh crap, she can smell the arousal!  All the pent-up emotions he had long buried and tucked away to be forever unrequited threaten to take control.  He falls onto his ass and tries to scoot away.  “Nashi, I-I didn’t mean to…. I mean I couldn’t help it that I….  y-you’re my friend and it’s wrong of me to think of you in that way!”

“Stop being an idiot Storm,” her tail grabs hold of his foot to stop his back-peddling, “how do you know I haven’t felt the same way about you?”  Crawling over and forcing him into a supine position until she is practically nose-to-nose with the man, “hmm?”

“We’re elemental opposites.”

She lets the weight of her body settle onto his, propping herself with a grin, “And yet best friends,” bopping his nose, “you keep me cool in the summer and I keep you warm in the winter, pretty sweet deal don’t cha think?”

“Oh, geez…. is that all I’m good to you for?”

Nashi’s eyes half-lidden, “As much as I should smack you for that comment,” and her face lowers ever closer… “how bout I just show,you instead.”  The Snow Sprite is given no chance for a rebuttal when between blinks her lips have claimed his in such a covetous manner as to shock every cell in his body. She giggles at this startled expression, her tail flicking in amusement, “do you believe me now?”

“Hmm, I don’t know…” his face turns to the side, though his eyes monitor her reactions through their periphery, “you could’a just done that to tease me.”

“Oof!” slapping his chest and rolling off into a sitting position, “I don’t go around just kissing guys!” The pouty, child-like expression sends Arashi into a minor hysteric. “I’ve never even kissed anyone before…”

While still chuckling quietly, he sits up and pulls Nashi back onto his stretched-out legs until she’s straddling him.  “You know I’m just teasing you,” smoothing his thumb against her cheek, “and I’m glad these lips,” grazing them with his own, “were saved for me.”

           Left in the wake of a setting sun, nary another spoken word, did the world spin for the second time that day as a torrid desire swirled and enveloped the budding couple into its bosom.  Arashi seizes upon Nashi’s lips, so flushed with heat and engorged with life-giving essence, worrying the supple pink flesh until her simpering becomes music to his ears.  She fists at his knit top through each deepened entreaty.  His hands caress her lower back before travelling and fingers tangle into her salmon-colored locks, coveting them like they were made of the finest silk.  

           Her mewls to his groans adding to loves melody as their tongues frolic amongst a moist and temperate climate.  A few clicking of teeth or grazes of her canines on such sensitive flesh, but eventually a seasoned rhythm finds them locked in a rumba all their own.  Nashi’s hands drift upwards, cradling his crown, slightly tugging on his hair each time his hands have wandered to a southern locale.  Not that she minded it so much.  The feeling of his fingers ghosting against any bare skin sent delectable little shivers along her spine to fuel her vocal pleas.                                  

           Neither realized just how much they had longed for the other’s touch, but as they gave into those desires, it felt as normal as the changing seasons, transitioning their relationship from platonic to amorous. A deep rumble of contentment shattering the cozy still of the early evening darkness.  Instincts soon take over as Nashi’s tail and wings encircle the couple in a protective shield.  But they are oblivious, so wrapped up in the moment to bat an eye until a need for air makes itself painfully known.

After a couple more sweeps against her lips, Arashi leans his forehead against hers.  “Last chance to walk away,” he muses.

But Nashi simply smiles, “Oh Storm,” and pats his cheek, “you’re stuck with me now.”  

~~

A few yards away at the edge of the clearing, Nashi’s parents hide amongst the brush spying on the two young adults.  Lucy clasps a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggling, “they are so adorable!”

“It brings back memories doesn’t it?” Natsu pulls his mate closer, kissing her temple, “that was once us.”

Lucy sighs and leans against his shoulder suggestively, “they grow up too fast…. Maybe we should have another one…” 

[safrona-shadowsun]

Unraveling

Livid, the Void Elf seemed deceptively composed standing there on the docks of Stormwind with the modified hearthstone in hand, but it was all she could do to keep from throwing the needed device straight into the harbor. She watched the glowing rune that delivered the Ethereal’s voice dull slowly, leaving her with his final ‘arrangements’.

She was of the Void, and it was decided she could not be trusted among the Consortium. Not enough to be treated as some Trade Prince and have so much control over the movement of one of their own. Not any longer, anyway. Funny, that. Perhaps the truth was she had become too much of an inconvenience to the airbags of avarice, not agreeing to take up the call of the demand of Azerite wherever a contract would be waved in the air from either side of the war-line.

Saraj left her with the convenience of the beacon merely if she must pay for his services, at a discount, for she was a favored client. Arrogant bastard. Slowly steeling herself with sense, trying to avoid the panic of what she would do without the Consortium’s investment, without the Ethereal’s portal transportation, without...everything that made her importing business work as smoothly as it did, Safrona slowly slid the Hearthstone into an inner pocket of her garments. This could all be fixed, she tried to tell herself. It was merely...change, and again, she had to adapt. She had the Eclipse Syndicate and Empyrean Star Trades, and Aranya Ver’sarn still on her side. Deals could be made, transport could be arranged. The Dark-Star Phoenix would not leave her in the dark.

Her mind went to The Voice in that moment, opening her tethered soul to the tortured flame that burned like a pyre in Aranya for all that she had seen, all that woke her up at night, trying to wrest away from nightmares even secure in the arms of her Valajar. It had been too easy for the Harvester to build a numbing wall around her own feelings to keep herself in check, but in that intention she often shut out the connection of who needed her most. First Teldrassil, and then the Undercity, the loss of each only a beginning to the tides of war that rose, making friends of enemies, and unmarked graves of the unprepared.

....in truth, a part of her wished to have seen Lordaeron emptied, drained of its poison and built anew and given to the living, but her traitorous thought ended with a distinct feeling of loss that ghosted across her throat and choked her breath in a way that she could no longer ignore. Something unfairly cut down that had fought to exist in those Ruins, as she had for the years after she had personally abandoned it to the Grave. Soul split and worn thin, Safrona was haunted in ways she could not often put into words, in ways that Bwomsamdi found deeply, ironically amusing. It was a state that kept her craving souls, and kept her delivering the blackest of them to the Loa.

“Ey, Renwyck!” 

Her reverie was cut short by the all too familiar name shouted by a Foreman, and...she was still trying to determine that she had heard it right. Safrona’s eyes snapped to the sight she had been denying for over two weeks as some figment of imagination, some ghost her mind continued to try to torment her with. But she could not deny the sight of the Watcher she had lost two years ago was there upon the docks now, in the flesh, bearing the weight of a crate like some personal penance.

“Speed it up, Wyck! This boat’s gotta leave in a half-hour!” the impatient Foreman cried out at the disheveled Darrow, who stared despondently at his crate, and continued to march on his way. Even in the knowing that he had been alive, seeing the man that had taught her heart to beat for something again and tore it open the day he disappeared, it all began to unravel the tear she worked so hard to close in his absence. A name, a dozen questions ached in her throat, but her mouth dried up to silence, not knowing that she could face this living haunt on this day, when everything else felt it was coming apart at the seams.

...whiskey. On the rocks. That was all her mind could manage, and her feet took her there quickly, away from the unraveled ends of business, and everything else.

{References to @aranyaphoenix, @halenvar, @renwyck , @gravekeeper-anna }

[cedarmoons]

companion to this oneshot + @katharaya u know what u did

She takes none of his jewelry, except the heart-shaped emerald she wears around her neck; she finds Nadia’s letters to her, and Asra’s, all of them wrapped in twine. She finds the black-and-grey photograph of the three of them, taken in their youth, and the photograph of them with the children, and she slips them both between the letters. 

She takes his red looped scarf, and winds it around her shoulders, lifting it to cover her hair as well.

She makes other basic preparations, and then she leaves Vesuvia. She returns to the Waste.

*

Korra comes to her in dreams, the first night she spends alone. She is forty-seven, with streaks of grey in her hair, and Ziah feels sick. She still remembers the day she had met her first daughter, when she had been young and prideful and young.

And now, she is twenty years older than Ziah looks.

“Where’s dama?” Korra asks. “He’s not answering when I reach for him—”

Ziah breaks the dream, and wakes with tears on her face. She restarts the campfire she had huddled beside, and reads Asra and Nadia’s letters collected over the years, holding the emerald in her palm. It is warm, and though Asra’s magic had faded long ago, the feel of it is still a comfort.

I’ll be lonely until the next time I can wake up next to you two, Asra had written, ages ago. She remembers the weight of Nadia’s arms around her as they had read the postcard in their bed. She remembers Nadia kissing her shoulder, smiling against her cheek.

Be back soon.

She does not even notice she is crying until the first tear falls and smears the ink. “No,” she gasps, and bends the water out of the card, but it is too late. The old ink is lost. “No,” she whispers, wiping at her face with the scarf. “Please...”

I’ll be lonely until the next time I can wake up nex Be

“Please,” she whispers, but whatever rules over the universe does not hear her; the ink remains marred.

She puts away the letters, and weeps, and stays up the entire night so she will not have to face the daunting task of justifying herself to her ageing children. She has lost the two halves of her heart; only a hole had been left behind, and she knows that abyss will only widen with every strand of silver she sees in her children’s hair.

*

They catch onto her strategy, soon enough.

“Please come back,” Yosef asks her when she falls asleep at dawn, sitting with her with their feet dangling in the garden’s pool, as they had done when he was young and wanted to escape the chaos of the house. “Mama, we’re not mad you didn’t tell us. We just want you back. We’re all in Vesuvia, we want—”

She breaks the dream.

When she tries sleeping in the afternoon, Lizbet is there with her, in the garden she had crafted from her room, Mango chirping on her shoulder. 

“Mom,” Lizbet worries, peering around the fronds of her fern. “Mom, where are you? Pepper’s grown now, she can take me and Blaise and we can come get you, please. Please, Dama wouldn’t want you isolating yourself—”

Ziah cannot stop her tears, then, and her grief rends the dream apart. But it is not until her fourth day traveling to the Waste, when she encounters a dream-remnant of Asra, that the grief stems into something decidedly more numb.

“Whoever has summoned you,” she tells the fragment, “is very cruel.”

It smiles at her, cheeks dimpling; its lepidolite eyes are clear, unclouded by cataracts, and its hands are steady and warm when it cups her face and wipes away her tears.

“You are five days dead,” she says. “Let me grieve in peace.” Her voice breaks. “Please.”

“Not if it means you’ll be alone,” it says. The sound of his voice, warm and affectionate and soft, is enough to make her turn away. She presses her hand to her mouth, biting down on her wrist to muffle her keening wail, and squeezes her eyes shut.

She smells jasmine and lavender behind her, and her body shakes, knees nearly giving out. No, she thinks, desperately, and when she squeezes her eyes shut she feels hot tears run down her face, hugging the curve of her jaw.

“Ziah,” she says, gently, and she breaks. She collapses, legs too weak to stand upon, and Nadia catches her, lowering them both to the floor as Asra kneels beside them, arms tight around them both.

She cannot endure it.

She cannot endure it.

“You are cruel,” she gasps out, as Asra and Nadia hold her between them. “Enough! Leave me in peace!”

The dream melts away, and she wakes in tears, unable to control her grief until hours past the sunrise. When she calms, she rubs at her sore eyes and summons water from the dirt, calling one of her children.

It is Korra who answers, and the water is clear enough that Ziah can see the age lines between her brows, at the corners of her eyes, around her mouth. “Mom, thank the gods—” she starts.

“I do not know who was responsible for that dream,” Ziah says, thankful that her voice is steady, “but we did not raise you to be cruel. Leave me in peace. All of you. I want to be alone.”

“Arianna’s pregnant,” Korra blurts, before Ziah cuts off the message. That stays her hand, and she looks away, out over the savanna that is slowly becoming desert with every mile she travels east. “I just... I just wanted you to know. She’s gonna name them after Dama.”

An Asra, to match a Nadia. She remembers the news—Evander’s second daughter, their fourth grandchild, Asra insisting they travel all the way to where he had been stationed in Drakr so they could meet little Nadi.

We’re grandparents, Mizi. She remembers how he’d laughed, in the midst of cleaning his spectacles with his shirt. Can you believe it?

Ziah splashes the water, breaking the connection.

*

Lina is—delighted is not the right word. Pleasantly surprised. Lina is pleasantly surprised to see her again. 

She allows Ziah to take up her old rooms by the oasis she had brought forth from the desert, rooms that have nothing but a makeshift bed crafted out of scarab chitin and phoenix pelts.

Ziah does not know what it is—whether Tiamat’s absence, or the shroud of grief that clings to her shoulders and radiates from her body in waves—but Lina leaves her alone, this time.

Her dreams are peaceful.

*

She does not know how long she is in the desert. Time slips away. She is empty, and more and more often she fills her dreams with memories of Asra and Nadia and both. She spends her days reading their letters (Nadia’s elegant script, Your presence lights up even the darkest of places, and Asra’s simple scrawl, I’d cross all the seas to get back to you) or sleeping.

Her dead heart beats, but she does not feel anything except grief and emptiness.

Korra contacts her, once. Her hair is more gray than black, and Ziah cannot look at her because of it.

“Evander’s dead,” she says. “There was an accident.”

Ziah says nothing.

“Asra’s turning two in a few months. We’d love it if you could come.”

Ziah says nothing.

“Mom.” Korra’s voice breaks. “Please come home.”

Ziah says nothing. This time, it is Korra who breaks the dream. When Ziah blinks open her sore, sleep-crusted eyes, she finds the black-and-white photograph of them all—Nadia, Asra, their fourteen children. She finds Evander, standing beside Nadia with Nadia’s hand on his shoulder, and stares at his face the entire day.

Slowly, she begins to reshape her dreams, so that the memories include Evander as well. But when she wakes and faces the day, her thoughts grow more and more consumed with the ocean. Even here, in the desert, the sea beckons to her, pulling upon the foreign immortal soul within her own.

She gives herself to her dreams and to her longing for the sea, and pays no mind to the time that slips through her fingers like sand.

*

She dreams of the desert, of shifting sands and silver dunes. She dreams of walking down an onyx road, one that will lead her back to the waves, where she should have died long ago.

“Wait!” an achingly familiar voice calls. She turns, and there Asra is—dressed in strange clothes, but unmistakably him, not some phantom constructed from the annals of her mind. She can feel his aura, something she has not sensed in years, decades, and it startles her so badly it shakes her out of the dream.

The next night, she has the same dream, and she does not know what to make of it. But it does something strange: it makes her heart beat anew.

*

Blaise comes to the Waste the day Ziah decides to return to the sea. Pepper carries them straight to the palace, and Lina threatens to kill them both for their presumption, but Pepper lifts her golden-orange wings and roars right in Lina’s face. Ziah explains, and Lina begrudgingly returns to the palace, sighing oh, all right, you two have your fun.

Blaise does not look any older than twenty-five, and Ziah’s breath catches in her throat. She looks at Blaise’s chest, reaching out with her magic, and there—a sliver of Pepper’s soul, young and vibrant, fresh where Tiamat’s is shriveled within her.

“How long?” she asks, quietly.

“Auroth taught her,” Blaise says, resting their hand on Pepper’s massive flank. Pepper lowers her head, her snout taller than Ziah herself, and Ziah rests a hand between her nostrils, remembering the day she’d hatched. Beside her, Blaise says, “I’ve been twenty-five for a hundred and thirty-two years.” 

Ziah closes her eyes.

“Mom,” Blaise says, “the world’s a lot different than when you left. But if you want to go back, I’m here to bring you home.”

Ziah thinks of Asra, calling wait!, the desperation in his voice. She closes her eyes. She breathes, and lets her heart feel hope. “Yes,” she says.

*

She dreams of Asra a third time, and this time, she lets him reach her. He crashes into her, pulls her off of the road that leads to the sea, and they kneel in sand that turns to meadow. 

She is weeping, but she does not feel her tears; she touches Asra’s cheek, as he stares at her in wide-eyed bewilderment and relief, and she says, “Thank you, sweet. Thank you for bringing me back. I will find you, I promise.”

*

Vesuvia’s palatial gardens have been transformed into a public park. She does not know what to make of the new world that awaits her, one that roars at night and day both, one where the city’s lights are so bright she sometimes thinks it is daylight. 

But the willow tree remains, as does her name, worn smooth by time.

She sits under the willow tree, reading old letters and staring at old photographs, and it is there he finds her. She looks at him, and though she cannot breathe, she is for the first time in a hundred years aware of her own heartbeat.

There you are, she wants to say. I’ve missed you so much.

“Hi,” he says, and offers her a smile, just as he had in a different lifetime. “It’s a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”

[lindawinsllow]

The Story of the Phoenix Rising

Photo of the Phoenix, “unica semper avis” (ever-singular bird), 1583.

The story of the Phoenix is a tale about rising again after getting weak and falling down.

Versions of this story exist in English here on the Native American teachings Facebook Page and here with the Rising Phoenix Track Club.

The Story of the Phoenix is a great legend that speaks to self care, rest and recovery. It also speaks to transformation. It says that becoming anew is possible with the right allies, preparedness and in the right place.

Below you will find Story of the Phoenix. As you read it, see what parts of it speak to you. Afterwards, I’ll discuss my take on this tale.

The story goes:

Photo of the Phoenix by Tú Lê Anh from Pixabay

There is a bird that lays no eggs and has no young. 

It was here when the world began and is still living today, in a hidden, faraway desert spot. 

It is the Phoenix, the bird of fire. 

One day in the beginning, the sun looked down and saw a large bird with shimmering feathers. They were red and gold – bright and dazzling like the sun itself. 

The sun called out, 

“Glorious Phoenix, you shall be my bird and live forever! Live forever!” 

The Phoenix was overjoyed to hear these words. It lifted its head and sang, 

"Sun glorious sun, I shall sing my songs for you alone!" 

But the Phoenix was not happy for long. Poor bird. Its feathers were far too beautiful. 

Men, women, and children were always chasing it and trying to trap it. They wanted to have some of those beautiful, shiny feathers for themselves.

"I cannot live here,” thought the Phoenix. And it flew off toward the east, where the sun rises in the morning. 

The Phoenix flew for a long time, and then came to a far away, hidden desert where no humans lived. There the Phoenix remained in peace, flying freely and singing its songs of praise to the sun above.

Almost five hundred years passed. 

The Phoenix was still alive, but it had grown old. It was often tired, and it had lost much of its strength. It couldn’t soar so high in the sky, nor fly as fast or as far as it was young.

“I don’t want to live like this,” thought the Phoenix. “I want to be young and strong.”

So the Phoenix lifted it’s head and sang, “Sun, glorious sun, make me young and strong again!” but the sun didn’t answer. Day after day the Phoenix sang. 

When the sun still didn’t answer, the Phoenix decided to return to the place where it had lived in the beginning and ask the sun one more time. It flew across the desert, over hills, green valleys, and high mountains. The journey was long, and because the Phoenix was old and weak, it had to rest along the way. 

Now, the Phoenix has a keen sense of smell and is particularly fond of herbs and spices. So each time it landed, it collected pieces of cinnamon bark and all kinds of fragrant leaves. It tucked some in among its feathers and carried the rest in its claws.

When at last the bird came to the place that had once been its home, it landed on a tall palm tree growing high on a mountainside. 

Right at the top of the tree, the Phoenix built a nest with the cinnamon bark and lined it with the fragrant leaves. Then the Phoenix flew off and collected some sharp-scented gum called myrrh, which it had seen oozing out of a nearby tree. 

The Phoenix made an egg from the myrrh and carried the egg back to the nest. Now everything was ready. The Phoenix sat down in its nest, lifted its head, and sang, 

“Sun, glorious sun, make me young and strong again!”

This time the sun heard the song. Swiftly it chased the clouds from the sky and stilled the winds and shone down on the mountainside with all its power. The animals, the snakes, the lizards, and every other bird hid from the sun’s fierce rays – in caves and holes, under shady rocks and trees. 

Only the Phoenix sat upon its nest and let the sun’s rays beat down upon its beautiful, shiny feathers. Suddenly there was a flash of light, flames leaped out of the nest, and the Phoenix became a big round blaze of fire.

After a while the flames died down. The tree was not burnt, nor was the nest. But the Phoenix was gone. In the nest was a heap of silvery-gray ash.

The ash began to tremble and slowly heave itself upward. From under the ash, there rose up a young Phoenix. It was small and looked sort of crumpled, but it stretched its neck and lifted its wings and flapped them. Moment by moment it grew, until it was the same size as the old Phoenix. It looked around, found the egg made of myrrh, and hollowed it out. Then it placed the ashes inside and finally closed up the egg. 

The young Phoenix lifted its head and sang,

“Sun, glorious sun, I shall sing my songs for you alone! Forever and ever!”

When the song ended, the wind began to blow, the clouds came scudding across the sky, and the other living creatures crept out of their hiding places. Then the Phoenix, with the egg in its claws, flew up and away. At the same time, a cloud of birds of all shapes and sizes rose up from the earth and flew behind the Phoenix, singing together, 

“You are the greatest of birds! You are our king!”

The birds flew with the Phoenix to the temple of the sun that the Egyptians had built at Heliopolis, city of the sun. Then the Phoenix placed the egg with the ashes inside on the sun’s altar. 

“Now,” said the Phoenix, “I must fly on alone." 

And while the other birds watched, it flew off toward the faraway desert.

The Phoenix lives there still. But every five hundred years, when it begins to feel weak and old, it flies west to the same mountain. There it builds a fragrant nest on top of a palm tree, and there the sun once again burns it to ashes. But each time, the Phoenix rises up from those ashes, fresh and new and young again.

  When I think about stories such as this one, I think of the lessons as questions. 

In the story of the Phoenix, these are the questions I’m asking:

What preparations do you need, and can gather, to support you to get ready for a rebirth?

What goes in your nest with you when you need to regenerate? What sparks your fire?

Is there a mountain or a place you go to rise again and recharge? Where is that? Can you go?

The Story of the Phoenix has origins in Ancient Egypt, and it is associated with immortality. Some tie it to the resurrection, an idea that appeals to Christianity and other fans of life-after-death motifs.

The Phoenix is often depicted as crimson or orange, and is thought to be mythical, meaning it never truly lived in this dimension, at least.

What does the Story of the Phoenix say to you? What thoughts does it stir? Do you have any tales of rebirth like the Phoenix from your own life?

For more information on the Phoenix, here’s a YouTube Video that describes the myth in perfection.

– Amanda

Other Articles You May Enjoy:

A Gipsy Prophecy by Bram Stoker

What Is The Hero’s Journey?

How To Call In Archangel Azrael

Signs From Spirit – Does My Father Visit Me As A Cardinal?

  The Story of the Phoenix Rising over photo of the phoenix by Tú Lê Anh from Pixabay

  The Story of the Phoenix Rising published first on http://thaiamulets888site.blogspot.com/