#and since in this realm of possibility i cannot simply disappear

[v-67]

I just feel so overwhelmed at the moment

That i simply wish to dissolve into something, dissolve into something which makes me disappear. Disappear in a way that I never existed.

For this existence is a hindrance.

This soul is a weight,

This heart, a vessel with a void.

And i simply wish, I simply wish with everything in me, to disappear.

Into nothing.

And never be.

[aylacavebear]

The Traveler - Chapter 7 - Earth, 2013 pt 1

You're from a specific dimension, Solaris Eclipse. It was a dimension of magic. When your kind, the Eldrathiren, turned fifteen, your unique power would awaken within you. Most times, it was something small, levitation, teleportation, creation, elemental manipulation, and things like that. Once in a while, a fifteen-year-old would just disappear, and those were called Travelers. None of them had ever returned. Your parents had told you stories about them, and you hoped that wouldn't happen to you.

Please don't take my work. I'll post warnings for each chapter. Will probably be 18+ I haven't decided yet!

Word Count: 6061

Pairing Eventually Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You & Sam Winchester x OC Reader/You

Warnings: Angst, fluff, some alcohol use. A/N: Don't think there's anything else in this one. It's fairly relaxed.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 7 - Earth, 2013, pt 1

You stand in front of both brothers, as they stand next to each other in the opening between the library and the war room of the bunker, “I cannot exist in the same place as myself. I will be back, though. Remember, I’ll be sixteen when I appear and know little to nothing of things to come. Be understanding and not too clingy.” Your tone was soft and gentle as you touched each of their cheeks. You felt their sadness and fear that they wouldn’t see you again for a long time.

“It’s not fair,” Dean sighs.

“Don’t be like that. I will be back. I promise,” you told the two of them, then kissed them each on the cheek.

“Oh, that simply will not do,” Dean snickers, wrapping you in his arms before he kisses you deeply, which you return.

Sam just rolls his eyes but also chuckles at how his brother is with you. You giggled, finally pulling away from Dean, although he didn’t let you go, “I love you and always will, no matter how far away I am. I always find my way home, to both of you.”

Present Time

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the environment that you appeared in. It was a dark room with regular furnishings, although it didn’t look as though anyone was occupying it. Your ears twitched, hearing faint sounds somewhere on the other side of the closed door.

Where am I?

You walked over and opened the door as quietly as possible, noticing the hallway outside it being brightly lit, causing you to shield your eyes momentarily. There were faint scents in the air that moved differently in this place. The walls were white and tiled, and you wondered if perhaps you were in a realm similar to Earth. 

Since there were lights, you decided to assume that someone lived in this place, so you were cautious as you wandered through the hallways, which felt like a maze. The only difference was there were markings on the doors, although you couldn’t read them. You followed the direction where the scent was coming from, hoping it would lead you either outside or to whoever lived there.

After what felt like a half hour or so, the hallway opened up into a larger room. Across that room was another hallway. To the right was a staircase and another small hallway, while to the left was another large room. That was when you saw them, their backs to you. Two men, standing in the space between the two large rooms. For a moment, you were worried, even readying your spear in case of possible combat.

The two turned to face you, and you took in their features, focusing more on their eyes than anything else. You’d seen them in your dreams, premonitions, and in person over a year ago. Your spear fell to the ground as you ran over to the two of them, wrapping your arms around both of them, tears streaming down your cheeks. They returned the hug, holding you close, gently rubbing back.

“It’s okay, Y/N. You’re safe here,” Sammy told you softly.

Dean wasn’t sure what to say. You weren’t old enough to feel the connection to them, not the way they felt it to you. “I missed you guys,” you managed through sobs. It wasn’t that you were sad. You just finally felt safe again and were overjoyed to see the brothers.

When you finally manage to stop the tears, you pulled away from them. Now utterly curious, your mind began swimming with questions, although you had no idea where to even start.

“Tell you what. Why don’t I go make you something to eat, and we’ll catch up on things?” Dean said, giving you a soft smile.

“That’d be nice. Could it be one of those bacon cheeseburgers? I really missed those,” you replied, smiling happily.

“Definitly, Kit-, Sweetheart,” Dean replied, having to catch himself from calling you by your nickname the brothers had given you years ago. 

You watched Dean head toward the hallway near the stairs before looking back up at Sam. He was much taller than you now, “What is this place? How have you been? How long have I been gone?” you asked, too curious to wait.

Sammy chuckled, gently setting his hand on your back as he led you into the library and pulled out a chair for you. “Have a seat,” he said. He chose to sit across from you, and you watched him, utterly curious, with a huge smile on your face.

“We found this place not that long ago. It’s a bunker built by some people called The Men of Letters, but they aren’t here anymore. A lot happened since we saw you last. Just know we’re doing good and overcame a lot. You’ve been gone for sixteen years.”

That last part hit you the hardest, causing your eyes to water with fresh tears. Your thoughts also wandered, remembering what Lysara had told you about them. Had either of them felt anything when they turned eighteen, or would that not happen until you turned eighteen? You wanted to ask, but at the same time, you were afraid of asking.

“It’s not fair…” you mumbled, looking down at the table.

Sammy’s face comforted in mild confusion, “What’s not fair?” Although, he found it slightly humorous how Dean had said the same thing to future you before past you showed up.

You fidgeted with your fingernails, still staring down at the table, “That I missed out on sixteen years of your lives,” you mumbled.

A look of realization came across Sam’s expression as he understood what he’d been feeling from you, “Hey, it’ll be okay,” he told you softly. Then, with a sigh, he sat next to you, turning your chair so that you were facing him. He gently lifted your chin so that you were looking into those hazel eyes of his, “When Dean comes out with your burger, we’ve got some things to tell you. Just know, you haven’t missed out on our lives.”

You looked at him, fairly confused, not understanding what he could mean, when the aromas from the kitchen wafted into the library, bringing a smile to your lips. “I really missed that,” you practically purred. 

Sammy chuckled, letting go of your chin, “Dean’s quite the cook these days. I’m sure he’s gonna cook quite a bit for you while you’re here.” 

That was when Dean walked into the war room, a massive smile on his face, a plate in hand with the burger he’d made you, “Here ya go, Sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” you replied, smiling up at him as he set the plate in front of you.

You missed him taking a deep breath and fighting with himself as he chose to sit across from you. Even Sam moved to the other side of the table, sitting next to his brother. Without hesitation, you took a bite of the bacon cheeseburger, closed your eyes, and savored the flavor. God, you had missed the food from Earth. 

It wasn’t until you were halfway through the burger that you finally looked over at the brothers, who were just watching you quietly. “So, uh, what did you mean earlier, when you said that I hadn’t missed out on your lives?” With your taste buds finally as happy as your stomach, you were finally able to ask Sammy what you’d wanted to do before Dean had put the burger in front of you.

“Well, the way Cas explained things, time isn’t linear. So, when you dimension hop, you can end up in different times in different dimensions,” Sammy explained, and you ate.

“You show up a few different times in our lives before Sam turns eighteen and a few times after that,” Dean told you.

You tilted your head slightly, “So, I won’t be staying this time,” you stated relatively quietly, then sighed and looked down at the burger in your hands. 

Dean instinctively moved to sit next to you, “Hey, don’t be sad. It’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure you, gently rubbing his hand along your back.

“Dean,” Sammy warned him, causing you to look up at him and wonder what you were missing.

Before you could open your mouth, Dean moved to the other side of the table, “That’s it. What is it you two aren’t telling me?” You asked them sternly, trying not to feel annoyed.

The two looked at each other, almost like they were debating what to tell you and what not to tell you. Dean even opened his mouth a couple of times and closed it like a fish, no words coming out.

You were about to say something else when Sam finally looked at you, “Just like you won’t be able to tell us about this place when you see us again, there are things we can’t tell you,” he tried to explain.

You deadpanned, crossed your arms, and leaned back in your chair, “Not cool,” you grumbled. Dean was smirking, which was annoying you, and it was clear that Sammy was stifling laughter, which also annoyed you. “It’s not funny,” you pouted, looking away from them.

“Sorry, Sweetheart, it is a little funny,” Dean chuckled, sipping something from a glass bottle.

“How is this in any way funny?” you asked, still with a deadpan expression.

“At least we understand how you felt, not being able to tell us things,” Sammy said, smiling, still stifling his laughter.

“Just so you know, you’re adorable, even through all the dirt,” Dean chuckled again.

You were not finding him funny at the moment, “And you’re being annoying,” you retorted.

Sammy glanced at his brother and sighed before he looked back at you, “Since you’re done eating, why don’t you go get a shower? You’ll feel better.”

You sighed, then frowned, “How long, before I shift again?” you asked quietly.

There was silence from both of them for a while before Dean answered you, “About two weeks,” he said sadly.

“It’s not fair,” you mumbled sadly, laying your arms on the table, then your head on your arms.

Both brothers moved, one on each side of you, attempting to comfort you with a hand from each of them on your back. It puzzled you, and you turned your head so you could look at Dean. “Did either of you feel it, when you turned eighteen?” you asked quietly.

They looked at each other, an unspoken conversation between them, with just their expressions, before Dean looked back down at you. “We both did, once Sam turned eighteen,” his tone was quiet, almost soothing to you. “We’re both here for you. Please don’t be mad that we can’t tell you more,” he was practically begging.

“I’m not mad. It just sucks,” you grumbled, then put your forehead on your arms.

“I almost forgot how adorable you were when you were this young,” Dean told you, almost lovingly.

That was when you sat up and looked back and forth between the two of them, “Wait, are you two, with, uh, me?” you asked, somewhat nervously.

That made them both blush and chuckle a bit. Sammy’s blush was far deeper than Dean's, though. “Don’t worry about that, Sweetheart. It’s not important right now,” Dean told you, holding back another chuckle.

You furrowed your brow a bit at him, “You’re both acting weird. How is it not important?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Sammy looked over at Dean before he retrieved a glass of water from what you assumed was the kitchen. Then he set it on the table for you, saying, “This will help.”

“I swear. I feel like you’re trying to butter me up for something,” you grumbled, taking a drink of the water.

He was at least right about it helping you feel better. The last world had been dark, as had the powers you’d gotten there. Having to survive like you did had your instincts on edge. You let out a soft sigh, feeling a little more relaxed now.

“I think I’d like that shower now, and uh, thanks for the water,” you told the two of them, feeling a bit bad that your emotions had gotten the better of you. 

“You don’t have to feel bad,” Dean told you softly, causing Sammy to give him another warning look. 

Before you could remark on it, Sammy spoke, “Come on. Showers down this way. Dean, grab her something clean she can wear. Oh, and I go by Sam now,” he chuckled the last part.

With that, the brothers stood, so you followed suit. So many questions were running through your head, but it was all so jumbled. Sam led you down the hallway you’d come out of, with Dean behind you. He headed to one of the rooms as Sam continued till he reached the bathroom, standing just outside the door.

“Thanks,” you told him, mostly quietly, as you attempted to process everything going through your head.

Dean showed back up and handed you a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, a pair of socks, and a flannel, “These should fit you. Take your time. We’ll be in the library when you’re done.”

You turned and looked up at the two of them. They were clearly keeping a lot to themselves, but they were also being really sweet too. You slipped your bag off your shoulder and handed it to Sam, managing a small smile.

“We know this is a lot for you, and we’ll try to explain what we can after your shower or even after you get some real rest,” Sam said with a reassuring smile.

“Thanks. I guess I’ll see you two when I’m done,” you replied, then went into the bathroom and closed the door behind you.

Looking in the mirror you realized you were dirty. Not filthy, but not as clean as you’d be after a nice hot shower. You had to remove several different layers of clothing. The last world had been brutal on your body, and you’d had to find ways of protecting yourself. Scars of various shapes and sizes were scattered across your skin, but you paid them no attention as you climbed into the shower.

The Brother’s POV

Sitting down in the library, Dean had switched to whiskey. This was going to be far harder than he had initially anticipated. Sam was sipping a beer, leaning back in one of the chairs across from his brother.

“You can’t be so direct like that, even if you can feel what she’s going through. It will only make it harder when she shifts again,” Sam told his brother, even though he had wanted to do the same thing.

“I can’t help it, Sam. I just want to help take her pain away. It hurts, feeling her like that,” Dean sighed quietly.

Sam sighed, “I know. It’s not gonna be easy, but you know there are things we can’t tell her, she’s too young. She also can’t go into your room.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean grumbled, “It’s gonna be a long two weeks.”

“Just be your charming self,” Sam chuckled.

“Yeah, that’ll go over real well,” Dean retorted, rolling his eyes.

“I said charming, Dean, not overly attentive,” Sam clarified, slightly annoyed.

Dean turned so that he was looking at his brother, “How the hell are you so relaxed about this and managing to mostly keep your distance from her?”

“It’s not easy, but I’m doing it for her, like she asked us to. In this case, it doesn’t matter how I feel about it. Getting her through this is more important,” he explained.

Dean grumbled something under his breath and finished his whiskey before pouring another. He glanced toward the hallway, already missing you, future you. For two weeks, he’d have to be close to you, feel you, and not comfort you the way he would want to, the way he knew would ease your pain. Well, future you, anyway.

“Think back to when we saw her, when she came back, not long after you turned nineteen, Dean. She still has to experience all of that,” Sam tried to console his brother. 

“I know,” Dean mumbled, then smiled a little, thinking back.

“Let her relax while she’s here. She’s been through hell over the last six months in that last world. She doesn’t even know how long she was there for yet. We’ll do things with her that will help her relax,” Sam reiterated, hoping his brother would attempt to back off.

“I miss her,” he said sadly, leaning his arms on the table, his glass of whiskey in hand.

“I miss her too, Dean. She’ll be back, she promised. She’s never broken a promise,” Sam replied, sipping his beer.

It was Sam’s turn to glance toward the hallway, his heart going out to you. He was hiding it well, but his soul was hurting just as much as Dean’s was, not being able to comfort you. It was going to be a long two weeks, but he also knew that you needed to finally be able to relax after what you’d just endured. 

Future you had shared your experiences with them when you shifted to their world after Dean had turned nineteen. Sam remembered that time well. He also remembered how Dean had looked at you and wrapped you in his arms the moment you had appeared in their motel room. Sam hadn’t understood then the connection Dean felt toward you. It wasn’t super strong then, but it was still there. Walking into the war room, you pulled both brothers from their thoughts, looking up at you.

This is gonna be harder than I thought, the brothers thought in unison.

You set your bundle of stuff on top of your bag, which was on the table in the war room, along with your spear, before sitting across from the brothers. Their eyes never left you, “What are you two drinking?” there was a curiosity in your tone.

“Oh. I’m having beer, and Dean’s drinking whiskey,” Sam chuckled.

They watched as you tilted your head in curiosity, then walked over to their side of the table, sniffing the drinks. You scrunched up your nose, but the scent was fairly familiar, “I know those,” you mumbled.

The brothers exchanged a look, another unspoken conversation. This was when you would figure things out, and they both knew it, “You can’t have any, you’re too young,” Dean told you, attempting to stifle a chuckle.

You furrowed your brows at him before sitting back across from them, “That’s not fair, I’m only here for two weeks,” you pouted.

Both brothers chuckled at how adorable you looked, “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. You’ll taste them eventually, just not this time.”

“I’m gonna take care of your laundry while Dean gives you a tour so you don’t get lost,” Sam explained, trying his best not to smile too much.

Your POV

The shower had been amazing, and the clothes smelled like Dean, but the t-shirt smelled like Sam. Somehow, it was comforting, and it felt like you were wrapped up in a hug from both of them, like when you’d showed up in this place.

You watched Dean glare slightly at Sam, still unsure of precisely what the two were refusing to tell you. “Alright,” you sighed, dropping the topic of their drinks. 

When the brothers stood, you followed, still dealing with how you were feeling about this entire situation. It was really nice to see them again, but this wasn’t how you had imagined it to be, ending up in the future. You watched Sam take your bag and pile of clothes down the hallway on the far side of the war room as Dean led you through a door that was across to the other side of the war room.

“You remember the car? Well, she’s mine now,” Dean told you, smiling from ear to ear as he led you over to it.

There was no stopping the smile that found its way to your lips, “I remember,” you giggled when another scent wafted in the air around you. “What’s that smell?” you asked, curiously.

Dean looked at you momentarily, puzzled, “What smell?”

You followed the scent, Dean following you. Then, when you found it, you picked up a black bottle and handed it to him, “This smell. What is it?” you asked again, tilting your head curiously as your ears twitched slightly.

“Oh, that’s oil. It’s what cars use to run without breaking down,” he told you, still puzzled.

“Weird,” you giggled, making him smile, “Cars seem complicated.”

“I’ll teach you about ‘em one day,” he replied happily before setting the bottle of oil down, “Shall we continue?”

“Sure,” you answered just as happily.

Just being around them again felt relaxing. The shower had helped wash away a lot of the residue from the previous realm, and all the dirt you hadn’t even realized was on you or in your hair.

The bunker was amazing. Dean explained what each of the rooms was, especially when you gave him a puzzled look at the word he would use to name it. It truly was massive, containing numerous bedrooms which were all decorated the same, a laboratory, a shooting range with three targets, a gym, a garage with several older vehicles and motorcycles, and several rooms that had more files in them, one of which also contained a dungeon that could hold a demon with a devil’s trap taking up most of the room, carefully painted on the floor. There were also numerous showering rooms near the bedrooms, as well as an infirmary.

“And you two live here?” you asked as the two of you returned to the library.

“Yup. Our own little secret hideout,” he chuckled, sitting back in his seat.

“It seems far more comfortable than those motels,” you giggled.

“Hey, lemme show you outside. I remember how you liked the trees back then,” Dean said, seeming excited.

You tilted your head, now curious. When you’d shifted to Earth before, you couldn’t go outside, “Should I, uh, cover up my ears and tail?” you asked.

He chuckled, “No. You don’t have to worry about that with where this place is.”

“I’ll come with,” Sam said, smiling, as he was now in the war room.

You smiled ear to ear, then followed the brothers up the stairs and then outside. It was beautiful. The trees weren’t massive but still had decent height. Your ears twitched at the sounds of the forest while you looked around in awe. The brothers just watched you, feeling far more relaxed now that you weren’t feeling sad.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed.

Closing your eyes, taking in the scents around you, hearing the sounds of the animals and bugs, you couldn’t stop smiling. After a few moments, you opened your eyes and went over to the closest tree, touching the trunk of it. The surface was rough, but you could feel the life within it.

“When you’re ready, we can head back inside. It’ll be dark soon,” Sam chuckled.

“Can I watch the sunset?” you asked when you turned and looked at him. There was a pleading in your eyes and expression. You had missed the sun, its warmth, and the colors it brought to the sky.

“Sure, Sweetheart,” Dean answered, nudging his brother with his elbow.

“You never could tell her no and mean it,” Sam chuckled.

“Shut up. Neither could you,” Dean retorted teasingly.

“I’ll go grab a blanket to sit on,” Sam stated before heading back into the bunker.

“I wish you’d tell me what's up with you two,” you told Dean, leaning against the tree and crossing your arms.

“You’ll understand one day. I promise. We just want you to be able to relax for a couple of weeks while you’re here,” Dean sighed.

You sighed, “Fine. I won’t push it, no matter how badly I want to know,” you finally relented.

Sam rejoined the two of you and laid out a blanket for the three of you to sit on. You looked at the sky, then sat in the best spot so you could watch the sky change colors with the sunset before the brothers joined you.

“So far, Earth food is my favorite,” you told them, lying back and looking up at the sky through the tree's canopy.

“Oh yeah,” Sam laughed, “What’s your favorite so far?”

“Everything. I don’t like the coffee stuff. It was bitter. I liked the donuts, burgers, fries, pizza, and that other sweet thing. It had soft apples in it,” you answered, letting your mind wander and finally fully relaxing. 

“That would be pie, Sweetheart,” Dean replied, smirking. You had no clue how hard this shift would be for the two of them.

You turned your head to look at Dean, smiling from ear to ear, “Yes, that one. Can I have some of that while I’m here this time?”

The brothers chuckled, “Sure. I don’t see why not,” Sam answered you.

If only she knew how utterly adorable she is, Dean thought to himself, both of them wanting to just cuddle up with you.

Your tail swayed at your side, your ears twitching slightly with the sounds of the forest while the sun began to set and the sky became a beautiful tapestry of colors. The silence between the three of you was welcomed and brought you a sense of peace. You felt like you were home, laying there watching the sunset with the two of them, a content smile on your lips.

As darkness came and the stars lit up, you smiled again, staring up at the stars through the canopy above. When you shivered, though, Dean insisted on going back inside, and you reluctantly agreed.

“Can I have pie now?” you asked, looking up at the brothers as the three of you made your way to the library. You still couldn’t figure out why they kept chuckling, like now, but knew they wouldn’t answer your question about it either.

“Why not,” Dean chuckled, then retrieved the pie, a couple of forks, and a couple of plates before joining you and Sam in the library.

You couldn’t contain your excitement, smiling like a giddy little kid attempting to be patient as you watched Dean slice the pie and put a piece on a plate for you.

“There’s plenty, so don’t scarf it down,” Sam chuckled, watching your excitement as you shoved a rather large bite into your mouth.

“Mmmm…” you purred, closing your eyes and savoring the flavor.

Dean got himself a slice of pie before he sat down across from you, “So, wanna watch a movie?” he asked with a mouthful of a bite of pie.

You’d only half-chewed your bite when you opened your eyes, unable to hold back the giggle. You did manage to finish your bite before you spoke, though, “Like what?”

Sam gave his brother a warning look, and you weren’t sure what it was about, “Well, nothing scary, that’s for sure,” Sam stated, still giving his brother that look.

“What?” Dean asked, trying to sound innocent.

Sam rolled his eyes, and you giggled, finding them adorable, just as you had when you’d met them when they were younger. Only now, at least, Dean seemed more playful. You ate your pie as you watched Dean while he thought about a movie. Occasionally, Dean would open his mouth like he was going to say something, then he’d close it again, usually shaking his head after. “Seriously, Dean?” Sam asked after a half hour, as Dean still hadn’t suggested a movie.

“I have to take a lot of things into account. Makes it hard to pick a movie,” he said, defending himself, making it so that you couldn’t contain your giggle.

You noticed how Sam then seemed to look like he was thinking as well, causing you to tilt your head and just watch the two of them. What you didn’t know was that the brothers were attempting to figure out a movie that had nothing to do with anything you were going to end up facing during your shifts. They also didn’t want to pick anything scary due to the last world you had been in. On top of that, they weren’t going to pick anything that could have any correlation to having powers or dimensional travel. 

“I’ve got it,” Sam finally said, making you jump slightly.

“Oh yeah? What’d you come up with?” Dean asked, not looking amused.

“Kung Fu Panda. It’s a good movie, and it’s funny,” Sam stated, defending his choice.

You sucked your lips between your teeth, trying to keep from laughing at them. They were acting like little kids, and it was absolutely adorable. Just the way Dean was looking at Sam would have made you giggle. The way Sam sat triumphantly was what finally broke you, and the laughter spilled out.

“What’s so funny?” the two brothers asked in unison, causing you to laugh harder.

Laughter was something you had been missing since Lysara, and now, your sides were beginning to hurt. When you did finally calm down enough to breathe, you answered them. “You two. You’re funny. The way you act with each other.” 

Neither of them could be mad at you for laughing, seeing the happiness in your expression, “Kung Fu Panda it is then,” Dean chuckled.

“I’ll make some popcorn,” Sam added, heading into the kitchen.

You watched him curiously before looking over at Dean, “What’s popcorn?”

Chuckling again, he barely finished his drink without choking on it from laughter, “You’ll see, Sweetheart.”

Dean led you to a room that had a couch in the center of it, a coffee table, and then a stand with a massive TV on it. There were other things around the room, but your eyes were fixated on the TV, which was the biggest one you’d ever seen in your life. He chuckled quietly, mostly to himself, as he watched you almost trip on the coffee table since you weren’t paying attention, your eyes on the TV. Sam walked in moments later with two bags in his hand and a beer in the other.

You sniffed the air, your head turning as you followed the scent, then licked your lips, “Mmm. That smells yummy.”

Sam chuckled as he made his way over to one of the chairs on the side of the couch, getting comfortable. You kept your eyes on the bags of popcorn in his hands, then sat down on the couch, on the side nearest where Sam sat. Dean set the movie up before he sat down on the other side of the couch. Sam tossed one of the bags over your head, which your eyes followed, and Dean caught the bag and then opened it. You licked your lips again, then looked at Sam.

“Hey, do I get one?” you asked, pouting slightly.

Both brothers laughed that deep belly, whole body laugh. You pouted and looked back and forth between them, then crossed your arms and stared at the TV, still pouting.

“Come on, Y/N, don’t be like that. We were only playing,” Sam said, reaching out with the bag of popcorn he was holding onto, “Here. This one was for you.”

You instantly brightened up and smiled happily, gently taking it from his hand, “Thank you,” you giggled, opening it as you had seen Dean do with his bag.

Steam billowed up, and you inhaled deeply, licking your lips again as you looked down at the food in the bag. It was puffy, white, and yellow, and it smelled amazing. Just as you were about to reach in the bag, the movie began, but it was pretty loud. Without thinking, you reached up and covered your ears, the bag of popcorn hitting the floor. 

Dean hit the pause button instantly, “I am so sorry, Y/N. I forgot about the sound thing.” he apologized. 

You looked over at him, and he felt how sad you were, as did Sam, even though he couldn’t see your face. He’d already moved so that he was cleaning up the spilled popcorn, as half of the bag had ended up on the floor.

“I’ll make you another bag. It’s okay,” Sam said reassuringly.

“I didn’t mean to spill it. I’m sorry,” you apologized, slowly moving your hands from your ears, which were drooping a little due to how you were feeling. 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Y/N,” Dean told you.

“I still feel bad,” you grumbled.

Sam chuckled a little as he took the trash to the kitchen to make you another bag. You pulled your legs up onto the couch and hugged them close to you, resting your chin on your knee. It was definitely different interacting with people than with animals that couldn’t talk. You felt the couch dip as Dean sat next to you, then put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug. 

“It really is okay, Sweetheart,” he told you softly, rubbing your arm as you laid your head on his shoulder.

You nuzzled a little closer, and then your eyes went wide as you sat up and looked at him, completely shocked, even if you shouldn’t have been. Dean looked at you, puzzled for a moment, till he realized what had just happened.

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” he asked softly.

“It’s… you… and… Sam. The scent that’s been… the one I keep following,” you said, your voice shaking.

“Yeah, Sweetheart. Just know, you’ll find your way home,” he told you compassionately, giving you a soft smile. 

Sam nearly dropped the fresh bag of popcorn when he walked back into the room, seeing Dean so close to you yet again. From his angle, it looked as though Dean was kissing you, “Dean,” Sam said in a low growl.

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean said defensively, turning to face his brother, “She figured it out on her own.”

“Oh,” Sam said, slightly taken aback.

“Can we still watch the movie?” you asked quietly, having a hard time looking at either of them as there were far too many thoughts running rampant in your mind.

Dean kissed the top of your head before returning to his seat, making sure to turn down the sound before he hit the play button. Then, Sam handed you the fresh bag of popcorn, and you gave him a small smile as you took it.

Popcorn was an absolutely delicious mix of fluffy, soft, butter, and salt delight. You purred while eating it, eyes glued to the TV as the movie played. It was at least helping distract you from your incessant thoughts, and it was hilarious at points. You didn’t notice how the brothers watched you more than they were the movie.

You weren’t ready to go to sleep after the move, so the brothers suggested the second movie in the series, which you eagerly agreed to. That one made you cry a little, missing your parents. So, you asked for another movie. They suggested the third one but warned you that it might make you cry a little. At least this time, you were prepared for the sad parts.

When the last movie was over, you could barely keep your eyes open. At this point, you were mostly lying down on the couch, your feet in Dean’s lap. He gently moved your feet, then picked you up bridal-style.

“Come on, Sweetheart, bedtime,” he chuckled as he carried you to a room.

You snuggled into Dean as he carried you. He was warm and there was a feeling of safety in his arms. Dean tucked you into one of the beds in one of the bedrooms. It was somewhat odd, lying on a bed after so long, but it was soft and welcoming.

“Sleep. You’re safe here,” he told you quietly before kissing the top of your head, turning off the light, and leaving your room. 

With the door closed, it was dark in your room, but you could still see in shades of grey. However, you couldn’t keep your eyes open long. A dreamless sleep found you quickly, with the safety you felt of being where you were. 

----------------------------------------- Chapter 8 - Earth, 2013 pt. 2

Link to the series Masterlist.

A/N: If you'd like to get in on the Dimensional Traveling, go to this link and leave me with a comment, or several, with as much or as little detail about the dimension you'd like the Traveler to end up in. If you'd like to have something specific happen, share that too. I'll make sure that you get credit for the idea you shared in the chapter in which your dimension is featured. I'd love to have as many readers involved as possible. I think this could be a lot of fun.

As always, if you'd like to be tagged, let me know and I'll add you to the tag list.

Tag List: @littlemadamred @mxltifxnd0m @foxyjwls007

[lounaticm]

What are your thoughts on a Redeemed!Actor AU? Do you have any headcanons on what that would look like, how that would come about, and especially how it would affect the egos? This is something that's been in the back of my head for a while, and I'm curious what your thoughts and feelings are (even if you outright dismiss the idea).

Oh, I cannot tell you just how much I think about Redeemed or Redeemable Actor. And quite frankly, I see it as not even necessarily being in the realm of needing to be classified as an AU. (Unless IRL Mark fully intends the Actor to just... be fully corrupt and shitty now...) ---

To start this off, I will admit that I used to follow along with (what seems to be) the popular view that the Actor is just the Worst with no true hope of redemption (though that's seeming less popular these days). But then I started thinking, and I've stated this elsewhere before, but...

Damien - and William and Celine - would not have been friends with him if he was truly a bad person from the start.

We've got plenty of evidence - and/or outright statements from IRL Mark himself - that the Actor was being influenced by the Entity. Undoubtedly for years. I have my own thoughts on the Entity's motives - since we've never been given one in canon - but it is in the source material that the Actor was manipulated into not only killing himself over and over again, but also into ruining his friends' lives. 'Putting thoughts into his head and making him think that he'd thought these things himself'.

So, with that in mind, I find there's potentially a very good chance that, if the Entity didn't go with the Actor (which is the logical individual for it to go with, if it left the manor at all) then the Actor might be able to recover from the Entity's influence. Assuming it's not something that's permanent or semi-permanent without outside interference to remove it.

The tragic thing about this, though, is that if the Actor does recover from the Entity's influence... he's going to have to face what he'd done. To the people he cared about. And he certainly strikes me as a severely self-loathing sort, so the angst potential there is off the charts. Made all the worse by the fact that he doesn't even know the Entity exists. He thinks he alone is to blame for all of that happening. None of them know the Entity exists. And so the scapegoat - the pawn - even blames himself.

I feel like, as the influence - the corruption - wore off, and as he started feeling more and more guilt over the wrongs he'd committed, the Actor would try to keep from thinking about it as much as possible. Trying to avoid the problems and especially the feelings. Very similar to Wilford. Except, the methods would be a bit different. He'd likely dive further into 'stories' he makes up... until he literally can't anymore.

He'd effectively disappear, hiding away somewhere. Similar to how he'd closed himself up in that house after the divorce with Celine. Except this time, there wasn't some horrible Entity spewing malice and vindictive thoughts into his ear.

Eventually, he'd have the thought to try to make things right, even though he doesn't expect for a second to be forgiven by any of the people he'd wronged. If he knows about the DA being trapped in the mirror, he'd go and try to pull them out, first and foremost because they were entirely unintentional collateral. He fears William still hates him, and so has never even entertained the thought of trying to approach him - and, in fact, has done his best to avoid him. Celine is asleep, but he's already seen (and felt) her reaction. He's had enough run-ins/almost run-ins with Damien to know how vengeful he is over all this.

It would have to fall to the DA, or - in a rather ironic twist - Wilford, to be the first to forgive him, whether by knowing it was actually the Entity's fault (as would be a potential for the DA) or simply from missing him and wanting to make amends (as would be Wilford's stance). Either way, he'd feel undeserving of it, but neither of them would back down.

Trying to get Dark to forgive him would be... both harder and easier than one might imagine. He'd have to watch the Actor for a while to determine if this was all just a ploy to hurt them all again... but with help from his Little Monster and Will, both directly and indirectly, he'd start on the path of making proper amends. (Which would be aided by being told about the Entity and what it can do - assuming the DA learned about that).

As far as affecting the Egos - assuming you mean in an 'all of them living together' sort of scenario - I imagine the Actor wouldn't hang around the Manor all that much at first, only coming back because Wilford absolutely insists that he 'not be such a recluse'. After a while of working through what happened, he'd stick around more, but would still feel like a bit of an outlier for a while. ---

@kiwibubbles5

[frumverrfriggjar]

Gods of Death

Hel and Odin

It has been a while since I have posted something, but I have been doing a lot of reading and thinking, particularly about death. In this blog I want to look at Hel and Odin, who share some traits as gods who collect the dead, but who seem to be working in opposition to each other. Hel is an outsider just like her parent Loki. She is a jötunn (“giant, glutton, overeater”) born in Jotunheim, and a force of chaos and destruction, as opposed to the Aesir/Vanir, who mainly seem to be forces of creation and order. Odin, as god of war, however, does not shy away from causing a little chaos and destruction, but then, Odin is also of jötunn parentage.

Hel is described by Snorri as being half a corpse, monstrous like her siblings Fenrir, the giant wolf, and Jormungand, the giant serpent, but unlike them she takes a human form. The gods receive a prophecy (Prose Edda, Gylfaginning) concerning Loki’s monstrous offspring, and Odin has them brought from Jotunheim to Asgard. Jormungand is thrown into the sea, Hel is made ruler of the underworld, but Fenrir is fostered in Asgard. Why does Fenrir get this treatment? Perhaps simply because Odin likes wolves (he already has two pet wolves, Geri and Freki), or perhaps because he thinks the wolf will be an asset to him, as his dead warriors in Valhalla are. Hel is not given a place at Asgard, and she seems to be as much a prisoner of the underworld as she is its ruler, which to me suggests that the other gods see Hel as a danger to them. I think Hel embodies death or death of the gods. She is a harbinger of doom, and omen of Ragnarök. She is the daughter of Loki, after all, and Angrboda (“harm-bidder”, “bringer-of-sorrow”). What with Hel being half a corpse, she is a visible reminder of that which we will all one day become. The Norse gods are not immortal, and I think especially Odin is afraid of death and/or losing his mind, which would mean losing all the knowledge and experience he has gained (in Gylfaginning he says he is afraid of Huginn and Muninn not returning to him). On his wanderings, Odin queries spirits and jötunns about the afterlife and his own and his son’s demise. Is Odin trying to cheat death or to put it off as long as possible? He lets people who have died live on in his hall. These people make up his army that he will use to fight against the forces of death/chaos at Ragnarök. Hel could be a personification of death coming to stop Odin before he discovers the secret to not dying.

Before they are brought to Asgard, Hel and her brothers never harmed the gods, so by taking them from their home and banishing and chaining them, do they not have a hand in fulfilling the prophecy? If Hel is death, she cannot be killed, only temporarily ignored or warded off. Is this why the best thing Odin can do is to make her ruler of the underworld? She does not die and disappear there, but it seems she cannot leave either. She can still influence the other realms, though her influence only extends to taking in the shades of those who have died of old age and sickness.

What is this place Hel is made ruler of? The sources contradict each other. According to some, it is located under Niflheim (“Place of Mists”). In Baldur’s Dreams in the Poetic Edda, Hel is described as being located in Niflhel. In another tale it is said to be located under one of the roots of Yggdrasil, the world tree. In any case, Hel in Old Norse means ‘hidden’, so Helheim = Hidden Place. It seems fitting that there is no conclusive answer as to where it is, because it is not for us living people to know.

Niflheim is said to have existed before anything else did. It is a cold, dark and misty place, but it is not a void, it has material, it has rivers. The water running out of Niflheim turns to ice and fills up the Void (water = a source of life). It makes sense to me, therefore, that this is the sort of primordial place where people return to after they die to become material once again. When we think of someone dying, we picture them going somewhere else, but if, like me, you do not believe in any sort of afterlife, they are in fact not going anywhere. Still, they are no longer Here with us, we can’t see them or talk to them, and since Nowhere At All is kind of hard to imagine, we assume they must be Somewhere Else.

It seems to me that Folkvang, Freyja’s meadow where she receives half of those who have died in battle, and Valhalla are just temporary stops on the way to Somewhere Else (a.k.a. Hel, the Hidden Place). Valhalla in particular sounds like some terrible limbo, a Groundhog Day/Russian Doll kind of time loop, where the fallen warriors eat, drink, fight, die and rise again the next day to repeat the same process, until the inevitable end, Ragnarök, comes. Odin keeps his guests in a state of intoxicated forgetfulness.

Like Odin, Hel has an army of dead people, but unlike him she does not seem to have amassed it on purpose. She lends the dead people to her parent Loki, who captains this army at Ragnarök. Perhaps she wasn’t too happy about the fact that she and her brothers were kidnapped and then banished/locked up. Additionally, I think her function is to end everything so the cycle can begin again. Odin and the others need to make way for the next generation of gods.

If gods die, then, do they also go to Niflheim/Niflhel/Hel? It does appear to be the case. A feast is prepared in Hel for Baldur, and he goes there after he is killed by the mistletoe dart. He does not die in battle, but his death is an accident. Niflheim/Niflhel/Hel seems to be a place where ordinary people go, and where there is calm and rest. Snorri calls the being Hel cold, and uncaring about the fate of humankind, but that is just what a mortal person would say about death, isn’t it? Yes, death sometimes may seem cruel and unjust, but I suppose there is equality in death, and as Neil Gaiman wrote, we all get what everybody gets: a lifetime. Hel treats everybody the same, regardless of the life they have lived. They do not have to die honourably or prove themselves in battle to be granted entry to her realm. She also ends the suffering of those who are old and sick. As distressing as it may be to us, life cannot exist without death.

There are different motives that can be attributed to Odin and his thirst for knowledge. It could be a fear of death, wanting to stop the prophecies about Ragnarök becoming true, or a desire to make the most of his time in the face of his inevitable demise, or a bit of both. A relatable guy. I want to end this blog with a quote from Sayings of the High One: “Cheerful and merry every man should be, until he comes to death."

[fatalflawsy]

Pantheon au: Characters! Part 1

Welcome to my new au that I will just give facts about since I can't write a story for life now how it came to existence well it was an ask in @annonniiiiieeeee's ask blog and it ended up being a full fledged thing I wanted to do for fun so here's the summary and basic information and I'll go along from there no plot spoilers will be given just some hints of it but that's about it.

What is the au called? I like to call it the Pantheon au (I will probably change the names later)

Premise? What if the (rottmnt) turtles were gods and yes this is a somewhat Leosagi centered au because my biggest inspirations for this au is a Leosagi fic by the person I mentioned at the start of this post. Of course it will have some interactions with the brothers and I will also flesh out their interactions with one another as well as the other characters because I want to get them all the attention they deserve.

NOTE: not all of these facts are set in stone there are some that we still have to talk about and what to remove or add because some are my own thoughts so I will still have to run it through my co-creators @annonniiiiieeeee @furiousjellifish and @thenerdywitchofthenorth when this is posted to see if there are things we need to change or add to it. Open to suggestions as well

On with the characters!

Lets start off with the Hamatos

Splinter!

The head of the Pantheon and Forgotten God of Fame and Fortune

Due to the accident he had to hide away with his boys to keep them safe.

Due to the lack of followers because of his disappearance his power becomes weaker so he used the remaining energy to make a home hidden away and seal his boys abilities until a certain age.

The reason he sealed those abilities away was because he wants to raise them in a healthy environment and he can't have that with the mortals causing trouble and possible evil that will come for them so he raised them alone and away from the mortals

Used to be in a relationship with Big Mama a fellow god/celestial being who manipulated him to battle in her Battle Nexus located in the Hidden City another factor on why he his his boys away (could be changed)

In the start he was struggling to raise the turtles while missing his glory days and it gets harder because of the dwindling numbers of his followers for each year that passes by.

He slowly grows to become the father the turtles need after the Shredder incident that destroyed their first home.

Raph!

The God of Protection, Strength, Warriors and Rage

Rules over no domain unlike his brothers and merely protects their domains

He watches over those that worship him and makes sure to visit the villages/cities that choose to become his worshippers

He often joins in with mortals in battle fighting for the good people and protecting those who cannot protect themselves.

Those that threaten what his family protects whether it be their domains, worshippers or those that wish to harm them Raph will do whatever it takes to protect it leading to his rage being taken out on them (The savage Raph episodes) or to put it simply mess with his family's domains be prepared to face Raph

April!

Goddess of Truth and Families

Has been down to the mortal realm more times that the turtles and Splinter

Mayhem is her messenger and companion and has two forms when in disguise which is either a cat or a dog and follows April when she's in disguise and down in the human world

April looks the most human of them all so she doesn't have to hide her her image as much as they do.

Will always be the first to call them all out on their bs.

Whenever the turtles sneak out she accompanies them and when busy Mayhem does it for her

In her statues she and Mayhem are always together either on her shoulder or in her arms

Donnie!

The God of Knowledge and Innovation

Because of his unethical experiments at times he is also occasionally called the God of Madness

The smartest of his brothers and often invents new ways to improve their security especially after the Shredder destroyed their first home

Those that come to him for knowledge must share their own knowledge with them as well as a valid reason on why they want the knowledge they ask for and if he deems it fit he will grant you the knowledge you seek if not... Well he'll show you why he's occasionally called the God of Madness

If not found in his domain you can find him in his room/personal study tinkering with Sheldon a spirit that took the form of one of automatons and became Donnie's son.

Leo!

The God of Strategy, Travel, Medicine and Romantic Love

Some of the strategies kings, lords, generals or other battles strategists think of are actually Leo's own strategies that he whispered in their ears using the wind.

He never got any thanks before because the mortals take the credit for it but Leo doesn't mind that much since at that time he was an unknown god but when he became known many mortals pray for his strategies to tackle the many challenges of daily life which Leo is happy provide.

Only dabbles in medicine before meeting Usagi but then spent his energy on medicine to help Usagi with his curse by healing his loved ones should they fall victim to his curse

Became associated with romantic love because of Usagi telling potential worshippers about Leo and hearing the genuine love from him from then on associated him with romantic love.

Leo has an inferiority complex like in the canon show and in true Leo fashion cracks his one liners and makes fun of serious situations but knows when to be serious when the situation calls for it

he self sacrifices like a boss (someone stop me)

Mikey!

God of Food, Harvest and Flame

When appeased the harvests are blessed and good meanwhile if he's mad or upset he will burn the land in which he stands

Mikey is the artist of the family and the cook so his domain is often colorful and full of delicious foods.

Could possibly be the most powerful one in the family. (If canon Mikey can throw a whole boat, an entire building, and open a gateway back in time as well as to the prison dimension then imagine what this god can do)

Even so Raph is protective of him and therefore Raph visits his domain the most for that reason. Much to the dismay of Mikey

Mikey interacts with his worshippers a lot whenever he visits the villages/cities under his domain

Listens to the problems of the people and acts either harsh (Dr. Delicate Touch) or kind and understanding (Dr. Feelings) depending on the situation that calls for it.

Mikey is still naive so at times he can be taken advantage of by some people which adds to his brothers' reasoning to visiting him constantly to check in

Sometimes people forget he's the God of Flames until they remember that he can burn their crops down.

Cassandra!

The Goddess of War and Violence

Cassandra is as intense as she is in the show however in her time in the pantheon with the Hamatos she learned to calm down more but she is still intense and is as always waiting for the next battle

A mortal that used to work for the foot clan but when the clan fell apart she spent her time with the Hamatos and slowly being part of their family and going through her own trial to earn her title as a god

When Casey was going through his trial she wasn't allowed to interfere so she left her son in the hands of the turtles

She is the most active in the battlefield

At times Cassandra would challenge the victor of the battle to a match to satiate her need for battle though she is still in disguise of course.

Casey Jr

The God of Peace, Victory and Roads

Casey started off as a demigod before earning his godhood to join the pantheon

Once he became a god Leo let him keep dominion over the roads

Is one of the first (if not is the first) to be supportive of Usagi and Leo's relationship and even gave Usagi a blessed trinket to show his support to his endeavor to reconcile with Leo

Doesn't have a domain of his own since he usually travels around with his mom.

When his mom is off challenging random mortals to battle he would be in the corner supporting the mortals so they actually stand a chance of surviving her attacks... It works 50% of the time.

Draxum!

The God of Alchemy, Magic and Plants

Caused the accident that caused Splinter to hide from the world with the baby turtles tots

A primordial god that's saw the existence of everything and even created the Yokais and living among them for a period of time before being banished by the Council Of Heads (that's what I call those guys Mayhem works for in canon show)

His resentment for humans started when they attacked his creations and not even half the population survived resulting in his many unethical experiments on attempting to wipe them out

When he was reformed he is keeping an open mind on humans however when their acts result in one of his family members getting upset... Well you should not expect much mercy.

He can easily take on those that want to hunt him down in the Hidden City however he does not want to dwindle the numbers of the Yokais even further so he ran.

He helped rebuild their second home after the Shredder incident and made sure none were hurt during that incident in place of the turtles and yes even the humans even if he was still trying to be open minded

Closest to Mikey because of the many times they spent together during his reform

He was okay (at best) with Leo and Usagi's relationship but should the rabbit bring him any sort of pain that curse isn't the only problem he will have

Is probably the one to heal Usagi's curse with some assistance with Leo

[pan-fangirl-345]

In Every Universe, Forever and Always

Summary: You and Hinata have a very long history together. Across worlds, universes, and timelines, love always finds a way.

Or: A reincarnation/ soulmate AU with Hinata Shouyo and different times you have met and fallen in love.

A/N: I have no idea where the idea for this came from, but I'm now down to only five drafts and WIP, so stay tuned my lovelies!

TW: Murder, blood, bullying, fighting, violence, one (1) implied question about rape (none occurs), swearing, and no proofreading. If I missed anything, let me know!

The first time you had met Hinata Shouyo, neither of you had had names. You had been drifting presences, with no corporeal forms. It was hard to explain how it felt, what it was like. It was being everywhere, but belonging nowhere. It was being able to sense everything, but not touch it. Like someone breathing down the back of your neck but no one standing behind you.

He was a bright light, something that forced away the darkness. He had drifted from galaxy to galaxy, from blank space to blank space, spreading his light, even if some lasted longer than others.

Later, he told you that he wasn't sure what he was searching for, or if he had been searching for anything, but he had secretly hoped that he was searching for you.

He had been alone for his entire existence, but as he drifted, he found you.

You were a softer light than his, not as bright, and not nearly as warm, but you were there, and after such a long time of being alone, it was a great relief to know that he wasn't alone anymore.

He had slowly fallen in love with you, even if there hadn't been a term for it at the time, and you had fallen for him too.

But all too suddenly, there was another being, but it was something much darker than you and Hinata, it swallowed light and destroyed warmth. It was malevolent brutality compared to the kind gentleness that you and Hinata radiated.

You and Hinata had fled from the new being, trying to rekindle the lights that the being had extinguished, but it was no use.

Eventually, it caught up with you.

Instead of surrendering peacefully, you and Hinata fought together, trying to keep it at bay, but your light wasn't as strong as Hinata's, and you fell to the being before Hinata could reach you.

Overcome by grief at your loss, Hinata used everything he had in him to destroy the being, casting his light as far in every direction as possible, using every emotion in his arsenal.

Neither of you remembered whether you had defeated the being or not.

The next time you both remember having met, you were gods.

Hinata was once again a bright light, the humans worshipped him as the sun god, and he was indeed worthy of the title.

You, on the other hand, were the goddess of violent deaths. Humans feared your wrath, and the other gods isolated you because of the humans fear. You were the patron goddess of assassins, murderers, thieves, and sometimes considered the goddess of revenge as well.

Feared in the human realms and despised among the other heavenly beings, you fled into the sky.

You saw the galaxies the humans were ignorant to, you turned away from the worlds with intelligent life for fear of being called upon, and you slowly realized that you could create, as well as destroy.

Every time you accidentally ended the life of a star, you created something else. Sometimes it was a hole that sucked in everything, and even you had no idea where it ended, but sometimes other worlds were born, other galaxies were made.

Hinata, sick and tired of the other heavenly beings that flocked to him, ran from the heavenly realms, stumbling upon you.

You had tried to flee from him, worried how he would react to you, but instead he asked you to stay.

"But why?" you had asked, tucking yourself away behind a small star, ready to flee if he attempted to harm you.

"I remember you," he had said, ignoring your question. "The pretty little goddess that so many feared."

You winced at the reminder of your past, moving to hurry away, but Hinata had simply wrapped a hand around your wrist.

"Please stay," he begged.

"But . . . I might hurt you," you had whimpered.

"Nonsense," Hinata had said, so confidently that you had almost believed him. "Those aren't your abilities."

You had been so confused that you had stayed while Hinata explained that you weren't the one that caused the deaths, you were the one that went to the deathbed of the victim to ease them into death.

Hinata was the first person to see you as the one that ended the suffering, not the one that caused it.

Hinata had stayed with you for millennia, earning your trust, and falling for you yet again.

Somehow, along the way, you had fallen in love with him too.

"Come back with me," he begged, arms around your waist as you both laid among the stars.

"I can't," you told him. "I'm not welcome there. I'm feared by the humans, and the others are disgusted by what I am."

"You're beautiful, and you relieve the pain of those that are suffering. Why would they be disgusted by you?"

"Because no one else sees me the way you do, my love," you had said, stroking his face lightly. "They see me as some repulsive, but necessary, nuisance. They keep me around because someone needs to do the job, but they don't want to be the ones to do it."

"Come back with me so we can prove them wrong," Hinata pleaded. "I'm the king of the heavens, I can make you my queen! Then they would have to respect you!"

"I envy your faith in them, my king," you murmured, giving him a small smile. "But sometimes I think you are blind to the darkness in people."

"And you cannot seem to see the light in others," Hinata had countered.

In the end, you had returned to the heavenly realms with him, only to be met with the scorn and repulsion that you had been expecting.

Some accused you of manipulating him, others said that Hinata stayed with you because he was scared of you, of what you might do.

After only a year, you couldn't take it anymore.

You slipped away from the bed you and Hinata had been sharing.

You had drawn the words 'Forever and always' on his chest, right above his heart, kissing it, before you fled.

You would remember later that the other gods had been plotting against you since your return.

One lower level D-list goddess had gone around slaughtering your fellow heavenly beings, planting evidence that you had done it.

A guard had 'caught you fleeing the scene in guilt', and forced you to your knees in front of the mastermind behind it all.

You and Hinata had, over the years you had spent together, remembered your previous life, and had reminisced over it in your time among the stars.

No one had anticipated Hinata fighting so hard for you.

He raged against his former bootlickers, defending you against everything.

One of the war gods became irritated with his staunch protection of you.

In an attempt to end it, the god had attempted to kill you with a throwing knife.

Hinata had other plans, and had jumped in front of the blade, which sank into his chest, right where you had traced the words earlier before you had attempted to flee to your former sanctuary.

Your screams had echoed through the gold and marble hallways of the heavenly realms as Hinata hit the floor in a spray of blood.

Everyone else was so in shock that you had been able to wrench free of the guards and get to him.

"Hina, my love, stay with me," you had pleaded, cradling Hinata's body against your own. "Please, stay with me. I love you, please."

"Forever and always," Hinata had gasped, touching his wound softly. "Promise me."

"I promise," you had murmured, smoothing his hair away from his face.

In the background, the other gods were fighting amongst themselves, arguing over who had started it, whether it was justified, and it felt as though you and Hinata were in your own little bubble.

"We'll meet again," Hinata had promised, wincing in pain.

Healing wasn't your specialty, you had never had anyone to teach you, and you hated yourself now more than ever as Hinata bled out in your arms.

"I know we will," you replied, kissing his forehead. "Nothing will keep me away."

"I'm glad you're here," he murmured, touching your cheek lightly, softly, despite the blood on his fingers. "I told you, you relieve the pain, you don't cause it."

"Hina, Hina, stay with me, please, you can't leave me here," you pleaded. "Hina!"

Tears streamed down your face as Hinata faded into a soft, warm, golden light that settled over you for a moment before disappearing.

You heard something inside your chest crack, and you were pretty sure, later, that it was the sound of your heart breaking open and bleeding that echoed in your ears.

Your screaming drew the attention of the other gods, and soon they had turned on you, despite the obviously genuine grief you were experiencing.

Someone reached out to touch you, but they stopped when the palace around them shuttered, granite and marble cracked, and something deep underneath them groaned like a beast roaring.

Fear settled over the group of heavenly beings like a dark cloud.

Tears streamed down your face as the last of Hinata's warmth faded.

Darkness leaked from you and something in you snapped.

These beings deserved no mercy from you. Not after what they had done, not after what they had caused.

Most gods experimented with their powers as they grew older, but you had never done that. You had tried to rein them all in, and only ever used them when they were close to destroying you.

With Hinata gone, there was nothing left in this world for you.

You erupted.

Every repressed cursed, every welled up power, forced out with the fury of an immortal being.

Screams rang throughout the heavens as you fractured the seams of the world, extinguished the humans below and detonated stars that you had loved so dearly before Hinata had appeared.

Of all the screams that were resonating about, yours was the loudest.

The sorrow, the anguish, the anger and disappointment, the love, the indifference all mixed together in a cacophony of rage and loss.

In this world, it really did end in screams.

The next time you and Hinata crossed paths, you were known as the Queen of the underworld.

Hinata was the Captain of the Royal Guard, and he had been tasked with tracking you down and putting a stop to you.

He had found you at a masquerade, dressed in scarlet, a burnt gold mask hiding the top half of your face.

Posing as a contact, you danced with him, until he finally figured out who you were.

"My orders are to take you back to the castle," Hinata had said. "There are people within the walls that seem to think you are one of the purest evils on these streets."

"You think differently?" you had asked.

"I've noticed that of all of your victims, none of them were ever children or mothers."

"So?"

"I don't think that you're evil, I think there's more to you than you or anyone else thinks."

"Is that so?"

Hinata had nodded, keeping an arm firmly around your waist, hand in yours.

"Come to the palace with me, help me, and I can help you," Hinata had said.

"Let me leave this party and I'll be able to help you from my own home," you had bargained.

"Meet me one a week at a neutral location," Hinata had argued.

"Deal," you had said, "but no other guards, no weapons, just two people."

"Just two people," he had agreed.

You may have been the Queen of the underworld, but you were a woman of your word.

You and Hinata met once a week for two years before you decided to go with him to the castle.

"Hinata, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Would you like to meet my son?"

That had stopped Hinata dead in his tracks.

At first, you were worried that he was going to be angry, but instead he seemed concerned for your safety.

"How old is he?" Hinata asked.

"Two years old," you admitted. "I had just had him when we first met."

"Was . . . did you . . . ."

Hinata, unable to ask the real question, seemed to be praying you understood.

"I thought his father loved me," you murmured, laying a hand on your stomach absently. "I was seventeen when we met. He was only three years older than me, and he had connections that I could use to my advantage. He didn't know who -or what I suppose- I was. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought he would be happy, I thought we would get married.

"Instead, when I told him, he beat me so badly I almost miscarried, and left me for dead in the streets. My loyal men found me, made sure I was cared for, and killed the father. I promised myself that I would never let another man in like that. And then I met you. You, despite your position, didn't want anything other than information from me. You wanted to help the people on the streets and put a stop to the corruption."

You glanced at Hinata, at those warm brown eyes.

Memories flashed behind your eyes, and you gave him a small smile.

"Have you started to remember yet?" you asked him quietly.

In the last three lifetimes, his eyes were always the same color. His hair and face shape were different, as were his height, and sometimes his personality, just like you, but his eyes were the same warm shade of brown.

"I wasn't sure whether you remembered or not," he murmured, nodding.

"I remember everything."

"It's nice to meet you again, (Y/N)."

"Hello to you too Hinata Shouyo."

You, your son, and Hinata were all assassinated in your bed during your first night at the castle.

The last words you said to each other were 'Forever and always'.

More lifetimes passed, more meetings, more deaths, more children, until this lifetime.

You were the manager for Seijoh, and -ironically enough- Kageyama's twin sister, despite looking almost nothing like him.

"Hey, Hinata Boke! Why are you drooling over my sister like that?" the setter snapped, drawing Hinata, and you, out of your memories.

"Ease up Tobio," you had chided, hitting your brother's shoulder lightly before holding your hand out to Shouyo.

"(Y/N), nice to meet you Hinata."

Hinata could read the unspoken 'again' in your eyes.

"You too, (Y/L/N)," he said, not bothering to hide the smile that was spreading across his face.

Every lifetime, every universe, you were destined to fall in love with Hinata Shouyo.

Sometimes you were enemies, sometimes you were friends, sometimes you were strangers, but in the end, you were his, just like he was yours.

Forever and always.

[diavolodigitale]

Dream Sequence. Asra

It is kind of surprising but I wrote all 3 stories about dreams in one day. Did I nearly lose my sanity in the process? Yes. Did it make me have a terrible migraine? Yes. Do I feel like it was worth it? Also probably pretty much yes. Hard to tell now, I don’t understand what is happening in real life anymore. 

All parts of the trilogy: Lucio - Asra - Julian - All stories in PDF

A part of the "trilogy" about dream encounters dedicated to Asra (because he is a cinnamon bun). Nothing special, just You (or the Apprentice, or the Reader, however you view it) and Asra spending some time together (if you know what I mean, which you probably don't, so go ahead and read it, it's pretty short, I promise). My character was male, but you are free to imagine whoever you want since there are no references to it in the text.

Genres: Romance, Fluff, Comfort, Dreams, POV First Person, One-shot, Light-hearted

Pairing: Asra/Apprentice(or Reader or You or Whatever)

Characters: Asra, Reader/Apprentice/You

Rating: G for Geez that’s another good story, how come?

Size: around 2500 words again

I open my eyes just to see that I am surrounded by white emptiness. As my eyes are adjusting to how bright everything around me looks, I am beginning to discern the line of the horizon that separates the cloudless greyish winter sky above from the frozen bluish ground under my feet.

It looks like it’s winter but it certainly doesn’t feel like one. I am dressed in my regular outfit and still no cold seems to penetrate my shirt and bite my skin underneath.

This must be a dream.

There seems to be nothing at all in front of me except for the vast emptiness and leagues and leagues of distance, so I turn around to investigate other directions.

Not far away from me I manage to spot a person sitting on a large round rock with their back turned to me. I realise that it’s probably his dream, not mine.

I approach, already knowing who the person is.

“Hello,” I say and put my hand on Asra’s shoulder, trying not to startle him.

“Oh, it’s you!” he says with delight in his voice and turns to face me. “Seeing you here is definitely a welcome surprise.”

Asra smiles and I take a seat beside him.

For some reason he is wearing an elegant snake mask. It is long and slender with the eyelids half-lowered, and really seems to accentuate the delicate features of his face. There’s nothing out of the ordinary with his clothes, so I decide to cast the strangeness aside as a result of this being a dream.

“I felt your presence some time ago but thought I was only imagining. How did you get here?” he asks, staring into the distance.

I shrug my shoulders. I really don’t know, but it’s not like there are many options here. Usually it’s all the same – either he gravitates towards me or I towards him. We’ve lived and worked together for so long that I feel like I can recognize his energy anywhere and anytime.

“Your magic must’ve brought me here,” I say, sneaking a glance at him.

Asra nods and it looks like he is smiling under his mask, but it’s hard to tell.

“You’re incredible, have I told you that?” he asks and turns to face me again.

“A few times, yes,” I say, a bit flustered at how straightforward he is. “But I can only locate you because your magic is so strong and vivid. I don’t even need to make any effort to find out where you are.”

“If you say so,” he says and laughs it off.

A cold gust of wind blows and makes a mess of his hair. I only assume that it’s cold, but I still cannot really feel much in this realm.

“Yet it won’t be long before you outgrow me,” adds Asra after a short pause, sounding a bit upset, “I’ll be looking forward to that moment.”

I notice how worried he sounds and cannot help but wonder what troubles him so much. He’s always been pretty open with me unless it came to some of the feelings he didn’t feel comfortable sharing.

I try to read the expression on his face, but the mask turns out to be a real hurdle, so I reach out to remove it.

“What are you doing?” asks Asra but doesn’t pull away from my hand.

“I feel frustrated when I look at your face and see this mask instead, so I wanted to help you take it off. May I?” I say apologetically, thinking that I should’ve asked before I actually tried.

“This mask…?” asks Asra in confusion and raises his hand to touch his face. His fingers find the plain surface of the mask instead of his skin, and he looks at me in surprise. “Yes… Sure, of course. I must look pretty strange with it, right?” he asks nervously and lets me remove the mask from his face.

I look at him attentively and notice that the tip of his nose as well as his lips are bluish. I frantically look down on his hands and note that they’re also much paler than usual and even seem to tremble.

“Are you cold?” I ask, scared and disappointed that I didn’t notice it earlier.

Before he manages to respond, I pull him into a tight hug with one hand and grab both of his shaking hands in the other one.

“Are you not?” he mumbles into my shoulder and gratefully nestles in my embrace.

“No, the cold doesn’t seem to affect me,” I say thoughtfully, stroking his hands with my thumb. I can feel his body gradually relaxing, washed by the warmth I radiate with a little help from my magic.

“Then this moment is even closer than I expected…” he almost whispers.

I still don’t exactly know the reason for his brooding but make an educated guess that he is yet again referring to me being more talented in magic than he expected. I can’t understand why it might be a bad thing and simply try to look for ways to cheer him up.

“If I grow stronger…” I start quietly, and he immediately turns his attentions to me, his wise eyes staring into mine, “will it be you who will be visiting my dreams then?”

He stares at me for a moment or two before letting out a soft chuckle and squeezing my hand.

“Only if you want me to. It’s not like there’s anything worth seeing in mine,” he responds, his smile fading a bit at the end.

“There’s nothing I would like more,” I say and feel like the tips of my ears are burning. “If it’s with you, though, I think I would agree to go anywhere.”

He’s been quite distant from me lately but I hope to change it. There’s no use guessing over his worries if he doesn’t want to tell me so I just hope I have enough determination and patience in me to show him that I’m not going to disappear anywhere any time soon.

My words seem to have hit the spot so Asra relaxes more and natural colour returns back to his face and hands. He makes a fluid movement with his hand and, suddenly, I see sparkling soft snow falling down on us. There’s no wind, so it just descends slowly and lands on Asra’s shoulders and head, getting lost in his white curls.  

I look at the intricate little snowflakes that got stuck in his eyelashes and make a sad face.

“I won’t be able to make anything this astonishing any time soon,” I say and pretend to be sullen about it.

Asra looks at me with a storm of unreadable emotions whirling in his eyes and smiles, raising both of my hands and intertwining our fingers.

“It’s not difficult,” he says in his best instructional tone and winks at me encouragingly. Previously he’s needed a lot of patience to teach me something but now he even seems to enjoy the process.

I nod, signalling that I am ready, and he begins coordinating my actions.

“You need to imagine the snow as carefully and accurately as you can, with all the possible details. Try to feel it’s texture under your fingers, hear the crunching and squeaking it makes when you walk on it.”

“What about some tender single snowflakes?” I ask playfully, fidgeting on my spot. I always feel excited when Asra teaches me something new.

Asra laughs and shakes his head.

“I’m afraid, if you’re going to imagine that, it will take us infinitely long to create even the tiniest snowfall. So, are you ready? Don’t worry, I will be here to help you and lend you some magic. Close your eyes and try to channel it,” he says patiently.

I squeeze his hands to make sure he is there beside me all the time and close my eyes. I try to imagine the tangible whiteness, soft and cold. How it feels on my skin, how it falls to the ground… but all of my thoughts are scattered after I get distracted by a soft and warm touch on my lips.

I open my eyes abruptly and stare at Asra. His face is as calm and kind as ever and a wonderful smile is blooming on it.

“It seems that you couldn’t concentrate hard enough. Don’t worry, take all the time you need. Go ahead and try again,” he says as if nothing happened, but I see him smiling with his eyes more than before, almost like he is observing something incredibly amusing to him.

I throw one more suspicious glance at Asra before closing my eyes again.

Snow. White snow squeaking under my feet as I go. Little white snowflakes stuck between Asra’s eyelashes.  

I feel another touch of his delicate lips, this time prolonged and more insistent. I do my best to keep my eyes shut, but it doesn’t really help me concentrate and I still cannot gather my thoughts. Straining myself as hard as I can, I squeeze Asra’s hands. I feel him pulling me closer and putting my hands on his shoulders. There’re already little piles of snow there so I quickly sweep it all away and throw my hands around his neck. I don’t want to start over again so don’t dare opening my eyes.

I feel Asra’s hands gently resting on the small of my back and I don’t mind it at all. They’re not cold anymore, so I want to enjoy his touch as much as I can. I feel his curls tickling my face and, reflexively, wrinkle up my nose.

I hear Asra’s melodious and vibrating laughter and move towards the sound to give him an awkward kiss somewhere on the corner of his mouth. He kisses me a few times in return before I finally decide to open my eyes.

Having gotten used to the dark, I have to squint for my eyes not to hurt so much because of all the whiteness. The only thing that fits into my limited field of view is Asra’s face adorned with one of his most charming smiles.

“Well, it seems like you will need some more practice with that,” he says lively.

I feel a few tangled snowflakes landing onto my cheek and my first instinct is to shake them off, but before I can do anything, Asra reaches with his finger and gets rid of them, leaving his hand lingering on my face.

I move my hands up and cup his face as well. He looks so warm and shining to me, so overflown with magic that his body cannot contain it and it escapes, changing everything around him. He is captivating, and I cannot force myself to take my eyes off him.

We don’t sit like that for long because soon Asra becomes jittery and suddenly tugs on my sleeve.

“Come, and let us explore!” he says, and gets up from the rock.

“But there’s nothing…” I want to say but stop before I am able to finish my sentence. I blink once, and there is a whole new mountain towering in the distance. I blink twice, and a dense forest, starting not far from us, is already covering its slopes. Everything’s under a thick blanket of snow, but I can clearly see a gleam of magical visions hidden in the depth of the forest.

Asra gives me a conspiratorial wink and I decide to follow his lead and stand up. Happy to see that I want to join him, he makes a few hasty steps in the direction of the forest and I try to follow him, but there’s one thing I have completely forgotten about.

Though the ground below is not cold, it’s still icy and slippery so instead of moving forward, I awkwardly twitch and fall back, wildly flailing my arms around. Asra makes an attempt to prevent me from falling, but I’m gripping his hand so tightly and pulling so abruptly that it makes him lose his fragile balance and he ends up heavily landing beside me.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” I ask hastily and rush to him on my knees.

He blinks a few times and a couple of chuckles escape his lips. Before I know it, he’s already burst into laughter, lying flat on his back.

My tail-bone hurts from the fall so I hold onto it and stare at him, confused but somehow also pleased and glad. Asra’s cheeks are red and I suspect that mine are as well.

When he is able to overcome his fit of laughter, he covers his eyes with one hand, preventing the newly emerged sun from blinding him, and looks at me, his eyes still smiling.

“Let’s not make haste anymore,” he says to me.

“Let’s not,” I agree, “after all, we have all the time in the world.”

Asra looks at me without saying anything, and for a moment I am worried I cannot read the expression on his face. He, however, decides not to give me much time to consider it and pulls me down and into a deep kiss.

I try to steady myself but my hands keep sliding apart on the icy surface. It is horrendously uncomfortable and I feel that I won’t be able sit like this for long, but he makes me feel like being so desired and cherished by him is totally worth the inconveniences.

When I finally move away, desperately grasping for air, he looks awfully satisfied.

I don’t know what to occupy myself with after such an interaction so I direct my gaze at the marvellous forest stretching before us, attempting to escape Asra’s attentive glance.

“You did such an incredible job with this place… I am simply in love,” I mutter under my breath.

I feel Asra’s eyes staring, practically piercing me, and turn to look at him, trying to understand what is happening.

“I know how you feel,” he just says and smiles mysteriously. I feel like I would give everything I have to know what is on his mind right now.

Not receiving any reaction from me, Asra stands up and shakes off small particles of ice and snow from his clothing.

“Shall we?” he says and offers me his hand.

“Of course,” I say and accept, embarrassed by my helplessness.

He lands a kiss on my hand and smiles with content.

“There are so many things I want to show you here, where do we even start…” he says thoughtfully, staring in the distance.

I shrug, letting him make the final decision.

Before we depart, I look back at the mask lying abandoned and forgotten on the ground. I don’t think we will be taking it with us.

[ibijau]

Futures Past pt16  /  on AO3

 Nie Huaisang learns more about his future self, and gets burdened with yet another annoying mission

Winter was never Nie Huaisang’s favourite season to begin with. It was cold, and wet, and grey, and generally unpleasant in every possible way. To make it worse, that year he wasn’t even allowed to head out of the Unclean Realm for a bit of bird watching, nor indeed to go alone in Qinghe to check the food, or just wander around and have fun. Nie Mingjue might not have been too upset about his brother failing his classes but he was still generally angry. He had apparently been worried sick about him disappearing, fearing the Wens had decided to take his brother from him, after having murdered his father.

After Nie Mingjue had confessed that fear to him one evening, Nie Huaisang stopped complaining against being grounded. Once, merely a year earlier, he would have called his brother paranoiac for jumping to that conclusion, and continued whining until he got his punishment lifted. Now though, with his older self’s promise of a war to come… It made him wish he could have found another way to rescue Xue Yang from his fate without worrying his brother. It also pushed him to make more of an effort to be a nice and obedient brother, though all that got him was Nie Mingjue thinking he’d gotten sick and asking the sect's doctor to check on him several times.

So Nie Huaisang was stuck in the Unclean Realm, bored beyond belief, constantly aching from all the training his monster of a brother forced him to do, wishing he could just go for a walk and do a bit of bird watching or find a nice landscape to paint. It was truly hell. Though at least, being constantly home gave him a chance to practice the guqin (he’d bought one of his own on the one and only outing to Qinghe he’d been allowed, after which Nie Mingjue complained at length about him spending too much money as always) and to keep a close eye on Xue Yang. That was nearly a full time job.

It was almost a relief when one night, his future self appeared in his room as he was preparing for bed. Unpleasant as their encounters tended to be, at least Nie Huaisang would know if his great plan had worked. So he sat cross-legged on his bed, and waited for the scolding that was sure to come.

“I should have come earlier,” his future self said with some annoyance, looking no angrier than he always did. “But my last visit drained me more than planned. When are you returning to the Cloud Recesses?”

“In a week,” Nie Huaisang mumbled, pointing at a pile of trinkets he’d just gotten around to unpacking from his previous stay. “Da-ge said to wait until after the new years celebration to start preparing, because I always bother the servants otherwise, and they’re busy enough already, and…”

“How is da-ge?” his future self interrupted. “Didn’t he hurt himself during a Night Hunt around this time?”

Nie Huaisang nodded. It had worried everyone when Nie Mingjue had returned from a Night Hunt with long gashes on his chest due to a particularly nasty fierce corpse, and they’d all made a big fuss of it. But in the end it hadn’t been anything threatening, and Nie Mingjue had healed quickly. In fact, he was currently absent on another Night Hunt, this time with Lan Xichen. That didn’t seem like a detail worth mentioning.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Nie Huaisang said, increasingly puzzled that his older self wasn’t scolding him yet. “It’s just, I’ve been wondering, you know and… well, is he alive now?”

His future self glared at him.

“What?”

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang clarified. “I’ve changed things, right? He’s got to be alive in the future now, right? You’re not on your own anymore, are you?”

His older self went still and stared at him with wide, shining eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. After a moment the older man regained control of himself and turned away, opening his fan with a sharp gesture.

“That’s not how it works,” he hissed. “I thought it would be, but… but it’s not. I cannot change what has happened for me. My da-ge is dead, and nothing can change what happened to him. It’s… I don’t care. I’ve made my peace with that. He wouldn’t like what I’ve become anyway, and I couldn’t bear to lose him again, not like that. But I need to know…” 

He paused, and Nie Huaisang thought he heard a soft sob. 

“I have to know there’s a place out there where da-ge is alive. Not just alive, but he’s safe, he’s happy. No matter the cost to others and to myself, as long as da-ge is well… that’s what matters to me.”

For all the dislike Nie Huaisang had accumulated toward his older self, his heart ached to know that the man would never even get a chance to see Nie Mingjue again. It made him want to take his older self to have a chat with their brother, to see Nie Mingjue smile at him. Maybe he’d be a little less of a prick like that.

But since his older self was a prick, and unlikely to accept such an offer, Nie Huaisang instead jumped off his bed and went to take his hand to comfort him.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “Thanks for… thanks for saving my da-ge. I’m so sorry for yours, it must be…”

His older self turned around, tearing his hand free with such rage that Nie Huaisang stumbled a few steps backwards.

“I won’t be pitied by anyone!” the man hissed. “I’m not sorry for myself, and I forbid you to pity me, you stupid little brat! If I’d been smarter at your age I wouldn’t have let him die, so how dare you pity me?”

Nie Huaisang lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. His older self should have been happy: any pity he’d felt vanished instantly.

“Now tell me what I came here for,” his older self ordered. “Is Xue Yang dead?”

“He is,” Nie Huaisang lied, and he found it easier than he’d have expected, now that he knew the truth couldn't be discovered.

A certain tension left his older self’s shoulders at that answer. In fact, he seemed relieved enough that it worried Nie Huaisang a little, and almost made him confess the truth. If Xue Yang was really fated to become such a horrible person…

But he wasn’t horrible. Not yet, anyway. No more than a lot of other people were.

Xue Yang was a brat, sure. And he struggled with a lot of common decency, doing things like stealing from other kids, or stashing food away, or trying to fight teachers that disciplined him. But in those few weeks, Xue Yang had also made a lot of progress already. He’d started understanding that nobody would let him starve, so he didn’t need to hide food that would rot somewhere, and should instead eat everything that was presented to him right away if he was hungry. He was also slowly learning to accept that, a lot of the time, if he needed something he could ask for it instead of stealing it from someone. He still had a problem with authority, and that might never change, but he sometimes seemed to understand that the teachers were not his enemies, that they only wanted to help him learn.

But the turning point had happened just three days earlier. Xue Yang, with great reluctance, had finally explained how he’d lost his finger. From the defensive manner he told that story to Nie Huaisang and Nie Mingjue, it was likely that those he’d shared it with before might have mocked him for being naive enough to think he'd ever have gotten the sweet he'd been pormised. But Nie Mingjue, instead, asked if he remembered any names or precise locations, if he could recall when it had all happened, any details at all that might help if they decided to confront Chang Ci’an for what he’d done. In the end, Xue Yang’s memory had been too fuzzy to think of building up a case, something for which Nie Mingjue had expressed great regret, before saying he'd still keep an eye open in case he might discover who was the man whom Chang Ci'an had insulted.

The expression on Xue Yang’s face was one that Nie Huaisang wouldn’t ever forget. He’d looked… young. Like he really was an ordinary ten years old kid, instead of the tough criminal he tried to be. Like he might cry, just because someone was showing just and deserved horror over what had been done to him.

There was no saying whether Xue Yang would turn out good or not, whether the efforts of Qinghe Nie would be enough to bring him onto a more righteous path than would have been his, but they were going to try.

“This is wonderful,” Nie Huaisang’s older self said, fanning himself a little too fast, as if unable to contain his excitement. “I’ve always hated that little creep, even before he started slaughtering entire sects. Now the world is safe from that at least, and that’s one worry less for da-ge. Now, on to your next mission…”

“Are you ever going to stop giving me orders?” Nie Huaisang complained. “Every time I do something you say, you tell me there’s more to do!”

“Welcome to adulthood. Now shut up.”

But I’m not an adult, Nie Huaisang thought. He was just going to turn sixteen, there was an entire four years before he’d be considered fully grown. Even Nie Mingjue, who always complained about him being an immature brat, never actually demanded from him the things he’d have expected from an adult. After all, Nie Mingjue knew too well what it was to be forced to leave one’s youth behind too early, and he’d said multiple times he didn’t want that for his brother.

Too bad Nie Huaisang couldn’t extend the same courtesy to himself.

“I’ve had to give a lot of thought to the problem that is Wei Wuxian,” his older self said, starting to pace the room. “I still haven’t come up with a satisfying answer. On the one hand, it was so convenient to all of us when he left the established path during the Sunshot Campaign and became a horrifying master of death. But I can’t decide if it’s worth all the trouble it created after the war, when his new skills were no longer required. And it’s not like I could ask you to simply kill him after he’s stopped being useful because…”

“I appreciate that, actually.”

“I can’t ask you to kill him because you’d never be able to,” his older self dryly finished, pausing his pacing just long enough for a glare before he resumed walking. “Wei Wuxian is only the most brilliant cultivator of our generation, skilled in every martial art, a genius who has invented talismans and tools beyond your imagination. He’s already so talented you could never harm him now. By the time the war ends, the only way he could die is through self-destruction, as we’ve all come to learn.”

That sounded scary and, quite frankly, Nie Huaisang wasn’t sure he wanted to get anywhere near such a person. Geniuses tended to be difficult to deal with. Like his own brother, who was always so intense about everything, and didn’t have any hobbies except cultivation and leading their sect. Or Lan Wangji who was very intense as well, and had even less conversation than Nie Mingjue. Or Lan Xichen who…

Well. Actually, Lan Xichen wasn’t so bad these days. In fact, Nie Huaisang missed their music lessons, and he missed chatting together immensely, because Lan Xichen was one of the most interesting people he knew, along with Su She. Nie Huaisang couldn't wait to see him again. But it had taken a while to get there, and before they’d found common ground, Lan Xichen too had been boring and difficult to get along with.

The problem with geniuses, Nie Huaisang figured, was that they didn’t know how to have fun.

“Here is what we are going to do,” his older self announced, stopping his pacing and closing his fan to point it at Nie Huaisang. “You are going to befriend Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng, as you were always meant to do. But you must also get closer to Lan Wangi…”

“What? But he’s awful!”

“...and make sure he befriends Wei Wuxian as well. None of that pining for a lifetime nonsense! If they become close earlier and realise their love as youths, then Wei Wuxian will probably not go dark quite as easily as he’s done from where I stand. And Jin Guangshan will hesitate a little more to antagonise Wei Wuxian if he thinks Gusu Lan too has close ties to him. Yunmeng Jiang was easy to pick on, but Gusu Lan is of a different class. Its sect leader might have been spineless, but anybody would think twice before crossing Lan Wangji. I think that’s our best course of action.”

Even more than before, Nie Huaisang became convinced that this Wei Wuxian had to be the least fun person in the world. After all, if someone like Lan Wangji could fall in love with a person, then that person had to be absolutely awful and boring. Wei Wuxian was probably a stickler for rules too. 

“Can’t I just help them without being their friend?” Nie Huaisang begged.

“Why wouldn’t you want to be Wei Wuxian’s friend?” his future self retorted, sounding puzzled by the request. “Whatever else he becomes later, I remember he was one of my favourite people when we studied together. I’ve always felt it was a shame he got kicked out so early. If he had stayed longer…”

The older man trailed off, his hand clenching on his fan, then promptly shook his head

“Nevermind,” he muttered. “Jiang Cheng was there the whole year, and that didn’t change anything to how shallow our friendship turned out to be. Just… just make sure to get them to like you, and help Wei Wuxian befriend Lan Wangji. But don’t get attached. No matter what promises you exchange with others, remember you don’t actually matter to anyone, so don’t let them matter to you either.”

“I won’t,” Nie Huaisang easily promised.

He didn’t think he was at any risk of ever liking someone who had Lan Wangji’s approval. And as for Jiang Cheng, Nie Huaisang had thought him to be a pretty interesting person when they’d met in Yunping City, but he was fairly sure the feeling was not mutual in the least.

“Excellent. I’ll cut this visit short then,” his older self announced. “Hopefully I will have recuperated enough for a brief visit in a month to hear about your progress. At worst, I’ll check on you for Qingming. Do not disappoint me.”

“I’ll try,” Nie Huaisang promised, but the older man had already disappeared.

It sounded like he had a very boring year ahead of himself.

And to make it worse, Su She was going to be so annoyed if he started hanging out with Lan Wangji.

[midgardianweasley]

Broken Promises

Thor Odinson x Female!Asgardian reader 

Prompt: “I never meant to hurt you” 

Angst that ends with some fluff.

Word Count: 1389

Summary: When the Frost Giants break into Asgard’s Weapons Vault, Thor wants to go and protect Asgard from Jotunheim. His girlfriend, Y/N, wants him to stay, knowing King Odin had ordered he not go. However, he goes anyway. (In this imagine, Jane and Thor are just friends, Thor only gets cast out, Jotunheim don’t invade Asgard.)

“Hi Heimdall” you speak, walking up towards the Guardian gatekeeper who was facing the realms, ensuring that no one was getting into or leaving Asgard without permission. “Good evening, Lady Y/N. What brings you here at this time?” He answered, briefly turning to face you before returning to his previous position. 

“I couldn’t sleep. It appears to be a regular occurrence nowadays, I’m worried about Thor. Can you see him?” You ask. Since Thor got cast out by King Odin, you couldn’t sleep, your appetite had been disappearing more and more with every meal placed in front of you, you were worried sick. You’d told him not to go, not to start trouble with Jotunheim, knowing it wouldn’t end well for your boyfriend.

“Please Thor, you can’t! you need to let this go, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.” You exclaimed, standing by his brother, Loki, who was also trying to convince him to leave things be. 

“Let it go? With all due respect Lady Y/N, I simply can’t just stand by while Frost Giants are somehow managing to break into Asgard’s weapons vaults.” Thor turned to you, almost confused at your statement. How could you expect him to just sit back while his Realm could potentially be in danger?

“Thor, listen to me, please.” You slowly walk up to him, taking his face in your hands. “I admire that you want to protect Asgard, truly. And you know I support you in your battles, your desire to keep the realm safe, but this won’t end well for you or the future of Asgard. King Odin said so himself.” 

He appeared to be considering your words, trying to bring himself to be rational and listen to reason. 

“Okay. Okay Lady Y/N, I won’t go.” He spoke, somewhat irritated by the conclusion.

“Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

Upon hearing from Loki that Thor had been cast out, you initially had no idea how to respond. You went through a variety of different emotions. Shock, sadness, anxiety and anger was in the mix too. You understood that he wanted to protect his kingdom, but it ended up doing more damage than good.

“I can, Lady Y/N. He’s been spending time with some midgardians, he appears to be in safe hands.” Heimdall tells you. 

“Can you hear what they’re saying? Is Thor happy down there?” you anxiously respond, now pacing back and forth next to the gatekeeper.

“He’s spoken of his missing you. He wants to return home, I believe he’s trying to find a way.” Heimdall speaks, sparking a shimmer of hope within you. 

“Wait, he’s trying to return home? I thought he couldn’t unless-” 

“Unless I allow him to. Lady Y/N, As much as I would like to help you, King Odin has ordered that he stay in Midgard. I can’t override the King’s orders.” Heimdall now turned to face you. 

“But he belongs here, Heimdall! He’s Odin’s son, he’s soon to rule Asgard. He can’t stay down there, he needs to be home, with his family, his friends, me.” You plead, hoping he’ll understand your perspective.

“I’d like to be able to bring Thor back, but the decision does not lie with me. It lies with the King.” Heimdall concludes, beginning to turn back to face the realms. “It’s getting late, I think you should try to get some sleep while it’s still dark.” Sleep. It almost seems like a joke to you. How can you sleep knowing one command is stopping Thor from returning home. Thor may not be in your good books, but that won’t stop you from approaching King Odin the next morning.

“Good morning Lady Y/N, is there something I can do for you?” The King smiles, you feel a little more at ease when he smiles towards you, but you also know it won’t last long when you start to speak, better yet, ramble. 

“Good morning Sir, I don’t mean to bother you” you begin, not before respectfully bowing before him. “I know you cast Thor out only a few days ago, and I respect your decisions, but, i can’t help but feel he belongs here. He can’t stay among people who aren’t his home. He needs his family, he made a mistake, he believed he was helping you and proving himself to be worthy. I know he disobeyed you, he broke a promise to me and as much as I disagree with his actions, I feel he will have learned his lesson.” You ramble, only finishing partly due to running out of breathe and to seeing King Odin put his hand up to signal you be quiet. 

“I admire your determination, Lady Y/N, however, Thor no longer has a place here in Asgard. If he cannot follow leadership, he cannot be a future leader. He disrespected me and he is being punished.” Odin speaks, gently with with a firm undertone to his voice. 

“Sir, I believe he was trying to show leadership by doing what he thought was best, if you’d just let him explain-” 

“I don’t need explanations. I need order. I am King of Asgard and if I let my son disobey me, what example does that set for the kingdom? I want this realm protected just as much as Thor does.” 

You open your mouth to further try and defend your cast out boyfriend, when Queen Frigga comes in and walks towards Odin and begins to speak into his ear. You stand patiently, awaiting what could be a simple dismissal or potential punishment for daring to question the King’s orders. When the King sighs and nods towards Frigga, he turns to you. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown either. 

“Due to the Queens wishes, Heimdall can bring Thor back” You smile gently. “On the condition that he come straight to me and we will discuss things further, until then, I will inform Heimdall and Thor will return shortly.” you nod eagerly towards King Odin and give a smile towards Frigga, attempting to silently show how grateful you are to her. 

~Timeskip~

Thor has been back for a day now, he’s been with his parents since his return. You decided it best to hold back on seeing him, despite how much you missed him to let them have time to speak to one another about his future in Asgard. You walk out of the Library, holding a book in your arms, about to go back to your bedroom, when your met face first with an armoured chest. When you look up, you’re met with a smiling Odinson staring down towards you. 

“I see your anxious reading habits haven’t changed upon my dismissal then Darling.” Thor chuckles. You give a simple smile in return before he continues to speak. “I heard about your statements given to my parents, that was awfully brave of you, father was quite taken aback by it.” You nod, before deciding to speak.

“Was it worth it?” you whisper, taking a small step back.

“Your speaking to the King on my behalf?” He questions.

“All of it I believe. Disobeying the King, breaking our promise, returning home.” You say, slightly louder than before, certainly more teary eyed.

“I’m truly sorry Lady Y/N. I never meant to hurt you. I got into my own head, I wanted to prove to my father that I could be the next King of Asgard. But I believe, and you’ve proven, that every King needs to listen to their Queen.” He speaks, closing the gap between us, hesitating, but wiping a stray tear that had fallen down your cheek, despite you trying to stop it. 

“Your Queen?” you whispered, slightly stunned by the term.

“If you’ll still have me. Father let me return, but I have a lot more redeeming of myself to do. I wanted to start by making things right with you, if that’s possible.” He spoke, now matching your whispers. You smile towards him. He was right, he had a lot of making up to do, but what mattered most right now, was that he was home. Where he belonged.

“No more breaking promises.” You spoke, meeting his eyes with a little fire behind yours. He nodded towards you before pulling you into a hug.

“No more breaking promises, my love” 

[tawakkull]

ISLAM 101: Spirituality in Islam: Part 78

Chaos and the mystical world of faith

Today, everyone breathes resentment, swallows hatred, curses all that is deemed to be an enemy with a fixed and determined passion, as if programmed for fury. The ink that flows on the pages of newspapers, the pictures that are broadcasted over the television, the electromagnetic waves that resonate on the radio scratch our ears like illomened screams emitting from a variety of places—in the mountains or on the water, in the valleys or up in the hills; they strike our eyes like photographs that make us shudder and they open wounds in our hearts. These epics of hate that we hear of day and night and that startle us, all these illomened screams, make us sick at heart, and yet the people who seek a cure for these ills are few indeed. Their thoughts go in different directions, but they always seem to arrive at the same point: money, financial prosperity, and success.

… emotions base, desire consuming The meaning that flows over from the gaze is full of contempt for the subject of God. Akif

Very few are exempt from such a turbulent point of view; no difference remains between what is collective and what is not, between capitalism and communism and no difference remains between these and liberalism. The distance in nature—between those who attach their lives to the considerations of eating and drinking, resting, and earning money, having a good time in general, and, other beings who are obliged due to the unchanging character of their nature—becomes smaller day by day. The basic differences between the two sides vanish into thin air one by one, and humanity seeks new directions, despite its own nature.

Religion, piety, morals, free thought, our own perceptions of art are thought little of; power has become so ulcerated as to be unrecognizable, fantasy has taken on the image of ideas and these disagreeable ideas are being forced upon others. Indeed, I have to say that I have a hard time understanding the inner drama of such a terrible fanaticism. Nowadays, when enlightenment has become widespread, when intellectualism is at its apex, the fact that science and ignorance should meet at the same spot, contrary to the distance that one would expect to exist between them, suggests a dark complicity and makes the existence of a serious problem obvious. Such a contradiction gives us the impression that the emotional will of some people is miles ahead of their intellectual and logical will.

I believe that in such a dark period, when opposites have become intertwined, when in different sections of society chaos is heaped upon chaos, when dark acts of different origins have darkened the face of the Earth, when what is underground reigns over what is above, when polemics and dialectics have become so popular with so many, when hearsay, especially through the use of media, is welcomed as acceptable merchandise, when the lives of others has begun to be the sustenance of our existence, when the soul of unity has been shaken and different groups are scattered everywhere, when hopes are shattered and wills are paralyzed, when souls give up the fight against desire, there is a burning need to turn toward our own spiritual sphere and listen to our own inner world, to tear ourselves from the dark atmosphere of the bodily realm and sail into the magical atmosphere of a hearty and spiritual life. Those who do not fall into lethargy and return to themselves as soon as possible will feel the magic and charm of their own inner world; the unfortunate who fail to return and remain in between, or who remain on the other side, continue to resent, hate, slander, lie, and feel contempt, they continue in the dissolution and obstinate disagreement which they have practiced until this day, and even in climates where the sun continues to shine they will dream of dark things, they will mutter dark thoughts, always seeking dark places in which to hide and dark corners in which to live.

One hopes that they would be able to feel the joy of the blessed days and nights that we experience, when showers of light reach everywhere. One hopes they too would abandon the heresy, atheism, dissension, and sedition in their hearts and that they would be able to respect the chosen understanding and stance of every single soul! Maybe one day these wishes will be fulfilled, but the selfproclaimed enemies of God, the prophets, religion and piety—once having breathed nothing but materialism, having gone into a frenzy denying divinity, and having plunged into the quicksand of anarchy and nihilism—will never be able to breathe this reviving air. Oh dear Lord, had you only made yourself known to them and released the chains from their hearts!

In every community and society there are people who are inclined to abandon their faith and there have been many times when such people have spun out of control; other communities and societies do not have such powerful places to seek refuge when faced by these abysses and weaknesses as we have. Indeed, they have thoughts which soothe, beliefs which reconcile, days and nights which tremble with joy, festivals and carnivals; but, these days, these nights, these festivals, these carnivals are devoid of any holiness. They are like fireworks, shining for a moment and then are gone, giving only instantaneous pleasure; they are ephemeral and physical, not promising anything in the way of spiritual joy. Indeed, in their worlds you cannot feel the greatness of faith to God, nor can you feel that souls are free from the boundaries of time and space; everything starts with a false and transitory happiness, and takes place in a delirium of flesh. All is then transformed into painful memories, regrettable dreams, and disappointed hopes, and finally everything simply disappears.

In this spiritual atmosphere where we are closely bound to God, every sound, every word, every action is felt like a nursery rhyme and listened to like a melody. These shower down upon us like the rain; we soak up the bounties of these showers. The moon changes its form every night, as if signaling particular times and happy hours, the sun moves to a new spot on the horizon at every dawn, awakening our feelings and thoughts in a new period of time, causing our dreams to follow it, presenting memories to us that resemble the river Kawthar, promised to us in Heaven. The past becomes like a veil of many colors draped before our eyes, the happy future is the apex of our dreams, waiting for us with open arms and we, who have been freed from the narrow confines of time, live the multiplicity of yesterdaytodaytomorrow simultaneously and, like the angels, feel all the joys of surpassing time. It is impossible for those who are not fed from the same source as we, those who do not share the same feelings and thoughts as us, to feel and understand the holy depths in which we lose ourselves or the happiness and joy that we sip like the rivers of Paradise.

Our faith, our horizons of thought, and our manner—characteristics of the fortunate, but at the same time belonging to a littlewronged nation of this part of the world—have become, through being formed and reformed in the mold of the collective personality, greatly refined and adorned with universal values; this is a situation that exists in no other community; this is so much so that those who spend time with us need not stay long to be aware of this difference. The truth is that in these differences, the holy sadness of our hearts and the enthusiasm of our souls, like water running between the rocks, is felt and heard. Indeed, those who listen to what we have to say always hear the melodies of the pain of separation voiced along with hope; they hear the notes of reunion, of the sweet and eternal search for home in our intonation and manner. Indeed, while on the one hand we murmur “Oh, cup bearer, I have burnt in the flames of love, give me a cup of water,” on the other we say “I have dipped my finger in and tasted the honey of love, give me a cup of water,” and thus we are able to turn our grief into smiles. Our tongues speak sometimes of love and sometimes of weariness; though love and weariness cause pain to others, in them we always hear, like Rumi, the poem of longing for the realm that we have left to come here. Love and weariness to us are like a plea from the tongue of the soul, stemming from a sorrowful desire for eternity. Since our beliefs and feelings take us to the magical worlds of beyond, we almost always feel sadness and joy intertwined; we hear the sounds of crying and laughing as different notes of the same melody. We respond to the troubled heaving of our breasts with smiles on our faces, as our eyes overflow with tears, our conscience takes upon a red hue with the roses of the Iram[1] gardens.

Even though it may not be easy for every individual, our connection to God is the most natural attitude that we can adopt; our relation with Him is like a spell that transforms all the moments of our life into enthusiasm and joy. Our hearts that beat with feelings toward Him fill and refill with the dream of this gaze; we are able to live through the bitterest autumns in our hearts because we have the joy of spring. Our souls adopt the most enviable attitudes with instincts of particular feelings and joy that are the result of our connection with the AllGlorious One; thus transformed, they make us feel a refreshed enthusiasm, a new opening and revelation, even at moments when we are filled with sadness and grief. Pleasure or sadness, revelation or sorrow, all these emotions undergo metamorphoses in our hearts that beat with faith and speak to us of the most natural pleasures and the most realistic expectations. It is a fact that we, too, experience interconnected moments of ease and hardship, sweet weeks and bitter days, light and darkness which come and pass, like day and night. However, we sip the unsurpassable benevolence and joys from the hands of all these tribulations, because we have our beliefs, our connection to the Just One and our hopes! Those who do not recognize the trials and pleasures to be the product of the same will writhe in neverending agony, while in our own atmosphere we see clearly that everything will be transformed into deep compassion. Taste a whole life, with its bitter and sweet facets like Kawthar, in everything that we eat and drink, at every place that we inhabit, with all the beautifully divine discoveries of our own inner world, with all of their different wavelengths, feel our sorrows shrink in the face of happiness, feel our pain melt away in pleasure and feel how our lives flow into glazed cisterns in a spectrum of colors. Our mortality is transformed into eternity; we exude smiles even when we cry.

In our world, the beliefs and the expectations that emerge from the heart of those beliefs are so intertwined with our lives that each chapter of our lives lends us the wings of the station of prayer and takes us to the gate of the Hereafter. It takes us there and lets our hearts drink of the beauties of heaven. In this way, we feel as if we are inhaling the scents of heaven. Even if we should let ourselves be swept along by our daily lives, the calls for prayer, songs that exalt God, the various sounds of prayer, the recitation of the names of God, those who give Him thanks, calling out His Uniqueness, letting this spill from the windows of the mosques, all draw us to their climate; they paint our souls with their hues, they give a tambourlike voice to our hearts, they make them sigh like a flute and excite them with the happiness of music. These sounds excite our souls and we are charmed by the mysteries pertaining to God, the charm of these mysteries which comes galloping from the depths of our inner world and which spreads to all our senses, this charm which tints the gardens of heaven in our thoughts and which flows past our lips like cascades of inspiration. Thus charmed, we stand awestruck.

This charm, this recognition of the mysteries pertaining to God, reaches a higher level on the blessed days and nights when limitless abundance and bounty are showered upon us. This is true to such an extent that everything around us ascends in a state of joy, every corner takes on a spiritual hue and the excitement of our souls, aiming at metaphysical destinations, reaches its apex, or in Sufi terms, our souls reach the highest heaven of maturity. To the degree that we can hear and listen to what is all around us, we too, rejoice like children who feel as if they are in the fair grounds of joy; thus we experience the happiness and joy of a feast day.

In such a world, the dawn flows into our houses from the doors and windows like an awaited guest; the evening comes into our private chambers like a lover and sits by us; the night clings to us with its associations of reunion with the Confidant; and in every valley hands are raised up toward Him in prayer, ready to receive the gifts that will come from Him, assuming a state of metaphysical tension with the power of the soul, sighing, saying “Hold my hand dear Confidant, hold it, for I cannot do without You.”

In such a world, the prayer roars like the booming voices of Gulbang hymns[2] and echo like the voice and breath of the divine depths; the warm solitude of the night envelopes our souls like silk; our pulses beat with the excitement of one who has received good tidings. Perhaps some of us keep singing His praises, come rain or shine, like the nightingale that breaks its heart in an effort to express the ideal rhythm for its emotions with the most touching of sounds. In a word, everyone is humming a melody with neverending agony and joy, neverfading love and excitement, listening to the shivering of their souls and letting others hear it too. Everyone sighs with the fever of love and makes other people feel it too. Yes, as they reflect on the excitement in their souls and the inspiration of their hearts, expressing themselves one last time, they become the mouthpiece for the feelings shared by all and they are able to speak of the hidden meanings that they want to speak of but fail to verbalize.

The horizon of living yesterdaytodaytomorrow at the same time with such a degree of faith and hope, of love and recognition of the mysteries that pertain to God gives such a depth to life that each heart in the orbit of the hereafter finds itself wrapped up in the melodious harmony of emotions and ideas and is freed from the limiting, stifling effects of matter. I believe that the strongest basis of all human relations, the purest source of all pleasures, and the fountain of all love, longing, attraction, and gravity is this faith and hope. Every disciple of the heart who attains this faith and hope can experience and feel the state of being outside of time, with the ability to sense all of its depths.

Indeed, to the extent that one can attain this view, one can feel existence in a different manner, evaluate things in a different way and melt in on oneself with the color, taste, aroma and accent of manifestations from the Eternal; these attributes pervade everything and people can reach a second existence with a new “birth after death.”[3] During such joyful hours, when the internal gaze is focused on that which is behind the visual scene of existence, one feels all the joys of being. One feels as if one has taken a shower in wisdom, as if one is freed from the weight of all things that are alien to one. The distant heavens shower blessings down upon these hearts, hearts thirsty for love and galloping with longing and affection; all hearts that live in fear of drying up are quenched. Celestial flowers flourish in these showers adorned with dreams!

Some of us may not be able to comprehend the state—a state which becomes a succession of struggle (to come over the darkness with its all connotation) and dawn—of these people of faith and horizon; but all these are phenomena of the heart, soul and emotions. Living through the countless revelations of life, no one but the active heroes of the dawn and of the great strife can understand this love, enthusiasm, poetry, and music poured into our souls by the Eternal One. Those who do not understand this will not be able to understand us, either. Those who remain distant to this fine and delicate life live in the darkness of this distance, while the comprehension of those who have found a position from where they can view the truth in such a way that it appears as obvious as it really is always feel this gift in all its wavelengths, sip it like the rivers of Paradise and live their earthly lives as if in Heaven.

Who knows how many more times we will speak of this neverending pleasure and joy, in the delight of a festival, of a feast day! How ever many more times we may speak of it—the faults of the speaker’s mode of expression aside—we will still listen with pleasure and try to share it with others.

[1] A place mentioned in the Qur’an (al Fajr 89:7-8), “… the city of Iram, with lofty pillars; the like of which were not produced in all the land.” [2] Hymns sung in the mosque in unison by the congregation. [3] The change communicated along these lines is not to be related to reincarnational notions.

[thenightling]

Why I will not blindly clamour for a Locke & Key / Sandman Netflix crossver

According to CBR we fans are “Wondering if there will be a Sandman / Locke & Key crossover on Netflix.”   

  https://www.cbr.com/locke-and-key-potential-sandman-crossover/?utm_content=buffer1636f&utm_medium=Social-Distribution&utm_source=CBR-TW&utm_campaign=CBR-TW

The reason I don’t want one?  I actually read the comic crossover as written by Joe Hill.

In Joe Hill's crossover he:

1.  Somehow depicted Alexander Burgess as being about twelve-years-old even though he was sixteen-years-old when Morpheus was captured, eleven-years earlier.

2.    Leaving out Morpheus having two constant guards for the sake of plot convenience.  That's just lazy.

3.   Somehow giving Morpheus access to dirt and or sand in his cage without retrieving it from someone's dream.  Writing on his cell and no one noticing.

4.   Lucien and Gilbert learning Morpheus is caged AND talking Mary out of freeing him because he "might resent it" or "worse" he "Might become infatuated."

5.  Lucien bad-mouthing Morpheus to talk Mary out of freeing him even though the entire collective unconscious is crumbling.

6.   For some inexplicable reason Joe Hill loves and uses The Corinthian spin-off comics as lore (even though they were decanonized twenty years ago...) but utterly ignores the events of Overture, i.e. The Corinthian going on the run before Morpheus disappeared.  Unless The Corinthian doubled back when he no longer could sense his maker's psychic link?

7.      It had Lucifer behave like a traditional, cliché, devil and even was briefly shown with literal horns and cloven hoofs.

8.  Though Lucifer's "human-like" form is still modeled after Bowie and having it be "I'm Afraid of Americans" / Earthling  Bowie is pretty clever since the protagonist is an American woman, it still ignores that Lucifer was meant to be pretty / androgynous as that was one of Bowie's least androgynous phases.

9.   He has Lucien claim Nada was Morpheus's last romantic interest as part of a deterrent to keep Mary from saving him (a 1 in 10,000 year chance) somehow missing that Titania was also one of Morpheus' lovers. I could probably ignore most of these things if Joe hadn't had Gilbert AND Lucien talk Mary out of attempting to free Morpheus when learning he was caged, and knowing the collective unconscious of all sentient life is deteriorating simply because of the off chance Morpheus would resent the rescue or become infatuated (something which, as far as we know, only happened six times in ten billion years) and could end up like Nada (something which literally only happened once, ten thousand years earlier...).   They potentially allowed the realm of dreams, the collective unconscious of all sentient life, to slowly die, possibly taking the real world with it... because of these off chances.    

 "It makes sense to me." - Actual Joe Hill quote on the matter from Twitter.

I understand why Morpheus cannot be freed for plot reasons but the in-character explanation is pretty damn horrible.   And CBR thinks we’d want that in live-action?  No thank you! 

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Fractured Ice - Ch. 5/7

Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen.

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

XueXiao & XiYao - Rated M - Read on AO3! Tumblr: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3  Ch. 4 Ch. 6

Ch. 5: damn right, you should be scared of me

Lan Xichen feels dull and heavy as they pass through the gates of the Unclean Realm.

“We were not expecting Zewu-jun!” babbles the Nie chamberlain as they arrive. “Please excuse the lack of reception; we received no notice of the Clan Leader’s arrival—”

Lan Xichen glances at him dispassionately, then dredges up a small smile and ducks his head at the chamberlain, almost overbalancing and falling forward thanks to the weight of his forehead ribbon.

A-Yao never would have been unprepared like this when he served in the same role. Never would have shown it, at the very least. Would have made the guests feel welcome, his quick mind adjusting to the new circumstances with alacrity and grace—

“My name is Xiao Xingchen,” says Xue Yang. He puts his hands together and bows deeply at the chamberlain. He’s fully back in his Xiao Xingchen role, all gentle refinement and forceful softness and slight _ otherness _, as if he’d learned social graces somewhere outside of normal society. “Zewu-jun and I have come to see Clan Leader Nie on matters of grave urgency. Our visit is to be kept secret.”

The man glances at Lan Xichen for confirmation. Lan Xichen nods.

Another bow. “Please follow me, then, Zewu-jun. This way. Thank you.”

Xue Yang winks at Lan Xichen as they follow the chamberlain through a series of side passages to the reception hall. Lan Xichen gets the idea that he’s hugely enjoying this farce. In another life, he feels, Xue Yang, might have been an actor.

Lan Xichen, on the other hand, feels his sense of dread growing as they near the hall.

Any hint of color in the Unclean Realm is swallowed by the overwhelming sense of grayness. Slate gray walls. Slate gray floors. Gray ornaments, gray ceilings, gray fixtures and furniture and sconces and statues and carvings.

Exactly like a tomb.

Lan Xichen keeps one hand out, just in case the stifling walls begin to move, to crush him, as he’s convinced they will at any second.

“One moment, please.” The chamberlain bows low at Lan Xichen and disappears through a door. Slate gray, with black accents, set in a dark gray frame.

He returns a few minutes later. “I regret to inform Zewu-jun that Clan Leader Nie is in an important conference, but he would be happy to meet with you tomorrow, or perhaps the day after tomorrow—”

Lan Xichen backhands him into the wall with his full Lan strength and pushes open the door, locking it behind him and Xue Yang.

Nie Huaisang hops to his feet, dropping his paint brush. “Zewu-jun! What a pleasant surprise—”

“Some conference,” says Xue Yang, glancing around at the empty chamber.

Nie Huaisang gulps visibly. Lan Xichen can almost hear the ropes and pulleys creaking in his head as he decides whether to fall back on his old Headshaker routine or acknowledge the fact that Lan Xichen is onto him.

He goes with the former.

“What can I do for Zewu-jun?” he asks, bowing deeply and seating himself on his throne-like seat. He seems to make himself smaller as he does so, as if well aware of how the seat dwarfs him and wanting to play up the impression of smallness, of helplessness, of innocence and vulnerability. “And, of course, our venerated cultivator friend.” He rises again, bows at Xue Yang with a flap of expensive silver sleeve. “It is a true privilege to meet Xiao Xingchen once again.”

That’s right; Nie Huaisang met Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen at the same time A-Yao and Wangji did. Lan Xichen hopes that Xue Yang, remembering this, will reign in the theatrics.

Xue Yang bows a bit too low. “The honor is all mine, Clan Leader.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Nie Huaisang is wearing one of his after-all-it’s-not-as-if-_ I- _ can-be-of-any-help-to- _ you _ looks, and Lan Xichen is seized by the sudden urge to rip his quivering little face off—

He blinks the thought away, a bit unnerved at the idea that Xue Yang might be having more of an influence on him than he’s thought.

Nie Huaisang, in turn, looks even more nervous than usual, as if he’s aware Lan Xichen is not quite himself.

_ Good. You should be afraid of me, you murderer— _

Lan Xichen looks away from Nie Huaisang, eyes roaming over the familiar room. He’d spent many hours here visiting with Nie Mingjue, and then, later, playing guqin opposite A-Yao—

Had A-Yao truly killed Nie Mingjue?

Nie Mingjue had tried to kill A-Yao more than once as his mind deteriorated, but Lan Xichen doubts A-Yao could have done such a terrible thing to their sworn brother in return. If there was one thing A-Yao had proven, it was that he could bear up under repeated slights. He can’t remember if A-Yao confessed to Nie Mingjue's murder at Guanyin Temple, but it doesn't matter. He’d confessed to killing Qin Su, and Lan Xichen himself had watched her commit suicide, witnessed A-Yao’s grief. A-Yao’s guilt and self-loathing, it seemed, was all-encompassing at the end, smothering him, choking all rational thought and pushing him to shoulder every impossible sin in the face of the united wall of hatred that faced him in Guanyin Temple.

_ Not me, _ Lan Xichen wants to say. Will be able to say, soon enough, if all went well. I _ never hated you— _

“Brother Xichen?”

Lan Xichen pulls himself out his thoughts. “We have come to pay our respects to Chifeng-zun,” he says.

Nie Huaisang looks alarmed. “Mingjue?”

“It has been a year since his entombment. I thought it only proper to pay my respects now that I am able to travel again.”

Nie Huaisang picks up the fan he’s painting, using it to hide the lower half of his face. “I’m—I’m afraid that’s not possible, Brother Xichen.”

Xue Yang bows low. “And why not, Clan Leader? Zewu-jun has traveled long to get here.”

“I—er—”

Lan Xichen wonders if Nie Huaisang received a message from Lan Qiren, something about keeping Lan Xichen in the Unclean Realm until the Lan cultivators could arrive. For all that he doubts his uncle would have taken Nie Huaisang into his confidence, the signal could have gone out the second he’d stepped inside the fortress’s gates. Or perhaps Nie Huaisang simply sensed something wrong on his own.

“It’s like this,” says Nie Huaisang, emitting a nervous little laugh from behind the silk fan. “Er—you see—Da-ge is resting in the eastern family tomb.”

“Meaning?”

“Er—well—that’s where we keep our more—how should I put it?—problematic dead.” His eyes dart over to Xue Yang, as if he’d rather not air clan laundry in front of a near-stranger, no matter how distinguished. “There are many seals on the tomb, many—er—dangerous areas—”

“The tomb is booby-trapped,” translates Xue Yang bluntly.

“It’s perhaps not as safe as one might have liked—”

“Like the sabers’ Stone Castles?” asks Lan Xichen. Even before Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s little adventure, he’d heard stories from Nie Mingjue.

Nie Huaisang blanches. “Nothing like that! These spirits aren’t dangerous—it’s simply a precaution—”

Lan Xichen can almost see the calculations in Xue Yang’s head—how fast the cultivator could pounce at the clan leader, snatch his stupid fan away, grab him, _ force _ him to help them—

Lan Xichen shakes his head at Xue Yang warningly. “Your brother was my friend, Huaisang. I have a right to pay my respects, as I was in no condition to do so when he was entombed.”

Nie Huaisang’s tone changes to one of pathetic flattery. “You won’t hold this against me, will you, Brother Xichen? Please understand, Brother Xichen. You know how I value our clans’ friendship, Brother Xichen; but I just simply cannot. Nobody in a hundred years has stepped foot inside the tomb unless it’s to bury a body; even I pay my respects from outside the tomb—but not _ too _ close—”

Xue Yang smiles as if about to make a comment about there being one more Nie body to bury if Nie Huaisang keeps this up, but for once his mouth remains shut.

Nie Huaisang hops off his oversized seat and scurries over to a side door in a funny little trot. “I’ll call the chamberlain; make sure you have comfortable rooms made up!” he says, and he darts out.

Xue Yang smirks. “He certainly lives up to his reputation.”

But Lan Xichen shakes his head. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

By request, Lan Xichen and Xue Yang eat alone together in Lan Xichen’s quarters, the same ones he used to stay in when he was a frequent guest here.

“This food is as bad as the Lan junk,” says Xue Yang in disgust. “What did they put in here? Haven’t they ever heard of salt? Meat? Chicken? Honey? Are these raw carrots and leaves stewed in fucking barley water?”

“They prepare it specially for me,” says Lan Xichen absently. He can’t bring himself to eat. He paces the room, trying to ground himself with the firmness of the hard gray stone beneath his feet, the solid smoothness of the walls under his palms, but he’s drifting and he knows it.

“So we can blame you for this inedible garbage? At least at the Cloud Recesses they know how to prepare the stewed leaves properly; this, however—” Xue Yang frowns suddenly. “You don’t look so good, my friend.”

Lan Xichen has sunk to the bed, leaning forward on his knees.

“Zewu-jun?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not worrying about the Lan popping in? I'd say we should get moving, but you don't look great. ”

Lan Xichen glances up. He'd forgotten about the Lan since leaving Nie Huaisang. “I thought we decided my uncle would never trust Nie Huaisang with the truth, and you told me you asked around and were told no Lan cultivators were seen heading here—”

Xue Yang shrugs. “I’ll admit, I half expected to be arrested the second we stepped foot in this metal box. Glad we got an opportunity to eat instead, if you can call this food. I'd figured you could fight us out, maybe take out the Headshaker in the confusion, do the Nie Clan a favor while getting a bit of your own back—”

“I wouldn’t hurt Nie Huisang, no matter how much I wanted to.”

Xue Yang raises an eyebrow. “Never?”

“I am not a murderer.”

“Murderer, killer, same thing.”

“We’ve been through this. It is not at all the same thing.”

Xue Yang makes a face and puts down his chopsticks. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be right back.” He slips out of the room. Through the door Lan Xichen hears him sending the chamberlain out for different food, but he doesn’t pay attention to the actual words. He’s been here many times before, he knows this guest chamber like the back of his hand, but suddenly the room is unfamiliar. A flash of alarm, as if he can’t remember how he got here even though he can clearly remember the past two hours.

At least he thinks he does.

He lies down on the bed, taking deep, meditative breaths. Stares up at the ceiling. Familiar gray ceiling with familiar stone carvings, but the memory of when he last saw this ceiling is hazy. Hard thin mattress—was it always so hard?—“a warrior’s bed”—who had told him that?

A faint brush of memory: a shared meal—a war conference—a blade flashing beside his—but all that stands out is the sound of guqin music, played in duet.

A sensation of floating, of expanding, of being outside himself, reaching through the walls, feeling the wetness of the rain that has begun to fall—

He opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed. Xue Yang is just finishing up his meal, watching Lan Xichen with an almost worried expression he just manages to hide as Lan Xichen sits up.

“We leave in five minutes,” he tells him.

Xue Yang grins. “To the tomb?”

“To the tomb.”

* * * * * *

They fly out over the fortress walls.

“I counted a dozen sentries on the parapets,” says Xue Yang as they land. He returns Jiangzai to his qiankun sleeve. “They definitely saw us, despite the rain.”

“Your knocking out the chamberlain did not help matters.”

“He was in our way.”

“He was bringing the dessert you ordered.”

“He had it coming.” There’s a new bounce in Xue Yang’s step, as if he’s happy to be _ doing _ something, _ after _ something. If Lan Xichen didn’t know that there had been nothing but vinegar-water at supper, he’d think the delinquent cultivator had been bending the elbow too freely. “You should have seen the look on his face when I asked for extra honey for my dumplings. As if none of these musclebound Nie ever—”

“Xue Yang, we haven’t the time.”

They hadn’t flown very far, needing to preserve their spiritual energy for the booby-traps and ritual at the tomb. They hurry down the road, expecting guards to be following them at any moment, but the night is quiet save for the pattering rain.

“You do know the way, right?”

Lan Xichen nods. He knows where all the many Nie tombs are thanks to the many internments during and after the Sunshot Campaign, but he hadn’t known which one contained Nie Mingjue and A-Yao or he could have spared them the afternoon’s charade.

“The Headshaker, I feel, is someone I could get on with,” says Xue Yang, who seems to feel it his duty to fill any silence with conversation despite the fact that silence would serve them far better. “Squirrely little bastard, isn’t he? Never boring around him, I’d guess. Always something to laugh at.”

Lan Xichen ignores him. Barely even hears him. He’s outside himself again. He tries to bring himself back into his body, focusing on the drenching wetness chilling every inch of his skin and the muddy squelch beneath his feet as they cut through a hardscrabble little farm, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s bobbing above his body, watching a tall blue figure and smaller green-and-black figure slog side-by-side though the rain.

Without consciously deciding to, he embraces the feeling.

He’d spent the better part of a year like this. It’s familiar. Welcome. A cushioning cocoon of numbness.

And yet, still somehow sharp. Focused. Clear.

A part of him somehow knows that it’s a blessing, how a few hours in the Unclean Realm undid all of the changes of the past month. Knows that he needs the old version of himself to do the things that will need to be done to bring A-Yao back.

Besides, he’s happier this way, on some level.

It’s almost dawn when they arrive, drenched and shivering, at the tomb.

Outside the tomb are seven Nie guards, which explains why nobody has come after them.

“You!” Three of the guards converge at the sight of the intruders. “Oh, it is—begging your pardon, Zewu-jun—”

Lan Xichen reaches inside his qiankun pouch, removes his guqin, and blasts them into the tomb’s outer wall with a single arc of blue light that illuminates the falling rain like lightning.

Xue Yang nods approvingly at the three bodies lying prone at unsettling angles. “You tore through them like rice paper.”

“Captain! We heard—” Four more guards run up.

Four more guards flung into the wall with such force Lan Xichen has Xue Yang check to make sure none are dead.

Not that he cares. Nothing is real. Nothing matters.

But just in case.

“All breathing,” says Xue Yang. “Do you think you could teach me that technique? No?” He glances at the tomb door. “How about using it to open the door, then? Preferably without the blue light giving everyone and their great-aunt our location.”

Lan Xichen’s heart is pounding so hard it’s a miracle the countryside isn’t roused by its thunderous beat.

This is it. Inside is A-Yao.

His A-Yao.

Waiting for him to rescue him—

He summons the awful, wonderful energy swelling within him, focuses it, releases it through his guqin in an explosive blast of energy, rocking the thick stone door off its hinges.

Xue Yang grins delightedly. “I was wrong about you Lan,” he says. “What you lack in pizzazz you make up for in power.”

Lan Xichen strides in. Xue Yang follows, Jiangzai out and resting across both shoulders in a way that, if he’s not careful, might result in his severing the tendons in his shoulder.

Xue Yang takes a torch from a wrought-iron sconce on the wall and lights it with a touch of his finger, a trick he’d learned from the Wens. The light and warmth are welcome, but Lan Xichen is still soaking wet and chilled to the bone. The chill goes deeper than mere autumn coolness. It’s a chill he thought he’d gotten rid of but had in fact just burrowed deeper, to be excavated in the Unclean Realm.

That’s fine, though. He likes the cold. It keeps him awake. Keeps him on his toes, despite his detachment.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

“No booby traps,” says Xue Yang as they step into a chamber a bit bigger than the Nie reception hall. “Do you think the little chipmunk lied to keep us out?”

“Undoubtedly. Lying is his specialty.”

“Same decorator as the Unclean Realm, I see. All gray stone and ugly monster carvings. At least the Unclean Realm doesn’t reek.”

Lan Xichen ignores the overwhelming musty smell. “There. This one.” He rests both hands on the lid of the sarcophagus. A faint hum can be felt through the thick stone. They had sealed off Nie Mingjue’s ghost, immobilized it, but he can still sense the power of the two spirits, locked in eternal battle. How metaphorical of a battle still remains to be seen. “What next?”

Xue Yang is pulling materials out of his qiankun sleeve. “First of all, we have to be prepared to fight a ghost once we open that coffin—”

“We are not fighting Nie Mingjue!”

“He’s not exactly going to want to sit down to tea, though if we had tea it might we worth a shot—”

“We immediately suppress him.”

“Not liberate? Xiao Xingchen was always keen on setting them at rest.” His tone is dismissive, but Lan Xichen senses the effort it takes to mention Xiao Xingchen so casually.

“His spirit is too far gone for that. The kindest thing would be to put it out of its misery.”

Xue Yang shrugs. “You’re the boss, Zewu-jun. Don’t mind me. I’ll work around you. Actually—” He bows, suddenly deferential “—I will need a drop or two of your blood.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t bother asking him what it’s for. Doesn’t matter at this point, as long as it can help.

With surprising delicacy, Xue Yang pricks Lan Xichen’s finger where it won’t interfere with using his flute, guqin, or sword.

“And now,” he says, removing something from his qiankun sleeve with a flourish, “we prepare the accommodations for our guest of honor.”

It’s the spirit-trapping pouch he’d given to Lan Xichen and long since taken back, its brown sides smooth and blank. As Lan Xichen watches, riveted, Xue Yang uses Lan Xichen’s blood to cover the bag in intricate, entirely foreign symbols.

Xue Yang hands it to Lan Xichen when he’s finished. “Just one moment; I need some...grass from outside. I’ll be back in a second.”

He lights another torch and leaves, returning soon with a handful of grass. He scatters it on the coffin and sets up the rest of the ritual, humming to himself, drawing an intricate array around the sarcophagus in red from a jar he has with him. Red paint, Lan Xichen would have assumed had he been paying even the slightest bit of attention to anything but the spirit-trapping pouch. After all, where would Xue Yang have found so much fresh blood?

“All right, then,” says Xue Yang, straightening up and rinsing his reddened hands off with water from his canteen. “Step away from the sarcophagus, Zewu-jun, if you please. We have work to do. I’ll need the pouch back, please. Thank you.” He waits until Lan Xichen is a safe distance away before putting his hands on the side of the sarcophagus lid. “Sword out,” he reminds Lan Xichen. “Or flute, or guqin, but don’t just stand there.”

Lan Xichen shakes himself out of his reverie. “Do you truly think he might attack?”

“I just know that that fan-waving little prick would rather torment your friend’s spirit than set his own brother’s spirit at rest. After a year of being confined in there like that—”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Lan Xichen has to admit. It had been explained to him once, the rationale for leaving both spirits like this, but he can’t remember the details right now.

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it isn’t. Now, places, everyone.”

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

Frowning, Xue Yang pushes the heavy stone lid off the sarcophagus.

Black smoke roars up from the sarcophagus, spinning furiously in a tight vortex. It rushes Xue Yang, flinging him into the wall before he can react.

Lan Xichen begins to play battle music.

Nie Mingjue is one of the angriest spirits he’s ever encountered. But though Lan Xichen is not the man he used to be, tonight he’s committed.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

Xue Yang is back on his feet, Jiangzai drawn, but he’s smart enough to stay put as Lan Xichen plays.

He channels all of his remaining spiritual energy into Liebing, channels the affection he bears for the man the spirit had once been, channels his feelings for the man whose spirit this man is tormenting, and with the sense of something rupturing, Nie Mingjue’s spirit dissipates.

“I told you it was sheer spite, keeping him in there,” says Xue Yang, spitting blood. “If you could do it, anyone could.”

“Not everyone can do what I can.” Lan Xichen isn’t bragging; it’s simple fact. He glances over anxiously at Xue Yang, who stands looking down into the sarcophagus. “What now?”

Xue Yang turns away and draws unfamiliar symbols in the air.

The array glows red.

At the sight, Lan Xichen goes entirely numb. He’d swear he’s as faded as Nie Mingjue, as vague and amorphous as his birth name, Huan—“to dissipate”—a handful of vapor, a human-shaped patch of nothing so focused on Xue Yang’s next words that it’s lost all sense of self.

Xue Yang turns back to Lan Xichen. In his hand is the spirit pouch.

The symbols on the sides are glowing with a touch of the array’s eerie red light.

Grinning, he tosses it to Lan Xichen.

“He’s all yours,” he says.

* * * * *

Up Next: Xue Yang and Lan Xichen pay Chang Ping a friendly visit in a desperate bid to bring A-Yao back.

Or: Don’t try this at home, kids.

Chapter 6

[go-go-devil]

The White Eye of Emeritus

Alright motherfuckers, it’s been too damn long since I last posted any Ghost headcanons, so here’s my own lore about the white eye we’ve come to know and love, specifically how it first came to be as well as the dubious origins of how the Emeritus “family” was created!

Since this is over 1,000 words I’m gonna submit this as part of Emeritober this year, since I quite like this one. Also available to read on AO3!

Strap in folks, this is basically gonna be a Demon Pope history lesson!

TW: Mentions of sexism and body horror

Of all the traits that each of the abbey’s unholy popes possessed, there are none as unifying and diabolical as that of The White Eye. Always on the left eye, always as pale as the full moon, it is the ultimate symbol for which one reveals their unyielding devotion to Lucifer and all the Great Demons that serve under Them, and it is through this property that each Papa is granted the ability to perform black magic in our mortal realm.

It was a gift first earned by The Original Papa Emeritus Nihil back during the Middle Ages, after the sacking of their original abbey in Florence. Even after the surviving Siblings of Sin were left without a home or leader (their first elected pope having been captured and subsequently burned at the stake), his devotion to the art of black magic and natural leadership skills played a significant role in helping the survivors make their exodus to the north. Upon settling in Linköping he found himself powerful enough to attempt a direct contact with The Olde One, asking for Them to grant him the magic of Hell itself as a means of assuring his people’s prosperity in this new land.

His request was granted. He used his magic given to him by The Eye to summon the first ghouls into our Earthly plane, and with their superior strength and elemental powers they helped construct the Unholy Abbey of Linköping for the Siblings of Sin to reside and worship in. With the further aid of these ghouls alongside the skills of many witches, he then weaved a dark mist to shield the abbey from discovery by those who fought for God, granting access only to those who wished to serve the Will of Satan. Those Christians back in Florence had mockingly named their previous pope “Papa Emeritus” after his forced retirement, so Nihil chose to keep the name to show how even death cannot stop one so devoted to the devil, and thus the unholy title of all future Papas had been born!

Now as to how The Eye can be earned, well… this is where things get complicated.

For a long time, there were no consistent guidelines for electing someone as the next Papa. Some were able to perform either the same or similar contact rituals that the original Emeritus 0 was able to do, those of which were always incredibly dangerous and could violently kill the seeker attempting spiritual communication with Hell. There were even others that had arrived  already possessing this white eye by some chance supernatural event, having instinctively searched out the Unholy Abbey through supernatural guidance, although these cases are significantly rarer.

As for gaining The Eye via rituals, the only criteria they had back in the olden days were that the person needed to have lived and studied in the abbey for at least 10 years and completed seminary, be highly skilled in the art of black magic, and needed to possess a penis (The Serpent with Which They Could Use to Deceive). Unfortunately, sexism in regards to leadership roles affected even the protofemenist teachings of the Satanic Church for the longest time, and nowadays the abbey is sure to teach of the multiple women & trans men of the clergy who most likely did possess the abilities needed to become Papa but were not allowed to.

Well to be fair, there were two Papas elected that were not cis men: an intersex person and a woman, those being The Original Papa Emeritus Secondo and Terzo respectively. Emeritus II was "traditionally masculine" enough to be allowed an attempt at the contact, while Emeritus III had come to them already possessing The Eye, and thus they could not ignore her rightful title (although they did still refer to her through he/him pronouns, stubborn bastards....).

And that's how it was for much of the abbey's history. Emeritus was merely a title to denote whichever random person was lucky enough to achieve it, nothing more. However, everything changed during the early 1800’s when a single idea dawned on the current Papa of the time. The previous two Papas before him had both happened to be his father and grandfather, so if that were the case, would that mean that the power of The Eye could be inherited?

Testing his Lamarckist hypothesis, he waited until both his sons had come of age and then forcibly subjected them to the contact ritual under the implication that their bloodline would automatically grant them access to this magic, which caused one to die horribly and the other to successfully be gifted with the coveted white eye. Through the combination of this “successful discovery” alongside a desperation to reclaim the earthly magic that was starting to disappear as well as the backing of an upper clergy becoming more and more corrupted with each passing decade, the title Emeritus had been officially morphed into a dynasty.

Perhaps there was some truth in the inheritable properties of magic, since more Papas were made from that starting lineage. Yet when put into perspective, the costs of this practice were truly far too great to justify the means.

Dozens upon dozens of teenage boys were subjected to these premature contact rituals and suffered disgusting, needless deaths at the hands of their fathers, all in the hopes of finding the one “worthy” heir to the Papacy. Harems, which were once simply a source of pleasure for a Papa, became a mandatory method of producing enough sons. These women were impregnated so often that many ended up dying from birth complications, and those who were able to successfully give birth either had to raise their daughters all on their own or risk seeing their sons bodies be twisted and shredded beyond recognition after an unsuccessful ritual.

Our current day Nihil had four brothers before him; three whom he never knew, and one he was forced to forget. They did prove to be failures after all, so why memorialize them? It truly was nothing short of a miracle that he was able to survive the ritual at such a young age. Once he got The Eye and all the magic it provided him, along with the aid of one Sister of Sin allied to his cause, he wasted no time in usurping his wicked father. To further emphasize his separation from his father's legacy, he reset his title back to Emeritus 0 as a symbol of how he was going to lead the Satanic Church into a new Golden Age, one where he would never subject his heirs to such needless destruction.

Ironic how he ended up accidentally achieving what his own father always dreamed of: three sons that proved themselves apt enough to survive the ritual and earn The Eye. Granted, he did forbid his children from attempting the contact until they had fully developed their knowledge of black magic and had completed seminary, but it is quite intriguing how he managed to produce this many heirs to the Papacy in such a short span of time.

Could an outside force had helped him in some way, possibly enhancing the heritability of his magic with supernatural means for the sake of their achieving their own ends?

…

Of course not! Who could possibly do something like that?

[deploybits]

You are lucky some types of torture are legal, i now will have an anxiety attack looking at the sky

So here we are... The Ultima Weapon will almost certainly be housed in the depths of the complex. This is it, my friend! Gaius! Ah, Cid, my boy... You are late. There is something I always meant to tell you, yet the time never seemed right. It concerns your father. ...What of him? In the winter of his years, Midas came to abhor his part in Meteor. He told me that he wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole sordid business. But he did not wash his hands of it. He helmed the project until the day it killed him! Come now, Cid... you must know that he did not have the luxury of choice. By the time he realized his error, it was too late. Meteor had him completely in its thrall. Shortly before his... transformation, mayhap sensing that something was amiss, your father confided to me all the regrets of his life. Most of them concerned you. Early on in your career, he realized that while you had a talent for devising armaments, it would never fulfil you. Long before you knew your own mind, he saw that you would be far happier using your knowledge for peaceful purposes, and the thought touched him. He was a changed man for it, though he could not let it show. You blew holes in this place just so you could say this to me!? What is it you want, Gaius!? I want you at my side, Cid. Take up your father’s mantle, and become the Empire’s lead engineer. It is your destiny. My father had a change of heart - you said so yourself! Besides, I have long known my destiny, and I assure you, it lies not with the Empire! A pity. And what of you, adventurer? Will you not consider making common cause with me? No? And I can expect no better answer than this? So be it. It was your strength that made me proffer my hand in friendship, and it is your strength that makes me proffer now my blade. Save as an ally, you are too dangerous to be let to remain. Run, Cid. Or stay. It makes no matter. You cannot escape the past. Gaius, wait! ...Damn it! Knowing Gaius, he is headed for the Ultima Weapon. If we find him, so too will we find our quarry. With these instruments, we can monitor every nook and cranny in the castrum. I think it’s time we divided our forces. Pray go on and give chase. I’ll track your movements from here and guide you through the complex. We’ll stay in contact via linkpearl. Be careful, all right? Ah, there she is! I trust you recognize our old friend. “Maggie,” was it? They must have shipped her here from Centri. Considering all she’s been through, it’s a wonder she’s still operational. Tough old girl! Now that you’re suitably armed, you can blast open that bulkhead. The external walkway will take you back there. Follow it till you come upon a way down to the lower level. That bulkhead is composed of a special alloy. Extremely tough. Ordinary fire won’t leave a mark, I’m afraid. You’ll need to divert all power to the magitek cannon, as I did so memorably once before. As you may recall, the armor’s core is like to expire from the strain, but there’s no help for it if we want to press on. Now, listen well. Press...<buzzzzzz>...the control...<fizzzzzz>...engage ancillary...then fire away. Don’t mind the warning lights. You’re a natural at this! All right, the way’s clear, but it’s just you and your own two feet now, so be careful. You have been leaving a fine mess in your wake, adventurer. Is someone there!? Garlond, old friend. How it warms the heart to hear your voice again after all these years. ...Nero? Is that you!? You sound well. It would seem this savage land agrees with you. The highest ranking tribunus of the XIVth... It was you all this time? Tell me, Garlond. How long do you intend to keep all the glory for yourself? Uh...what? You’ve lost me. Don’t play the fool with me. Ever since the Academy, I have been condemned to live in your shadow. By all objective measure, I was the more talented of the two of us, yet that fate counted for naught beside your privileged birth. You were admired as the young prodigy simply because your father was the great Midas nan Garlond! When you defected, I felt sure my star would finally rise... But by disappearing, you acquired the status of a legend - your reputed genius gaining credence merely by dint of your absence! Instead of cursing you for a traitor, the people actually came to think of you more fondly! To this day, you are still the young prodigy of magitek! I, meanwhile, have ever been made to feel second-rate - I who have continued to serve our nation faithfully. Whenever I fail to excel - why, it is only to be expected! Yet when I exceed all reasonable expectations, people proclaim that I walk in the footsteps of the great Cid nan bloody Garlond! Nero, I... I don’t know what to say. It matters not a whit what I achieve. Your existence has rendered mine worthless. Even Lord van Baelsar saw fit to offer you a place at his side - and this in spite of your betrayal! Did he extend any such offer to me - the man who has remained loyal to him for all these years? Why, no. He did not. Long have I endured this injustice...but no more. Lord van Baelsar is in the midst of activating the fully powered Ultima Weapon. It is my magnum opus - the creation that will win me the recognition I am due. I will not let anyone interfere. Nero! What are you-!? Ever since I first set foot in this benighted land, I have watched you - ever move you have made, every step you have taken. You have felled eikons, a feat made possible by the Echo, a peculiar power which shields you from their corrupting influence. It is of little wonder that my lord has taken an interest in you. As have I, if truth be told. It is my desire to harness your power for use in the Ultima Weapon. Should I succeed, Lord van Baelsar will surely take notice! Beside this, Garlond’s achievements will be as child’s play! Come, adventurer, and yield to me the secrets of your power! This changes...nothing... Ahahahaha! The Ultima Weapon is activated, and it brims with the power of eikons! Nothing can withstand its might! Are you all right!? What of Nero!? ...Fled!? Damn it! In the instant prior to the blackout, the instruments detected a massive power surge from the deepest chamber. Gaius is certain to be there! We have no time to waste! Word arrived from the Alliance a short while ago. It seems the Order of the Twin Adder has completed its blockade of Castrum Centri. What hands they can spare are hastening this way even as we speak, and likewise for the Maelstrom. All that’s left is to destroy the Ultima Weapon! ...I should warn you: the chamber which houses the target appears to be saturated with aetheric energies. There’s bound to be heavy interference. But even if we lose contact, you must go on. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, all right? Look for the lift’s control panel - it’ll be somewhere nearby. Take the lift down, and you should find yourself in the chamber of the Ultima Weapon. Keep your eyes peeled - Gaius could be waiting for you down there. Oh, and don’t even think about dying. You’re too bloody useful! The interference is getting worse. I don’t think the connection will last much - Tell me...for whom do you fight? Hmph! How very glib. And do you believe in Eorzea? Eorzea’s unity is forged of falsehoods. Its city-states are built on deceit. And its faith is an instrument of deception. It is naught but a cobweb of lies. To believe in Eorzea is to believe in nothing. In Eorzea, the beast tribes often summon gods to fight in their stead - though your comrades only rarely respond in kind. Which is strange, is it not? Are the “Twelve” otherwise engaged? I was given to understand they were your protectors. If you truly believe them your guardians, why do you not repeat the trick that served you so well at Carteneau, and call them down? They will answer - so long as you lavish them with crystals and gorge them on aether. Your gods are no different from those of the beasts - eikons every one. Accept but this, and you will see how Eorzea’s faith is bleeding the land dry. Nor is this unknown to your masters. Which prompts the question: why do they cling to these false deities? What drives even men of learning - even the great Louisoix - to grovel at their feet? The answer? Your masters lack the strength to do otherwise! For the world of man to mean anything, man must own the world. To this end, he hath fought ever to raise himself through conflict - to grow rich through conquest. And when the dust of battle settles, it is ever the strong who dictate the fate of the weak. Knowing this, but a single path is open to the impotent ruler - that of false worship. A path which leads to enervation and death. Only a man of power can rightly steer the course of civilization. And in this land of creeping mendacity, that one truth will prove its salvation. Come, champion of Eorzea, face me! Your defeat shall serve as proof of my readiness to rule! It is only right that I should take your realm. For none among you has the power to stop me! I had not thought to be so hard-pressed. Your strength is...most impressive. Such power befits a ruler! Yet you lack the resolve to put it to proper use. A waste. Allow me, then, hero, to do that which you will not! Bear witness to the true power of the Ultima Weapon! But the Ultima Weapon is all-powerful! Why does my enemy still stand!? Can her strength truly be so great? It is the blessing of Light that confounds you. Lahabrea. Your foe acts under the protection of the Crystal she bears. So, this is what empowers her. Beyond mortal limits. If you are to prevail, the hammer of Darkness must needs be brought to bear upon the shield of Light. And so it shall, for the Ultima Weapon is host to a power of which you are as yet ignorant. Speak plainly, Ascian. The Heart of Sabik. It is the Weapon’s core - an enigma whose surface even the vaunted scholars of ancient Allag failed to scratch. The magic within has lain dormant for eons. Of what magic do you speak? A spell without parallel. Ultima. I sought the life force of the primals for no other reason but to quicken the core. For the true power of the Ultima Weapon lies within its now-beating Heart! Lahabrea... What have you done? No more than was necessary...for my god to be reborn. Damn you, Ascian! The hour is at hand! Behold but a sliver of my god’s power! And from the deepest pit of the seven hells to the very pinnacle of the heavens, the world shall tremble! Unleash Ultima! Ahahahahahaha! Such devastation... This was not my intention... Oh, Hydaelyn...it seems the task of keeping your champion alive has exhausted what strength you had left. Van Baelsar... Your enemy’s shield is broken. The rest I leave to you. We will speak later, Ascian. But first, I must deal with you. The question of who is mightier remains! Come, adventurer! Let us find the answer together! No... No, no, NO! Uh! Heed me... The subjects of a weak ruler must needs look to a higher power for providence... and their dependence comes at a cost to the realm. The misguided elevate the frail... And the frail lead the people astray. Unless a man of power wrests control...the cycle will never be broken. You... You of all people must see the truth in this. You who have the strength to rule... Pathetic. You boasted of unrivaled power. You were entrusted with the ultimate weapon. The ultimate magic! And still you failed. So much for the glory of man. The growing imbalance afflicting the planet must be redressed. If it is permitted to worsen, the very laws of existence - both aetheric and physical - will be warped beyond all recognition. Know you the root of this corruption? Hydaelyn! Like a parasite, she must be burned out if the planet is to recover. And naught but the return of the one true god will ensure her complete excision. Yet to pave the way for the master’s return, a chaotic confluence of untold proportions must needs be brought about. And that will necessitate the presence of the primals. needless to say, both you and your Scion accomplices can not be suffered to interfere in this endeavor. You will not leave this place alive. It is past time your flame was extinguished...“Bringer of Light.” If thou wouldst pierce the shadows...make thee a blade of Light. What!? The Light...it binds them... They are too many!

Aaaaaaaaarrrgh!!!

[lockewrites]

Remnants of Slander

The Perfect Storm: Chapter 7

LDB x Miraak || SFW || 3102 words AO3 & FF

Telyra meets Miraak in Apocrypha with the intention of beginning to plan for his escape; instead, she’s given a history lesson.

It had been Erik’s suggestion to seek out Neloth before venturing in and out of Apocrypha.

“I know you haven’t felt any different,” he’d said, “but that can change. The more you’re in there, the more it could mess with you. Neloth might not care what happens to you, but he’ll certainly notice if anything happens to you.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

They gave the Dunmer the same line they fed the Skaal: she needed to know more before dealing with Miraak and with Mora blind to her presence, she was free to learn all she could in Apocrypha. Whether Neloth believed them, she didn’t know, but he didn’t turn her away. If anything, he was interested in the prospect of seeing first-hand the possible side effects of traveling to and from the Daedric realm so often.

Neloth provided her a room in which her body could sit comfortably while she spent time in Apocrypha and a promise that he would check her vitals and various other details he was interested in if she was gone for extended periods of time. Erik agreed to remain too--insisted actually, despite Telyra assuring him she was in good hands.

“I need to be there if anything goes wrong,” he said. “And this gives me a chance to nose through Neloth’s research. I might not understand half of it, but there could be something interesting.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” she promised.

It hadn’t been enough to convince him otherwise. She didn’t mind him being there to protect her: it gave her a sense of comfort she would never admit to since he’d never let her live that down, but it also left her with a pang of guilt. Stuck in a mushroom, sitting and reading, when she knew he wanted nothing more than to explore and properly earn his self-appointed name… but she quickly gave up the fight.

“All right,” she said, settling down on a mat on the floor. She crossed her legs and placed the black book on her lap. “Wish me luck.”

Erik leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed as he watched her with a forced smile. It disappeared just as she opened the book and the no-longer-shocking but no-less-disgusting tentacles swallowed her.

A harsh grunt escaped her as she landed on all fours on the familiar platform. Just as she had during previous visits, she heard the faint beating she knew to be wings. With little else to do, Telyra paced, switching between cracking her knuckles and playing with a conjured flame on her fingertips. Despite what assurance she gave Erik, a stone seemed to have settled in her gut, flipping with each passing moment as she waited for Miraak to arrive.

She expected her mind to be racing, bubbling over with thoughts and worries, but there was nothing but a constant hum. And a suffocating anticipation.

The wings had grown far louder and created several gusts of wind that whipped her hair around, the ends stinging as they caught her cheeks. His dragon finally landed, settling down several feet from her and causing the platform to whine with its weight.

“Mal dovahkiin,” Miraak said as he dismounted.

With her lips pursed, she said, “I have a name.”

He chuckled. “I am aware.”

Miraak approached her and held out his hand; she grasped his forearm as he did the same.

“I was not expecting your presence so soon,” he remarked, face still hidden behind that infuriating mask. “But I cannot say I am disappointed.”

Telrya shrugged. “Seemed there was no point in drawing this out. I want off this dreary island as soon as possible. And Alduin is still an issue.” She bit back a comment about Miraak being the reason she had to deal with the dragon in the first place.

His head tilted as he seemed to regard her. “You could have simply slain me that day on the beach,” he said. “That would have been the end to all of this, and you would have been free to return to Skyrim. Yet you allowed me to live. Your remaining here is your doing.”

She let her head fall back and sighed. “Yes, and I’m well aware that by not only letting you live but also agreeing to help you escape has only made things even more difficult for me.” With a roll of her eyes, she added, “I’ve already received this lecture from my friend.”

“Erik,” Miraak said.

Telyra nodded briefly before crossing her arms. “You’ll say his name, but not mine?”

Rather than offer an answer, Miraak asked, “My power aids me in hiding from Mora’s gaze. How will you do the same?”

She pulled the amulet from beneath her tunic. “I’m hoping this’ll work,” she said. “It was given to me by the Skaal. They still think I’m here to kill you.”

He didn’t acknowledge her words beyond a simple nod. He held his arm out and gestured toward his dragon. “I have established something akin to quarters here,” he explained. “Would you be so kind as to join me? There is little to be done here.”

Her eyes bounced between Miraak and the cerulean dragon. “You want me to ride that?”

Again, he tilted his head. “You have seen me do so on multiple occasions,” he replied. “Unless you would prefer to swim.”

She glanced down, looking at the putrid slime through the gaps in the floor, and sighed. “Fine.”

The dragon watched her step toward him, sniffing the air that wafted from her.

“Um, hi.” Telyra gave an awkward wave.

The serpentine dipped his head. “I am Sahrotaar.”

“Telyra,” she said. “May I…?”

His belly pressed into the ground, granting her permission to climb onto his back, but even with his lowered stance, the stirrup was too high.

Miraak moved beside her and clasped his fingers together, squatting slightly. “I would rather not watch you struggle,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“You’re all sorts of snarky today,” she remarked, quickly balancing her foot in his palm before he had the chance to retract his help.

Sahrotaar let out something that sounded like a snort.

Miraak chuckled as he hoisted her up. “I am simply eager to begin.”

After she settled into the saddle, Miraak pulled himself up and did the same, leaving her little room on the seat.

“This definitely wasn’t made for two people,” she muttered.

“No,” he said, “it was not.”

His torso pressed into her back as he reached forward and took the reins. She felt his legs kick at Sahrotaar’s side before relaxing against hers; the situation felt well beyond strange. Her hands scrambled to grasp the front end of the saddle, seeking anything for purchase as soon as the dragon pushed off the ground.

A sigh was released behind her. “I will not allow you to fall,” he said, his arms squeezing closer to hers.

Despite his promise, her stomach seized in fear, but she swallowed down the nausea. To keep from thinking of slipping off and landing in the green sea, Telyra stared ahead and focused on the wind that whipped past them, the colors melding into one in her peripheral vision, the sturdy arms and legs that held her in place, the warmth he provided even against the chill that came with the breeze moving at such high speeds.

Each deep breath in seemed to settle her nerves, and as the rigidity of her body relaxed, so did Miraak’s grip.

“This is actually amazing,” she breathed.

Her eyes fell on the reins, watching Miraak’s hands remain in place, not bothering to direct Sahrotaar. Eras of traveling to and from the same location, and one didn’t often need directions. She wondered if Miraak would ever allow her to take control, guide his dragon wherever she wanted if they ever managed to get him and Miraak out of here. Flying over Solstheim, over Skyrim, over the mountains and seas… She couldn’t wait to tell Erik; he’d tell her it was stupid to agree to something so dangerous, but there’d be an inkling of jealousy.

Their journey came to end, much to Telyra’s disappointment. Once the fear of being airborne passed, she was elated, but the dragon descended and landed in an area that looked nearly identical to where she’d originally appeared.

Miraak slid down from behind her and held out his hand to help her do the same.

“Such a gentleman,” she remarked as she took it and jumped down beside him.

He gave something between a huff and a hum before moving to undo Sahrotaar’s saddle.

She watched as he reached up and around and under and expertly unclasped every hook, with Sarhotaar leaning this way and that to help, until finally the contraption landed with a heavy thud.

Now free, the dragon stretched its wings before pushing the saddle away and curling into a ball to rest. The action seemed far too endearing for something as dangerous as a dragon.

Miraak walked past Telyra and gestured for her to follow. He led her through an iron door, similar to ones she’d seen elsewhere in the realm, and down a corridor made of endless columns of tattered books. Just as any other time she’d seen these, she felt a strong urge to pull one of the books out, just to see if everything would come crumbling down. Several seekers wandered the hall, keeping watch but paying them no mind; a stark contrast to her original encounter with them.

He stopped suddenly and faced a solid wall. Before Telyra could question anything, he pressed his hand against the surface; a bright light emanated from his palm, and the wall began to shimmer before disappearing entirely. It revealed a large room that looked to be Apocrypha’s equivalent to a study.

With a flourish of his hand, he beckoned her forward before stepping through himself and resuming the illusion.

Her eyes scanned the room. Shelves and piles of books, very unlike the ones that made up the walls, were scattered around, many with tabs of notes sticking out. And there were lights everywhere, noticeably brighter than those that littered the realm and provided just enough to see one’s next step forward. Several tables stood in front of the bookshelves, many holding even more books but also stacks of notes. And in the center was a low seat that looked to be made of thousands upon thousands of sheets of paper. Telyra gaped, admiring how he’d manage to make even the dreariest of realms something close to cozy.

“Well,” he said, startling her, “shall we begin?”

They walked forward in tandem, Telyra stopping at the first pile of books and grabbing the one on top. “The Doors of Oblivion,” she read. She flipped through the heavily marked and dog-eared pages. “Anything useful?”

“No,” he replied from a different table. “The author’s master spent time here, but his experience offered me no solution.”

“Then why so many notes?”

“I noted any instance of Apocrypha’s or Mora’s mention,” he explained. “I had hoped being able to return to it at a later time would allow me insight I may have missed during my first read.”

“Oh.” She returned the book to the pile and looked around the room once more. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

In the corner of her eye, she saw him mirror her movements.

“Is it safe to assume you will not allow me to make use of the All-Maker stones once more?” he asked, his tone hinting that he already knew the answer.

Telyra merely scoffed. “Not by enslaving people.”

“The Tree Stone remains under my control,” he began. “I believe that can serve a purpose in my return. We will need to discover a means of amplifying its power without the remaining stones, however. And those that are building it are not under any illusion.” He quickly added the last part at her glare.

“Your cultists, you mean,” she said. “And they’re just willingly following your command?” With a tilt of her head, she crossed her arms.

“It is rather easy to garner followers with a simple display of power,” he explained. “You could do the same.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have Erik following me. I don’t need any more lives in my hands.”

Miraak stepped around the table and stood in front of the nearby bookshelf. His hand ran along the spines of each book. “With a mass at your command comes power. And with power, you are able to right what you believe to be wrong, whether on as large a scale as the world, or as small as a mere village.” He pulled out one of the books. “With enough power, you need not worry about anyone stepping in the way of your plans. Such as destroying Alduin. I imagine the civil war occurring in Skyrim will complicate matters.”

“That sounds like an abuse of power,” she said. “Like tyranny.”

“Not a poor word choice,” he admitted, “but is that so wrong?”

“No one person should have all of the power,” she retorted, furrowing her brow.

“And why not?” He turned to look at her. “Do you not know right from wrong? Would you not do all you could to ensure your people prospered? That nothing posed a threat to those you loved?”

“Doesn’t every tyrant sustain themselves on the belief that they’re doing what’s right?” she asked. “That only they know what’s best?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, “but within their actions, one can see the nature of their intent. And if such a person were allowed to rise to a level of power in which they could not be removed despite their acting in self-interest, then do the people who did nothing to stop them not deserve their fate?”

She frowned, watching him as he moved to the center of the room. “Not everyone can see below the surface.”

“I suppose that is the risk you take when placing your trust in others,” Miraak said before settling down on the sofa-like structure.

“They say you were a cruel tyrant,” she remarked, grabbing a random book and sitting beside him. “Only interested in gaining the power the dragons held over you so you could do the same with your followers.” She watched for any reaction, but he offered none but the flip of a page.

“History is not often kind to those that have lost.” His words were in monotone, like it’d been a thought he held often and grew tired of. He turned to her and sighed when he found her still staring at him. “You are going to request further detail.”

Not a question, but she nodded regardless.

Miraak closed his book and set it on his lap. “Such as?”

Pursing her lips, she thought a moment. “I guess the basic question would be: Why? Why do they call you a tyrant if you weren’t?”

“By its definition, I was,” he retorted. “At least, in the end. But there was no technicality in their purpose for use of that word; it was used simply to tarnish my name because, as you just confirmed, it is often associated with cruelty and ill intent.”

She opened her mouth to ask what he’d meant by ‘in the end,’ but he continued before she had the chance.

“I had amassed an impressive grouping of followers, and given that I had done the impossible and sought freedom from our dragon oppressors, they very rarely questioned my orders.” His head fell back against the seat as he continued. “Perhaps looking from the outside in, it appeared as though I was a cruel tyrant, as they said. It seemed I sent my people to their deaths for the sole purpose of retaining my power. While I could not allow the possibility of relinquishing what I had gained, it was not simply for the sake of holding such power. Power without purpose means nothing. I needed to remain strong so my people could be free.

“And when the prospect of freedom lies solely in the hands of a single man,” he continued, “one of the simplest means of discouraging people from seeking to join such a movement is to discredit that man. A leader whose supposed cruelty is unfamiliar is often less preferable to one you already know.”

Telyra sat and listened, her mouth partially agape as his words settled in her mind, furthering her belief that she had, in fact, made the right decision to help him. Assuming he wasn’t lying, but she felt the honesty in his words, the faintest hint of hurt.

“History is not wrong to call me a tyrant,” Miraak said. “But I was never cruel to my people.”

“What did you mean when you said ‘at least, in the end’?”

His head turned just slightly to glance at her before returning to stare up toward the endlessly high walls of books. Silence hung between them, but it was impossible to know his thoughts when hidden behind his mask.

Finally, he sighed. “I was betrayed,” he explained. “Betrayed by someone I believed to be a very dear friend. After his leaving, I did not allow anyone to share in my power for fear of further infiltration. But the damage had already been done, and despite my efforts in ensuring his treachery would not benefit the dragons, he used what he had learned to end my rebellion.”

“Vahlok,” she said. “The ‘Guardian.’”

His head turned toward her. “You have read the book.”

Telyra nodded as a blush settled in her face.

“The Guardian and the Traitor,” he spat. “I do not fault the author for the lies he had been fed, but it does pain me to read such things and to know that others have as well, only serving to further the slander cast upon my name.”

“If it’s any consolation,” she said, feeling a touch of guilt for having read the book, “I’m more inclined to believe your version.” She smiled and began listing things on her fingers. “Despite the mind control, and the stealing of my dragon souls, and believing tyranny is okay if done for the right reasons, and attacking me the first time we met.”

He gave a soft laugh, ending it with an amused hum before returning to the book on his lap. “You remind me of him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I hope that’s not you saying you’re expecting me to turn on you.”

“I always suspect such things,” he admitted. “But no, it is not that aspect of him that you bring to mind.”

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (5/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: I both love and hate writing Lucien (and Vassa! more of her soon) because he's really smart and perceptive, and honestly it's always easier to write characters who know less than I do. But these are my very favorite characters to read about, so, you know, writing growth? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ You can read early previews of the next chapter every Tuesday by following @house.of.hurricane on Instagram. And as always, you can read all chapters at AO3 if you prefer. You can find all chapters here.

Lucien watches the despair in Elain’s eyes transfigure itself into fear. On reflex, he reaches for the place her hands should be, but his fingers slice through the air. He works his way up her arms, his fingers skittering to find whatever is left of her body, and when he feels her elbow, her upper arm, the curve of her shoulder, his breath rushes into his lungs, pure relief.

“You’re all right,” he says, his palms on her shoulders, a lie he needs her to believe. He’s long suspected that the Cauldron gave Elain some formidable magic and that she has never learned to wield it, and now he thinks that gift is swallowing her up. He does not want her to see his fear, to begin to panic. He takes another deep breath, forces his heart to slow.

“What is so wrong with me?”

She reaches out for him again and he notices that her sleeves do not move as if they’re empty. The fabric moves around a wrist that is no longer present in the world, a magic Lucien knows is beyond his capability to resolve. It lacks the familiar resonance of spells or Fae power, as if whatever has hold of Elain is more tightly woven into the fabric of this world.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he says, instead. His fingers press against her shoulder blades, his thumbs against her clavicles, the bones that are solid and here. He has heard all the meanings in her question and answers the one he knows will infuriate her most, distract her from the disappearance of her hands. “I didn’t think you’d realize. I didn’t think you even wanted me.”

She sighs, too polite to agree or tell an obvious lie.

“I wanted to want you,” she says, the rage and panic slipping from her voice, a cool despair taking hold. He feels for her elbows and cannot find them, and Lucien realizes, trying to contain his smile, that he’s figured out the rules of this game. Sometimes the world feels as simple as a key in a lock.

“You were always looking elsewhere. How could you imagine I wouldn’t get tired of rejection?”

“Aren’t we all going to live for thousands of years?”

“So you thought I could wait for at least one hundred.”

“I thought you would let me…” He watches her eyes carefully focus on his, trying to hide her thinking as she reaches for the right word. The cover might fool anybody else, but Lucien has been looking for tells since he could walk, trying to survive the Autumn Court.

“I think you are only upset because you feel discarded,” he says, quickly, and feels her elbow against his palm.

“You smell of Vassa. The human queen.”

“You were a human not so long ago.” How quick she is to adopt the High Fae prejudices, sneer when she says the word human. He would be more annoyed if he didn’t feel her arms rematerializing.

“My sister told me how you treated her.” The swerve to this insult is clumsy, a baby’s first steps, but he’s still intrigued by this seeming transfiguration to Elain’s personality. Previously, she has dealt out all her slights with silence, at least where he’s concerned.

“And yet you stay in Tamlin’s home.” He keeps his voice low and silky, which he knows is infuriating.

“I thought he was your friend.” Her cheeks are pink and Lucien wonders if maybe he’ll be spared from this deception sooner than he thought.

Below her sleeves, Elain’s wrists are now visible.

“Our lives are too long for you to remain an ornament,” he says, casting around for an insult strong enough to really rouse her, force her to stay. Somehow Lucien has always been asked to rescue the women who will fall in love with other men, which is probably why Vassa is so eminently capable of saving herself.

“You’ve made me into an ornament!”

And when she swings a hand toward him, he doesn’t mind the ineffectual slap because he feels the tips of her fingers on his cheek. Still, when Elain runs toward the house, her whole body intact, he wonders if she even realizes what happened, its magnitude and implications. Even after all his years of attention and scheming, he cannot quite conjure an explanation.

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

Elain cannot stop running one hand over the other, tracing the curve of her fingernail, her knuckle, the tendons at the back of her hands and the bones of her wrists. You’re here, you’re whole, you have all your fingers and all your toes, she whispers to herself, sounding like Feyre fussing over Nyx.

She had still felt her fingers, her arm, connected to her body, but they were distant, prickling, as if she’d slept on them and the blood was reentering each limb. Where had she gone?

Elain does not think much on the argument with Lucien. She’d seen the panic in his eyes, surely a mirror of her own. His words were a frantic spell, a summoning.

Her mind catches, instead, on the look when he’d found her screaming and wailing all her grief. The pity in his eyes. She cannot imagine how this male is supposed to be her mate, her one true love.

Gradually she banishes the image of him from her mind. She replaces him with the surety of her fingers, the line of dirt that never disappears from under her fingernails without magic, the little etchings at each knuckle. All present and near and normal.

She falls asleep without eating her dinner, her hands clutched around each other.

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“That could have gone better,” Vassa says by way of hello, as soon as Lucien walks into her bedroom. There’s no point in distance, now that Elain already knows what’s between them. Still, Lucien hesitates before he kisses Vassa. The lie is relatively easy to maintain when he’s far from Elain, but now they will be close for weeks or months, maybe longer. Now he will have to practice some form of daily pining, particularly for Tamlin, who knows the way the mating bond can wreak havoc on a male.

“She’s more observant than I remembered,” he says, unbuttoning his tunic. The hardest part of all this lying are the words he says to Vassa, which are often so unlike the phrases he wants to bestow on her.

“Is this the way all mates behave?”

“Sometimes our marriages are political. I’ve heard this is a common practice in the human realms.”

Vassa swats him.

“You forget how long I’ve been around your people, now.”

“Hardly any time at all, for us.” He drapes his tunic over her desk, where she’s left pages covered with her blots and scribbles out for anyone to read. Was Vassa always so trusting, or does she simply believe her thoughts are so uninteresting for his people to contemplate? Her handwriting is bad enough that it’s possible she believes no one will bother to decipher it.

“I never knew you to be cruel,” she says, and when he turns to her he sees the hurt in Vassa’s eyes.

“I would never hurt you.”

She sighs from her chest, the sound as deep as a groan.

“A queen is expected to have better judgement.”

“The situation is more complex than it appears.”

“Men often say this in simple situations when they are in the wrong.”

Vassa’s shoulders are thrown back, her arms across her chest. She has told him that queens must show mercy but also embody justice, and Lucien has no doubts about which quality she thinks is vital in this moment.

“Do you know how easy it would be for a High Fae of certain talents to learn all of the secrets in your mind?” He’s begun to work on the buttons of his shirt, hoping he can distract her from an argument, though he knows from experience that at this point, when her eyes are bright and calculating, that any attempt is futile.

“You’ve shown me how to make a mental shield and you’ve told me secrets.”

“This secret endangers the peace between our courts.” He does not tell her a skilled daemati could storm her mental shields in a second. Vassa is rightfully proud of her own strength and cunning, and he has caused her enough hurt tonight.

“And yet you’ve made it obvious to anybody who cares to pay attention.”

“Tell me what you think you know.”

“Elain Archeron is not your mate.”

He keeps his face too still and triumph flashes on her face, transfigured quickly into a more sober expression as her mind whirls into action, her eyes now a brighter blue, her lower lip caught between her teeth, an expression he wants to memorize and study until he can never forget it.

“That would only be a political disaster if you knew her real mate,” she says, moments later. Her voice is hushed but still the words echo. “And why has he or she not challenged you?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, glad that he can tell her this truth, for the wide description that shows that Vassa hasn’t guessed they’re in the grand home of Elain Archeron’s actual mate. “I would have thought--”

“Tell me.” Vassa steps toward him, extends her hand.

“You are safest if I tell you nothing.” He reaches for her hands, twines her fingers in his own. Her skin is so soft, so new. He would not be surprised to learn that the spell remakes her body completely each evening.

She raises her eyebrow, refusing to be drawn in completely. “I am under a curse and bound to a death-lord, Lucien. You think I’m afraid of a little court intrigue?”

“All of our monsters have been awfully good to you.” He presses a kiss to her jaw, her earlobe. He’ll make a map of her, catalogue the way Vassa feels against his lips. He doesn’t want to think of Elain or Tamlin any longer. The only benefit to this evening’s scene should be that he can share a room with Vassa to only moderate approbation.

“Tell me, Lucien.”

“What if I share another revelation?”

“Dazzle me, Lucien Vanserra,” she says, her voice so dry he lets out a bark of laughter in spite of himself. Cauldron boil this woman’s enemies, the ambassadors who will visit Scythia from foreign courts.

“Elain was weeping when I found her.”

“Naturally. Her mate was dallying with another woman.”

“I can’t tell if you’re making sport of me,” he says.

“I feel sorry for the girl.”

“You’re barely older than she is.”

“Some women -- or females, I suppose -- remain girls longer than others. Anyway, she was weeping.”

“The word might not be strong enough. She was screaming loud enough to rouse the village. But when she heard me approach, her hands had disappeared.”

“Surely you’ve seen more impressive magic in your storied centuries.”

He explains the buried quality of the magic, the way the reappearance of Elain’s hands had been so clearly connected to her emotions, her seeming lack of comprehension at all that had happened.

“That seems a useful talent, if she could control it. An invisible woman would make a perfect spy. Do you think that’s why she was sent here?”

“I don’t think Elain is in control of any of her powers.”

“She has others?”

“Rhysand has never said exactly what, but I gather that he and his court have noticed that she has other abilities. But I’d be surprised if this wasn’t the first time this disappearance manifested itself.”

“Perhaps you’re underestimating her. She could be gathering intelligence for the Night Court.”

“If so, Rhysand would never have summoned us.”

“He doesn’t trust our host.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Rhys to contrive a situation where Elain and I were trapped in the same house.”

“The firebird would be included for what, romantic lighting?”

He pulls her close against him, so that the embroidery of her gown lays down its marks on his skin.

“Included for your knowledge of Koschei,” he says, because on the whole it is a relief to tell her the truth, “and also for my great good luck.”

Vassa lifts her cheek from his shoulder to smile at him and despite the evening’s events, he smiles back at her, celebrates the tiny solitary miracle that is the two of them together in her room. No matter the secrets, the lies he has to tell to contain them, Lucien finds himself believing in that moment that everything will be all right.

He’s always found delusion to be a particularly heady emotion.

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In the morning, before dawn, Lucien is in a rush, fumbling with his clothes and pulling Vassa from her bed before she transforms and singes the mattress. Tamlin’s servants meet them at the door with a wrapped breakfast that he doubts Vassa will have a chance to eat, and sure enough, before they’re halfway across the gardens, Vassa is a firebird, flapping her wings across the lavender sky, the new dawn.

She does not speak in this form but she follows him easily as he makes his way through the trees, looping and diving to get a better idea of the terrain. In this form she is formidable but still very exposed, and since the war, she’s learned to be vigilant.

After an hour of walking, they reach the lake nearest to Tamlin’s estate, and Vassa launches herself at the sparkling water. Around her, the water bubbles, the steam rising from the place where she dove. Lucien settles himself on a boulder and scans the forest, palms his dagger in one hand and his breakfast in the other. When he’s sure that the only sounds are Vassa’s splashing and the other birds awakening, he puts the knife down and eats the bread and eggs and cheese, watching her flames mirrored on the surface of the water.

Tending to Vassa was the work of servants for months before Lucien took it over, well before they’d wound up in their latest arrangement. He enjoys watching the world wake up, loves watching her transformation, imagining the way that she beholds the world in this form. She has trouble describing the experience, only its limitations, but he can see Vassa’s character inside the bird, her watchfulness and unbroken spirit. If he does not keep her sufficiently entertained, she’ll splash him or draw close enough to leave a burn on his sleeve. As a result, Lucien has told her nearly all of his stories, decades of court intrigue and gossip, rivalries and petty jealousies and tendres. At first, he wrapped these stories in fine telling, with voices and dramatic pauses as if she were a paying audience. But gradually, as they grew more familiar, he began to tell her the stories and secrets that stuck inside him, his voice low and sometimes hesitant. He’s told her about Jessaminda, about Tamlin’s kindness and his rage, the way that despite most evidence to the contrary, he still doesn’t fully trust the Night Court. During these stories, Vassa always watches him with her great blue eyes, still as a swan while she circles the lake.

At night, Vassa will tell him her own secrets, the intrigues of her court, and though Lucien had long scorned the human realms, he finds herself drawn in by the tales, asking her questions, trying to better envision her world.

Behind him, a fallen branch cracks under a foot and the birds scatter. Lucien is on his feet in an instant, Vassa a warm fire close behind.

When he sees the golden beast, Lucien takes a breath before returning his dagger to his belt. Tamlin has appeared more in control lately, but he’s witnessed enough of his old friend’s behavior over the past few years that Lucien can’t be sure there won’t be an explosion.

“You’ve found a pretty spot to while away the morning,” Tamlin says. The words would be charming if the fangs of the beast weren’t quite so large and sharp.

“I promised to show Vassa your lands.”

“I gather that you’ve made many promises to Vassa.”

Lucien holds himself still. He wants to reach for his dagger, give Tamlin an idea of the danger he’s courting, but knows the gesture would reveal too much. Just this once, he’s grateful that Vassa is unable to speak in this form.

“Rhys recruited you to play matchmaker?” he says instead, trying for the kind of courtly sneer that comes so easily to Eris.

Tamlin shakes his head, sending leaves spiralling out of his golden fur, and then in a flash of light, he’s High Fae again, tall and golden against the trees. Lucien is sure that all the motion was simply a distraction from his shuddering at the idea of being implicated in one of Rhysand’s schemes, however harmless, but once again he wonders if Tamlin senses the mating bond.

“I came to seek your counsel,” Tamlin says.

“Vassa--”

“We’ll stay nearby. You will have the chance to defend your queen.”

Lucien looks toward Vassa, who bobs her head on its long neck as if to say go on.

From behind, Tamlin looks the way he always has, his warrior’s body always ready to strike as he strikes a relentless pace through the trees, and Lucien can imagine that he and Tamlin are the friends they were before Amarantha, before Feyre and the war with Hybern, before the Archeron sisters wound up in the Cauldron. It startles him to think that this before is now long ago, past the human lifespan.

When Tamlin stops, his face is grim, his mouth bracketed by deep lines that Lucien has never seen before.

“Why did Rhysand send you here?” he asks, the words almost lost in his growl. There are talons, now, where his fingers were seconds ago.

“I haven’t spoken to him in weeks,” Lucien says. He’d been avoiding the entire Night Court, thinking of what they’d report back to Elain, the implications. “You were the one who asked me to come here, remember?”

“I forget nothing.” Tamlin’s eyes make Lucien think of trees after an unexpected ice storm, the leaves a deeper, brighter green within their crystallized prison. He’s thinking of Feyre’s escapes, the way Lucien aided her and fled himself. The memories of the High Fae are too long for comfortable recollection.

“His people were investigating Koschei,” Lucien says when it’s clear that Tamlin will not elaborate on his suspicions. This is common enough knowledge by now. He should have found a way to the Night Court over the past week, but he was too focused on those last nights with Vassa which have turned out, now, not to be so finally over after all. “I’m sure that’s why they asked for Vassa. And if Elain was sent to your court, I think that matchmaking is once again the most likely answer.”

Tamlin snorts. “There will be hell to pay when Rhysand finds out you’ve rejected Elain.”

There’s a rustle in the trees and Lucien whirls toward it, his knives in his hands. Nobody appears. Since Amarantha arrived in Prythian, he’s stopped trusting these woods.

“Who is patrolling your borders?” Lucien asks. He hadn’t spotted anyone when he and Vassa approached yesterday, but Tamlin’s sentries know these forests, would surely have been warned about the firebird.

“I keep my lands safe.” His voice is gruff, tight, the pride and shame braided together.

“The army you raised--”

“The people of these lands feared Hybern more than they hated me. Once peace was assured, they went back to their homes.”

“Perhaps a visit from their High Lord would convince them.”

“A High Lord who could offer them what, exactly?”

All at once, Lucien is exhausted with this self-loathing.

“Your people will not love you overmuch when the Autumn Court storms your lands, or if a force from the continent invades. Without a wall, your lands are exposed for the taking.”

“There are tales of the beast who roams these lands.”

“Everyone knows that beast is you, Tamlin.”

A surge of power in the air around them, sharp-toothed. Far away, Lucien hears the beat of wings on water, knows that Vassa felt it.

As he always has, Lucien holds still until Tamlin’s temper ebbs. He imagines what it must be, to feel you’ve had everything you wanted and then have it pulled away. To have been held, Under the Mountain, the principal subject of Amarantha’s poisoned regard.

But this time, Lucien does not feel his own anger melt away. What happens if Vassa is captured, or Elain? Each would command a hefty ransom. Elain could drive the lands to war; he’s still puzzled by her powers but can only conclude that they are mighty and dangerous, if it’s anything like the magic her sisters command. But it’s the image of Vassa, back in Koschei’s clutches, which tears at Lucien’s heart, drives him forward.

“I would help you raise the troops,” he says, the force in his voice a surprise even to himself. “Elain and Vassa could be trusted to rouse support. Your people will remember their roles in the war with Hybern. With a little kindness and a little pleading and ample compensation, all of which are seemingly too much for you, they could even be persuaded to remember the way you double-crossed the king of Hybern and joined the battle at a crucial moment. They can still be rallied, should the High Lord care enough. But you have given up on these people and these lands. You think that once your enemies have slaughtered you, then it will only be oblivion and peace, and that might be true in your own experience, but you forget the fact that when your lands are overrun, it will be your people who suffer day by day. They know this already even if you refuse to acknowledge reality. And so they will not mourn you when your lands are seized and you yourself are killed prowling your imagined borders. You will not be worth a single tear.”

Tamlin’s eyes are wide, and before the anger can burn in them, Lucien stalks off in the direction of the lake.

Behind him, the forest is silent.