#and that being merely told about how harmful and uncomfortable it is for them to continue on using them while ignoring what black

[tariah23]

Hi I hope this question makes sense but how would I call out friends use of what might be aave? Im worried about being wrong and it not being aave/sounding like a white knight but I dont want to ignore it.

Hi! And no, you’re fine. If you’re not black, it’s always best to look up terms and listen to what black people say to begin with, that’s the most important thing and if you’ve seen black people talk about a specific term that you might recognize as being aave, simply let your friends know that they shouldn’t really be using such terms in the first place since at this point, viewed as antiblack and micro aggressive because Black people have grown tired of having to talk about this same problem over and over again. Especially when they use such terms directed at Black people. If they continue to use the terms despite being told not to, then you already know what they are.

[n0tamused]

Hi!! Can I request Jiyan from Wuwa with a scary reader? I mean, the other Midnight Rangers might be scared of the reader because of her/his constant smile in ABSOLUTELY any situation.

Contents: Jiyan x GN reader, fluff and a bit of crack ig, hopefully Jiyan is not ooc, lemme know about that

Words: 705

I also have a Ko-Fi now!

The midnight rangers were known for their bravery and resolve, qualities that seems to have been further strengthened when Jiyan ascended to the position of General. It was one thing to boast about the ability to face an enemy, and a whole different matter to stand in front of the aforementioned foe, weapon in hand and ready to strike, risking your very life for the safety of another. Yet, Jiyan found it odd how his soldiers seemed to tremble in your mere presence. They could be chatting, laughing and jesting or even arguing, but once one of them spots you prowling close it is as if all of them begin to share a mind and instinct. As if silence would make them invisible. To them it was scary, although they respected you it was more of a relief that you were on their side and not on the other end of the battlefield; but to Jiyan he couldn’t find anything else but puzzling amusement. He knew you better than them, however, so perhaps he was being unfair to them.

He told you and advised you various times to show at least some ‘mercy’, as he called it, to the fellow soldiers, but that mercy seemed even more frightening when you tried to show it. What you thought was a genuine and reassuring smile often was taken as a looming threat, and at times a brave soul or two would boldly approach you to question whether they had given you offense and if they could make it right. So many attempts were made on your end, as well as Jiyan’s, to soften your image, but that only seems to have had the opposite effect. 

“You still frighten them..” Jiyan muttered, humor lacing his words as he sat at your side, a bowl of some brown and green vegetable stew held between his large hands, the long dragon nail on one of his fingers tapping against the bowl. You could only scoff lightly, your mouth full of the broth and mushy vegetables, but you’ve grown used to the taste by now.

“I did what I could to alleviate this…fear. You know this. I’ve done what I could, but honestly it is not that it bothers me, but it does puzzle me.. I joined the Rangers later, yet there are soldiers ages my senior that fear me. Have they not seen battle?” you muse aloud, feeling comfortable in the General’s presence to speak freely. It wouldn’t be the first time you both gossiped like this. 

“They have,” he replied, scooping a spoonful of the stew into his mouth. 

“They haven’t seen you hurting, nor have they heard you scream, only bark commands and appear like a shadow behind them” he chuckled, “I would be a bit on edge around you too were I in their place. You should be more social with them, offer them aid”

“As if I haven’t already-”

“I meant off the field. You taught them not to fear in battle. They have never seen you tender and fearful when a firework goes off like I have - if they saw you behave more human, I’m sure it would melt their fear”

You could only scoff and indulge in your broth, having found no disagreement in your head even if you wanted to challenge him on the matter. Why should you show fear? For their own comfort to see you more of a person? You understood it, yet felt uncomfortable to do it. It did not feel right.

“Maybe one day, Jiyan, one day. But that won’t be today or tomorrow. Maybe in a year.. or a few, but not today” you let yourself smile when Jiyan looked at you long, noticing the small quirk in his brows. “What, what are you going to do?” you question him, lowering the bowl down in your hands as you gaze at him, daring for him to try and go against your stubborn self. There was no harm in it, he knew, and you’d never done anything to hurt the troops, and you were jesting in the end, so he only shook his head and stuffed his mouth full of more of the broth to spare himself a scolding. 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[irisbaggins]

This episode, and the topic of rage and anger is oddly topical for me today. Specifically, another fellow student and I discussed our ADHD, and how we both, independently, sometimes trigger anger/rage on purpose to help us finish tasks. How, whilst we both don't like being angry and the loss of control that sometimes follows, it's an incredibly motivating emotion that's really useful sometimes. Especially in academic settings, when you have to sit down and write yet your brain refuses to do it. We both have done the same thing; engaged in an environment that will purposefully trigger a rage so we can be productive. Anger and rage, when utilised productively, can be an incredible motivator.

And to bring this over to Junior Year, I find Porter's speech to Gorgug in this episode (Vulture Clash) to be true. It rang incredibly true for me. Rage feels good, sometimes, but it's an incredibly useful emotion in certain situations. Yes, it can be a detriment in some, but others? It can be productive, helpful, motivating. It's also why, I think, we see such a shift in Porter's attitude as well; he was pushing Gorgug. Specifically, attempting to make Gorgug stand up for himself. The first scene in Freshman Year that occurs on campus grounds is of Gorgug being mistreated, and apologising for standing up for himself. Gorgug has a habit of trivialising the harm done to him, and of never protecting himself. By consistently attempting to needle Gorgug, Porter was - in a rather fucked up way, admittedly - attempting to challenge that part of Gorgug, to get him to fight back.

Porter, whilst being a Barbarian and loving his rage, also seems to understand what that emotions truly means. He's a multiclass! He has spells, he has things that would clash with rage! So, to hear him speak of rage as a tool, as something that can be good, when aimed at a target, it makes sense. Especially when he finally gets Gorgug to admit why he's uncomfortable with his rage.

As someone who has struggled with anger and rage their whole life, I find myself often uncomfortable with it. I see so much of myself in Gorgug and his relationship with anger, which makes this episode so important to me. Especially when I had a conversation about rage and its utility mere hours earlier. Gorgug was scared of his anger, specifically what he lost by giving into it. By being in a rage, Gorgug can't cast spells, can't help his friends protect themselves with magic or gadgets. He would only be able to protect them with his body, which has failed him before. He couldn't find the usefulness of rage, until he did. Until he was pushed into anger through the events that happened at the Fair, until he let himself be angry about Porter's treatment of him. And then, he's told that it's okay to be angry, that it's okay for him to be angry at the way he's treated. It's okay for him to be angry. Anger can be useful, but also, sometimes it's nice to be angry.

However, anger should not be your only emotion. Porter signed the MCAT, which was not only a promise he made, but I believe also a reminder of the fact. Porter approved of the Artificer classes, meaning Gorgug can multiclass into Artificer. A class he cannot - currently - use rage in. Rage is useful, another tool. Now, Gorgug needs to find the balance that is required of him.

And I for one cannot wait to see where this goes.

[avesomnia-inhoramortis]

Headcanons: Trina and Miquella

These two are complicated and their relationship will probably evolve as I write them. However, I do have some baseline points I'm following, so let's compile those.

I'm basing a lot of how they function on DID, with a fantasy/eldritch twist. The "original" personality was Miquella. That individual then split into two, who identify themselves as Miquella and Trina. Neither of them is the whole of who they were, and Trina was not something added to the original, but something developed from him.

In essence, mitosis happened. One half of them just insists that he's the original.

While both of them can be kind of childish, Miquella functions on a heavy dose of parentification trauma and Trina genuinely likes being a kid, so they clash pretty harshly sometimes. All of the original's desire to be cuddled and dependent on others got funneled off into Trina, while Miquella wants others to be dependent on him, partially as a reaction to Marika's neglect and the fact that no one else gave a damn about Malenia. Trina wants to rest, Miquella can't sit down because if he's sitting down he's not doing his utmost to save his sister.

As such, while they do understand and love eachother to an extent (because how can you not love someone who knows every terrible thing you've seen and done, who understands you, who Gets It) they also just fundamentally disagree on how a lot of things should be done. Miquella in particular has the stronger, more ambitious personality of the two, and he tends to make rules for Trina that she can't make in return.

Trina is more emotional, more impulsive, cries easily and trusts quickly in a way that deeply unnerves Miquella, who has an entire secret city and machinations against the gods to keep away from prying eyes. He's not sure how she could be used against him, and he doesn't want to find out. Similarly, Trina loves Miquella and Malenia and would never wish them harm, so it was fairly easy to get her to agree to keep their connection a secret.

The Haligtree has no shrines to her, the royal quarters of Elphael have nothing that belongs to her. She assisted Miquella in guiding pilgrims to the Haligtree, because dreams were the easiest and subtlest way he could think of to get the word out, so she does have worshippers there who carry her lily and some perfumers who combat the Rot in her name. But there are no official structures and Miquella tacitly allows her worship to be a private affair.

Particularly in the early years of existing as two-in-one, Trina would accidentally front and take over their shared body if something triggered her forward. Usually Malenia. This freaked Miquella out beyond words and the second they figured out how to mostly control it, he told Trina it made him uncomfortable, and she did her best to never use their body again. It is not a healthy dynamic for either of them.

The very few people who theorize about Miquella and Trina being the same person can occasionally be traced back to those in Elphael who've seen his eyes turn purple. Most of those incidents were covered up- both Miquella and Trina have the ability to alter memories. For what couldn't be covered up, Miquella took credit and said Trina was merely another name he used sometimes.

Since they're an Empyrean, though, she managed to figure out how to leave their body and wander dreams. As long as she leaves no hints as to who she really is, thus putting them in danger, Miquella really prefers that she be Out There and Away somewhere, though sometimes he asks for a favor. Usually guiding pilgrims with dream-messages, occasionally spying. She's happy to help, especially since she wants to be of some use to him.

Trina knows Miquella is an Empyrean, a god-vessel, but he hasn't fully realized that Trina is a nascent god. He's slightly worried about his claim as an Empyrean with her in the picture, actually, since all the other Empyreans he knows are female. It's one of many reasons he encourages her to hide.

Miquella means well, for Malenia and the world in general, but if he's outright cruel to anyone it's definitely himself. If it becomes necessary he will absolutely destroy Trina, but for now her presence is at least somewhat an advantage and he's not sure what would happen if he did that.

Trina, for her part, cannot even fathom the idea that he would seriously hurt her.

[spectrechosts]

Better Off Alone - Chapter 3

What does our princess' fair knight think of all this?

Full Series

The first thing that troubled Kallixenia about living in the Elven kingdom was how small everything was.

Knowing that in common language you're called a half-giant is one thing, but when you spend all your time surrounded by half-giants in buildings made by half-giants using things made for half-giants, you don't think about it. It's just an idea, that everything that is normal to you is in fact very large from a completely different viewpoint. That you're an outlier. Sure, you see dwarves all the time up in the mountains, but everyone says dwarves are small. That's a normal size for them to be.

Apparently when other people called them small, they only somewhat meant it.

It wasn't unbearable, she didn't have to slouch to fit indoors like she did in dwarven buildings, but it was still weird. She stuck out of crowds, everything felt delicate in her hands, her feet hung off her bed.

She had gone from a world where some things were giant and some things were small, to one where everything was normal and she wasn't.

But this was merely uncomfortable. It was the second thing that would be her undoing.

The second thing, of course, being that she was becoming personally entangled with her charge.

She hadn't known much about Princess Lunaeris when she was called upon to guard her. Only some… unkind rumors about the type of girl she was. All anyone knew was that she rarely left the castle and the king was having trouble finding someone to marry her, but people loved to speculate.

None of that mattered to her. She would carry out her duty, even if that was to guard some kind of… unpleasant spinster witch.

This was all wrong, of course. She was perfectly pleasant, she was not to Kallixenia's knowledge a witch, and a spinster was right out; She was a year older than the princess and if she was meant to be married by now nobody had told her.

No, Lunaeris was an adorable, clever, unhappy girl.

It was 'unhappy' that did her in. Anyone could deal with being bound to someone they found attractive, take a cold bath and recite your prayers and don't think about it, but Kallixenia couldn't just not help someone who was hurting.

She had noticed, rather quickly, the gap between Lunaeris the princess and Lunaeris the person. There was a Lunaeris who did as she was told, who upheld her duties to the kingdom, who politely nodded along to everything the king said with a practiced smile. The other, she had only seen hints of at first. The meandering responses to the king's summons, the weary exhalations when leaving his company, the polite but insistent prodding at any constraint placed upon her. There was something bothering the princess that either no one else saw or no one else wanted to see.

So Kallixenia overstepped. She found out what was wrong, and she offered her help, and now she was ruined. She had met the real Lunaeris, the one that only she saw, the one who raged against her fate with a zeal that made the knight believe she could actually change it. They were co-conspirators now, they shared something between just the two of them and it drew their hearts inexorably together.

"Kaallieee~"

The Princess had become unfittingly friendly in the weeks since their talk in her room, and now they were going on a trip, together, alone, and that friendliness felt dangerous. She was sworn to ensure no harm befell the princess. Backing off now would leave her alone in her misery, which had obviously been killing her inside. Allowing the Princess closer was naive at best. She had no business consorting with a princess, and even if she did it was a distraction she couldn't afford. She had to remain vigilant.

"Princess."

Nothing good comes from getting friendly with your charge. Kallixenia was the Princess' sword and shield, not her friend, certainly not anything more that she was daydreaming about off-duty.

"Psh, I have a name, Kallie. It's just us out here! No need to be all stuffy." Lunaeris teased.

Kallixenia didn't like to swear, but she was screwed. The King would have her executed and then her remains would be sent back home to be put on display in the temple as a warning to all the adepts of what happens when you fail to remain disciplined in your duty. Good paladins who don't pry don't end up in these emotional minefields.

"…Tell me more about this journey we're on, Princess." She deflected.

"There isn't much to tell, my knight." Lunaeris said, rolling her eyes. "We keep riding until a little past nightfall, when we'll arrive at my teacher's tower. I will demonstrate trivial parlor tricks, the old coot will clap for me as if I am an excitable toddler, we sleep there and return in the morning."

This explanation was significantly more bitter than the one Kallixenia had gotten at the palace.

"You are dissatisfied with his teachings?" She asked, unable to stop herself from becoming involved in problems it wasn't her job to solve.

"I am above his teachings." The Princess scoffed. "A child could perform the spells he has me practicing, and I know because I was that child. More than a decade of study and he still thinks that anything more would fry my delicate princess brain."

"I see. But you have to keep going?"

"I don't have to, but it's not as if I'm busy. Besides, ancient wizards like him practically shit arcane knowledge-"

"Princess!"

"-and so I learn what I can from these visits." The Princess tilted her head and grinned mischievously. "Does it bother you when I swear, my knight?"

"Of- Of course not, Princess." The knight said. It didn't bother her per se, and she knew that the Princess would hate to be scolded about impropriety.

But it was quite scandalous.

"Goood." The princess cooed. "I would hate to behave improperly around my knight."

Kallixenia disliked how she kept emphasizing that. Had she upset her?

"I-"

"FUCK!" Shouted the Princess, causing birds to flee the trees around them.

"Wh- Princess!"

"SHIT ASS DAMN!!"

It was truly astonishing how loudly such a tiny woman could shout obscenities.

"Princess, someone will hear-"

"PISS COCKS CUNT BITCH!!!"

"Princess Lunaeris!" Kallixenia hissed, her face beet red.

"Hm? Yes Kallie?" Lunaeris said, as if nothing at all had happened.

"If you're quite satisfied, my lady, I would advise against continuing to advertise our presence to the entire forest."

"Your lady?" She said, cocking an eyebrow.

Kallixenia groaned.

"Princess I will refrain from telling you how to speak, I ask that you extend to me the same kindness."

"Hmmmm."

"Please understand that the consequences for impropriety on my part could be severe. If I must get on the King's bad side, let it be for something more important than this, Princess."

"I suppose I can understand that." The Princess relented. "Although, I'm quite interested in what else you think we're going to do that would piss off my father."

"I… can't think of anything in particular, Princess." The paladin lied.

"I can! Would you like to hear?"

She was thankfully cut off when an arrow thunked into the trunk of a tree beside them.

Above them. Too high. Meant to miss.

"My, dangerous thing that. Could've hurt-"

The two of them were off like a shot before the man stepping out of the woods could finish his threat.

Kallixenia had made it quite clear that in the event they were attacked, the Princess was to run. The woods along the road were too dense to traverse on horseback, they would simply outpace them and be out of danger shortly. The Princess' light steed was faster than her bulky warhorse, she was gaining distance-

Until she was stopped short by a rope suddenly pulled taut across the road. The Princess was thrown off her horse's back as it crumpled to the ground. One of her 'parlor tricks' was apparently to catch herself before hitting the ground, thank the gods, but the horse was less lucky.

Kallixenia spurred her own horse to jump the rope, than leapt off its back. It kept galloping without her as she landed and unsheathed her sword in one smooth motion.

She would have to fight.

"Well that's just rude!" Came another voice from the treeline. "Man back there was talkin' to you. Now look what's happened, isn't that a sad sight. Poor, poor Princess."

There was the man emerging from the trees now, the one talking before, the archer that had fired the warning shot, plus an unknown amount of others. The Princess was on the ground stroking her steed's mane as it squealed in agony. They had made it maybe 100 meters away from the initial ambush, the bandits would remain split for mere moments, she had to act now.

The man speaking to them drew a dagger from his belt and walked into the road.

"Now I'm gonna tell you the same thing 'e would've-"

The knight's wings propelled her forward far faster than he could react. She brought the haft of her bastard sword up and drove the point through him, sinking the blade deep into his chest. She planted her boot on his ribcage and wrenched the sword free, a spurt of blood spattering the ground in front of him as she retreated to stand over the Princess.

"Princess we have to move, if there are more archers-"

A glint in the trees. She spun to put her shield between it and the princess, extending her wing to protect her from the other side. Arrows clinked off the barrier in quick succession.

"I cannot dispatch the archers and protect you from them."

"Lower your shield." The Princess ordered.

"Princess-"

"Do it!"

The paladin did as commanded, and the elf gathered power in her palm and summoned a bolt of fire that streaked into the trees and exploded in a searing blast.

"Parlor tricks, Princess?" She said, dumbfounded, as the flaming forms of two brigands fell from their perch.

"Like I said, I learn what I can." Lunaeris said smugly. "Other side."

Kallixenia retracted her wing, and the Princess fired another flaming bolt into woods, catching another archer.

The initial ambusher, who had been approaching them with his own dagger drawn, seemed to think better of it and disappear back into the woods. Kallixenia stood over the Princess with her shield and wing out until several moments had passed with no further movement.

"We shouldn't linger." She said, sheathing her sword and whistling for her steed. "Can you mend your horse's leg?"

Lunaeris dug into her saddlebag and drew out a potion, then poured it gently into her steed's mouth. The creature rose to its feet slowly and took a few cautious steps.

"She should be fine." Said the Princess. "But I'd rather not push her. May I ride with you?"

"…Of course, Princess."

The knight's steed trotted up to her, and she patted it on the head gently.

"Oh!" Squeaked Lunaeris. "You're hurt!"

"I am?"

The Princess rushed up to her and took hold of the wing she had used as a shield. An arrow had pierced it, and was stuck halfway through.

"Oh!" She said, surprised. "I-I hadn't even noticed. Let me just-"

She grabbed the point of the arrow and yanked it through, grunting in pain.

"Kallie!"

"It's okay, Princess. Watch."

Lunaeris watched as the hole in Kallixenia's wing was knitted in with a soft glow, which faded out to reveal the wing was as good as new.

"See? I'm fine, I'm okay." The half-giant reassured her.

"Oh." The Princess said, stunned. She ran her fingers across where the wound had been, gently brushing the soft feathers. It felt… nice. Kallixenia didn't want her to stop.

Her cheeks reddened and she cleared her throat.

"We should get going." She said, climbing onto her horse and offering her hand to help Lunaeris up.

"Y-Yes, of course."

The Princess took her hand and pulled herself up, sitting in front of her knight.

Ah.

That was of course the right move. With her seated in front they could both see ahead and she would be able to protect her much more easily.

It was only a problem because Kallixenia was an awful, awful excuse for a paladin. The Princess relaxed into her chest as they got moving again, and her heart raced. She wanted to hold her tight and never let go, she was just so small and cute and she smelled like flowers and-

"We fight well together, I think." Said the Princess, idly. "We should do it more often!"

"We most certainly should not!" Kallixenia protested. "My duty is to keep you safe, Princess!"

"I felt very safe." Lunaeris purred. "You really are quite impressive, do you know that?"

The knight's neck tingled with embarrassment. "I'm merely fulfilling my duty, Princess." She said.

"I mean it!" She continued. "Running that bandit through like it was nothing, shielding me with your own body, you were amazing!"

"T-Truly, I-" Stammered the knight, flushed at the praise.

The Princess wrapped her arms around one of Kallixenia's wide biceps, and her face went a deep crimson.

"A girl could get used to that kind of treatment, you know?" She murmured, nuzzling into her arm.

The paladin didn't know what to do. Flirting with the princess was obviously unacceptable, but what do you do when the princess is-

Well, she-

She was flirting! There was no avoiding it! Nobody warns you about the Princess being the one flirting, it's all about how you have to be professional and disciplined!

And who was she to- to tell a Princess not to do something? That would be, it would be insubordinate.

She wouldn't flirt back, of course, that would be unacceptable, but-

But she could just-

Accept? The, the compliments, and-

And that was fine, on her part, right?

She would never, she could never dream to-

But accepting a compliment was just polite conversation! She wasn't-

And-

And who would even know?

"You… are truly too kind, Princess. I'm happy to be of service."

The rest of their journey was uneventful, and Lunaeris remained attached to her arm until they reached their destination.

~

The Princess' mentor was perhaps even older and more decrepit than she had made him sound, and seeing as he was both an elf and a powerful wizard, he must have been unimaginably more ancient still than he appeared.

He watched intently as Lunaeris performed an array of minor spells; She effortlessly brought every candle in the room to life with a wave of her hand, repaired a broken chair leg with a gesture, dispelled dust from the bookshelves, animated a broom to-

She was cleaning the library. He was making the Princess clean his library. Kallixenia could strangle the old fart.

"Very good Princess!" The wizard exclaimed, clapping condescendingly as the princess had said he would.

"Do you think so, teacher?" Lunaeris said, wide eyed and sickeningly sweet.

He really must have thought quite little of her to be convinced by this facade. Kallixenia found herself disliking this wizard greatly.

"Oh yes, you're showing quite a grasp on the fundamentals, keep practicing those spells and I'll make a fine apprentice of you yet!" Her teacher said. "Now, it's getting quite late and you've had a long journey, why don't you retire to your chambers and we can continue in the morning?"

"Of course, goodnight teacher." The Princess said, curtsying and excusing herself from the scene.

"As for you-"

The tiny old man was right next to Kallixenia in the blink of an eye, and she jumped and gripped the pommel of her sword tightly.

"-The guards quarters are down that hall. You can take your pick, she usually brings a whole retinue with her. I hope you didn't have any trouble on the road, just the two of you?"

The knight relaxed her grip.

"We were ambushed by thieves, but we're fine." She said.

"Thieves! My, they seem to be everywhere nowadays. I keep finding things missing around here, I have half a mind to hire guards of my own!"

"I'll be sure to keep an eye out. Goodnight sir." Kallixenia said, and with that the wizard vanished.

She picked out a room and stashed her gear, settling into bed with her sword held tightly to her chest. The events of the day weighed on her.

It had been nice, it had been so nice, to be wanted, to be held, but it wasn't right. Was it?

She had to put a stop to it. She was her guard, it wasn't her place, it would interfere with her duties.

She was her sword and shield, nothing else. No matter what she wanted, no matter what the Princess wanted.

Next time they spoke she would put her foot down.

Even if it hurt.

~

Kallixenia awoke to a noise from down the hall.

She got out of bed and stalked as silently as she could to the library doors. Someone was in there, she could hear them.

She burst through the door, sword drawn, and spotted the thief perusing the bookshelves.

She sheathed her blade and crossed her arms.

"Princess." She said, annoyance slipping through her mask of professionalism.

"Yes, my loyal knight?" The Princess said, plucking a book from the shelves and stashing it in her pack.

"You're the one stealing from the wizard."

"I'm borrowing from the wizard. It's a library, you're meant to borrow."

"He's under the impression someone's stealing from him."

"I bring the books back when I'm done, ask him in the morning what he thinks has gone missing and I promise you he'll miraculously find it right where it should be. Hell, I bet I never even took half of it, the senile old bastard just forgot where it was."

The Princess struggled to reach a tome on a high shelf, and against her better judgement Kallixenia grabbed it for her.

"Ooh, watch the paladin steal." She taunted, and her knight huffed.

"Bound to you above all else, Princess. You know that."

"Bound to protect me, not steal for me. Somebody's going above and beyond the call of duty."

"…About that, Princess-"

"Not that I mind or anything!" Lunaeris interrupted. "It's nice having someone who, who cares about me beyond it just being their duty to care. Before you came along it felt like I was a title and nothing else."

She paused, and her long ears drooped.

"Nobody likes Lunaeris, they like the concept of a princess. It's… I know my problems must seem so petty, but you'd never believe how lonely it can feel." She shook her head, and turned to Kallixenia with a smile back on her face. "Anyway, what was it you were going to say?"

"It's, uh. I-"

She couldn't do it. She wanted to be a good paladin, truly, but this wasn't for the sake of her own selfish desires!

The gods would understand if she got just a little close with the Princess.

Just to ease her burdens.

"-I just wanted to make sure you were okay with it, Princess. I do not wish to overstep."

"Of course!" The Princess replied, a tiny smirk on her lips. "I wouldn't mind you overstepping a bit more, if you so desired."

Kallixenia swallowed hard.

She was so, so, so screwed.

[sojourners-melancholy]

something i’ve noticed recently when watching rgu is that everyone has their own way of perpetuating the systems that hurts them, regardless of whether or not they hate the system itself. specifically wanna talk abt utena here.

throughout the show, the audience is constantly told that the student council’s main goal is to “break the world’s shell” in order to “revolutionize the world.” but what is that really? what is the system that prevents them from “truly being born?”

patriarchy. the answer is patriarchy, aka the world’s shell. and while it might’ve been needed in the past in order to survive, it’s not only not needed now, but will effectively be its end if the world chooses to remain the same.

so why the duels? why the fancy swords and the rose bride? why is all the fighting centered around themes and ideals of masculinity? simple. no one’s got it yet.

no one actually knows what touga means when he refers to the shell, touga doesn’t even really know what he’s saying himself. that’s why it’s so cryptic. of course, the student council definitely understands that there is a specific hurdle keeping them achieving self-actualization, but they don’t exactly know what that is. as a result, they end up aimlessly fighting duels with each other and trying to achieve that perfect ideal of masculinity instead. it’s a lot like how a lot of people (used to?) think that achieving the american dream was the way to escape the exhaustiveness and monotony of capitalism. or how red-pill right-wing podcasters think that becoming a billionaire is the way to “escape the matrix.” but it’s not. if anything, it’s just another way to perpetuate the system.

so where does utena factor into all this? lets go back the beginning.

utena was introduced as tomboyish girl; someone trying to chase the ideals of masculinity, not through achieving femininity, but through becoming a figure of masculinity, a “prince” if you will. so even though she’s not adhering to the expected gender norms per se, she is still trying to fit herself into the system of patriarchy via masculinity.

regardless of her feeling uncomfortable with the dueling/rose bride system, utena still participates in duels by using the sword of dios, the imagined ideal of masculinity, to fight and defeat her opponents in the duels. she still continues to perpetuate the system of patriarchy that she has seen anthy, nanami, wakaba, as well as all the members in the student council, get hurt by. ofc, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t fight back against the dueling/rose bride system; utena still actively tries to view anthy as a person and not just a trophy to be won, another cog in the system.

and ofc this is the same with everyone else as well. i just wanted to make a post specifically about utena bc as the protag, the audience expects her to be different, to have done no wrong (in a sense) because she is noticeably different and as a result is seen as the hero. but rgu isn’t a story about a do-gooder trying to defeat the forces of evil. it’s about someone being pushed to realize the horrors of living in such a pervasive and oppressive system. it’s about someone being trapped in a never ending cycle of hurt and pain that they feel like they have no choice but to perpetuate it in order to break out of it. it’s about realizing that no matter which ideal of gender you choose to abide by, you will eventually be harmed by it in the end.

and utena finally realizes this in the finale. after failing to match that ideal of masculinity that she’s chased for so long, after being backstabbed by the only other person who could’ve understood her struggles as her complete opposite (in regards to the system). she cannot fulfill the role of a prince. no one can.

because in truth, true masculinity—in regards to princehood—is dead. dead in the sense that it’s unattainable, that it is only a mere concept, that it isn’t needed anymore. there is nothing that exists to keep it alive. and in return, it will also bring death to everyone who chooses to abide by its principles.

[ineffectualdemon]

I am pro mental autonomy

People with mental illnesses deserve to have control over their mental health care and that includes whether or not they seek treatment or medication

By this I mean being openly mentally ill shouldn't be stigmatised against or forced treatment on if no one else is being harmed. Even if they make other people uncomfortable because discomfort is not harm

The rare instances where mental illness can contribute to harm against others is a complex matter and even then they should have a say in their treatment

And I say this as someone who has been situations where someone else's mental health has made me fear for my safety/life

But I have also been in many more situations where someone else's mental health made me uncomfortable. And I can tell you the way the people who merely made me uncomfy were treated by society was disgusting

(for the record I tried not to show my discomfort and either help or ignore them depending on the situation, my age, and what I felt was more appropriate at the time)

This is all to say I am against forcing treatment

That being said I am also really pissed off that the metric of who receives treatment is based solely off if they make other people uncomfortable/pose an obvious risk to themselves

I cannot tell you all the harm my religious delusions caused as a young person and why I have had to fight to find my own ways to protect myself. The distilled version is it drove me to self harm both physically and mentally and it would have gotten worse. There were times I was close to cutting my hands to mimic the stigmata and the only reason I didn't was because I was sure it would start on its own. I understood why people in the past had whipped themselves bloody in the name of God

I was in it deep

And I don't think anyone I lived with or knew knew about this at the time because a symptom of my delusions is that I can't tell people or bad things happen. Extreme secrecy is a by product of my delusions. And the religious delusions are only one of my delusions

I figured this out during a clear period in my early twenties and that's when I became someone known for oversharing. Because if I didn't have secrets I couldn't create elaborate realities in the same way. It hasn't ended the delusions but it has kept me safer and away from certain things but I know how easily I fall back into old delusions. I know religious delusions are just lying under the surface. Hell I listened to a song last year that had a Christian message and that alone very nearly pulled me back in. I had to stop myself from listening to it and it was difficult*

But I am not obviously mentally ill to most people. I don't show my symptoms very much because of the extreme secrecy part of it and generally other people aren't uncomfortable around me due to my delusions because they don't know about them

So when I went to the doctor during a lucid period and said "I have these issues and they cause me this kind of harm and I need help" and because I wasn't actively and obviously delusional in the moment and I was not making anyone else uncomfortable I was told "those aren't delusions" and denied treatment for them

Same for my hallucinations. Who cares if it scares me and keeps me from sleeping if I know they weren't real by the time I talked to a doctor and it didn't bother other people around me

I only ended up on an anti-psychotic and got therapy by emphasising my mood swings...you know. The thing that bothers other people

I'm off my anti-psychotic now for many reasons and the only reason I'm doing okay is because my in-laws paid for a private therapist for a year who actually believed me and helped me with my delusions and hallucinations

I am just so angry that people get treatment they don't want forced on them because other people find them a bother and people who want treatment can't get it because they aren't enough of a bother to other people

*and I was only able to do it because of my last therapist

[orecana]

Their hopeless fate

Na jaemin x male reader x lee jeno

Warning: mentions of torture, slight angst, mentions of bullying (jeno and jaemin), character deaths (not these three), slight horror.

Hello everyone! I'm back with another fic. Once again I hope you guys like this fic as well and thank you to anyone who read and support my stories. Love you all!

this fic contains boy's love and polyamorous relationship (multiple partners relationships) if you are uncomfortable with that, please see yourself out I won't hesitate to block or report you if I see any harmful words directed towards me or my works which I don't appreciate.

They were the most well known in the city.

Being born from the most wealthiest families, jaemin and jeno were what you would call egotistic rich kids. They would mock others that are below them. They would go as far as threatening them if they don't do what they are told to do.

They always wanted to go and face the unknown so they only need to ask their families so that they will allow them to go. Their families did allow them but on one condition that they bring a priest from the temple to help them.

Jeno and jaemin were mad. They didn't need some priest or priestess from the temple to help them. They can handle their own.

But when they got out of their homes equipped with their gears to start their adventures, they were met with a boy similar to their age waiting at the front gate.

Y/n l/n was his name and he was the priest that was supposed to accompany them.

Jeno looked at him and notice his quite normal clothing. His face grimaced. "Was he supposed to travel with a commoner?"

Jaemin on the other hand was fuming on the inside. How dare such a mere apprentice priest accompany them, his parents have lost their minds!

Still nothing could be changed so they let him go with them.

Y/n was shy, that's what they picked up from their 15 minutes walk outside the city gates. He doesn't talk to them until he is spoken to and even then he will only mutter a word or two, which also annoyed jeno because he doesn't like it when people ignore him.

Jaemin was getting impatient. He heard that the forest was surrounded by monsters but then where are they? They've been walking around the forest for the past 30 minutes.

He was about to scream in anger when y/n stops in his tracks.

They're here...

Suddenly wolves and slimes came out of the bushes in front of them and attacked.

Luckily, jeno got in front just in time to shield them from the attacks while jaemin uses his claymore to kill all of the wolves in their way.

Y/n tries to help them by healing their injuries and inflict debuffs on the wolves and slimes such as moving slower or rendering them blind.

Soon enough, they managed to defeat the large amount of monsters in the area. Y/n decided to check both of the older boys just to make sure they don't have any injuries. once he was finished and they have rested well enough, they move forward.

But just as they move through the forest into the mystical woodland, they were stopped by the elves. They told the crew that the area is contaminated by evil at the moment and that traveler should go away and find safety.

Jeno and jaemin however find this to be a way to make their adventure more exciting and decide to help the elves vanquish the evil.

The elves looked skeptical, wondering if these two humans are strong or not until they see Y/n.

While normal life forms can't see it, but other life forms can. Y/n was wearing shorts with knee high socks that holds very powerful daggers. The aura that it carries made the elves know that these humans are trustworthy and decides to let them go forward.

The three humans follow the elves to a clearing which holds the elf leader. He was absolutely pretty as an elf. Jeno and jaemin were practically head over heels over the elf leader and tries to bluntly flirt with him. Huang renjun, which was his name was not amused and demanded that they go deal with the unnatural causes at once.

However because the woodland needed the power of renjun in order to stabilize it, he journeyed with them to the source of contamination. The handsome duo still tried to win the elf's heart, but he just show no interest in them. Y/n had to pull them back to stop them from embarrassing themselves.

They did find it, but in a sad way...

It was in one of the elf folks specifically renjun's sick mother. It was very heartbreaking for renjun to end his own mother's life. Y/n did try his best to cleanse the evil and restore her life back but it was no use.

After the peace have been restored to the mystical woodland, renjun secretly give a blessing to all three of them, to make sure they are safe. He also rejected jeno and jaemin's confession, saying that their fated partner is not him. They all look at y/n who was playing in a flower meadow with the younger elves. Y/n was really gifted with beauty.

They both pouts while walking back to the city, tired of their little adventure. They had fun and Y/n was also a helpful boy despite being so quiet and timid. When they reached the city, everyone had their eyes on them. They sweat at this, had something happened?

Y/n looks back and forth from the people to jeno and jaemin, finding out that they weren't looking at those two. They were looking at him. He looks down as the memories fills him. He broke the oath, that's why they're looking at him like that.

I'm sorry jeno.... Jaemin...

They barely have time to react before Y/n pulls them out of the city as the mobs of people follows them with weapons. Knowing that he no longer have to keep the priest act, he took out his daggers and starts throwing them at the mob, effectively killing them.

Quick! This way!

He pulls them into a hidden cave in the woods before covering their breaths.

Jeno: you better explain to us why we're being hunted down?!

Y/n: I really wanted to tell you guys but I couldn't find myself to.

Jaemin: just tell us what happened you little shit?

Y/n: they wanted to kill you! Are you happy?! They wanted me to subdue you guys and bring you back to the city so that they can execute you guys!

Both men were stunned by the revelations. They didn't knew that the city wanted them dead.

Jeno: wait what about our parents?

Y/n: they're even worse. They wanted to make you scream, torture you and skin you alive before executing you. Said that they hired me to get rid of them because the gods forbid people who have sinned.

Jaemin: they said that they accepted us, does that mean their love... Was fake all along?

Y/n: we can get pay back you know? You only need to hold my hand and let the power consume you..

Jeno and jaemin look at each other, their lives before, the happiness of always being on the top. None of that mattered anymore now that they know, their entire lives were a lie.

They look at each other and nod. They look at y/n who smile was like the radiant sun. They remembered what renjun said and smiled.

They hold y/n hands before jeno kisses y/n. They melted into the kiss as jaemin takes a turn, devouring y/n lip. The power inside them grows as the passionate make out continues causing the area around then to crumble.

Renjun feel the crumble and only smile.

Humans are truly foolish, I just feel sorry for them.

The trio went back into the city, only this time the mobs and people were afraid. The power of darkness inside each of them had granted them tremendous strength, able to destroy the whole city. They looked at the remains of the city before looking at each other. They smile at each other before sharing kisses together and venture forward once more into the unknown.

This story was then made into a legend for every town and city to know.

Any who does bad things or sinful things will be dead the next day. The last thing that the victims saw was the shiny tip of a dagger that quickly slash through their hearts.

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 54)

A very long wait for this next chapter, but it's here! And it's long! Big love to @noirshadow who listened to me moan about depression ruining my ability to write, how I might have to stop writing this fic, how I can't write Nessian anymore. BUT here we are and @noirshadow not only didn't kill me for my whining, but she also beta'd this fic for me so I could bring you a chapter before the new year :)

If anyone is still reading this fic, thank you for your patience! And drop in and say hello below so I know I'm not posting to tumbleweed, haha.

And for anybody who celebrates this time of year, I hope it's been a merry one <3

PS If, like me, you haven't read this fic recently, I'd recommend rereading chapter 53 as a refresher - I had to do it, too *face palm*

Chapter 54 Cassian

“And the Seer of the Sage was certain of Kallon’s intention?” 

Beside him, Nesta didn’t bristle at Rhys’ line of questioning, she merely raised her chin, commanding the space. If Cassian wasn’t so tense he would have been brimming with pride, but instead he remained seated on the U-shaped couch back in Windhaven and tucked in his wings a little tighter.

From where she stood behind him, Nesta’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. The gesture was like a language in itself, albeit a voiceless one. 

Cassian tried to relax, to loosen his shoulders and let out a slow, measured breath. 

It didn’t help.

It had been like this since he and Nesta had planned their next steps in the forest. With the threat of the Blood Rite looming over them, there was no dispute that it was imperative that they move quickly. The information Nesta had learnt beneath the Lake needed to be shared. Their family and friends needed to know about Kallon and Cassian—about Cassian’s mother—so they could stop the death of more females and the bonding of a Enalius’ sword to someone truly terrible.

And whilst common sense and years of formulating strategy told Cassian that the truth needed out, his whole chest ached at the thought of parting with information that felt sacred to him.

When Nesta had unfolded Cassian’s history before him, an uncomfortable mixture or emotions had coursed through Cassian: adrenaline and wonder - and an intense sadness that had both brought him to tears and made him angry at his mother’s fate. He longed for the time to truly process it all, for it all to truly sink in. And whilst Cassian was no fool—whilst the general inside of him couldn’t help but barrage him with the hard facts—it felt as if the choice was being ripped from him

Despite Cassian’s best efforts, the Rebellion was strengthening day-by-day amongst the savager clans. And just last week, Azriel’s spies had reported that Kallon’s Killing Power in the sparring ring continued to grow.

That in itself was of great concern. If the Prince managed to bond the sword to him at the top of Ramiel, there was no telling what power Kallon could wield against the Night Court. With the supposed support of Enalius behind him combined with the swelling anger of his Illyrian supporters, Kallon might finally be able to take that mighty, arrogant step forward and invoke a civil war. 

So, even though there was so much swilling around inside of Cassian’s head and inside of his gut, Cassian had done what any general would do. He’d opened his mind, reached out into the ether for his brother and called for an informal council back in Windhaven. And then, despite the elusive and ever-moving tangle of emotions, Cassian winnowed himself, Nesta and Sala back to the camp he’d grown up in.

They’d landed clumsily, stumbling and righting themselves atop the main dirt path that ran through the camp.

Illyrians whisked past them, giving them a wide birth when they realised exactly who they intended to mow over. It took Cassian a few seconds for his instincts to reestablish themselves, and then he was tugging Nesta off of the road and out of harm’s way.

Windhaven looked as it always did, both beautiful and harsh. The usual clash of steel rang around them, partnered with the clang of cast iron pots over campfires and the beating of wings. On both sides, past the war tents and the scarce wooden houses, were the walls of the craggy mountains. They staggered upwards, past the needles of the pine trees until they met the sky. 

To their right, against the rare clear blue, the tombstone rock that marked the old widows camp was a harsh foreboding of grey.

Cassian wondered how the weather dared to be so cheerful when he felt like the world had been ripped out from beneath his feet. 

“I’m not used to winnowing,” Cassian apologised, his words hoarse against the dryness in his throat. His head felt light-headed, as if he’d left some of the weight of it behind.

Nesta didn’t lift her eyes to him. Instead, she straightened, the column of her spine climbing, her shoulder rounding back until she was set in her usual formidable posture. Then, she tracked her gaze around the camp, cataloguing every movement despite the bright sunshine threatening to blind her vision.  

“We’re here,” Nesta replied simply. Her voice also sounded diaphanous, but whilst Cassian felt as if a part of him was still in the forest, he knew that Nesta was caught somewhere in the future. 

It had been that way since she’d arrived back from the Lake. There was a determination that had set inside of her, a clear direction in which she was resolutely headed.

But whilst Cassian could sense the drive inside of her, outwardly Nesta merely lifted a hand to create a makeshift canopy across her brow, blocking out the sunlight. “Go on ahead, Sala,” she commanded. “Let Mas know we’re coming.”

The manticore didn’t need telling twice. Sala vaulted into movement, the fire from her tail blazing silver, a disappearing beacon that Nesta and Cassian didn’t hesitate to track. 

They set a punishing pace. Clouds of steam billowed in front of them. The morning frost had long since thawed from the hardened earth and mud slicked and squelched at their boots. But finally the bungalow took shape against the mud and the rocks.

Home. They were home. And it looked so perfectly picturesque that Cassian’s throat burned. Because everything that was happening threatened to destroy it. His life, finally right, stacked as precariously as a house of cards. One breath of wind, one wrong turn, and it could all collapse in on itself.

That, Cassian supposed, was the problem with happiness. Ever fragile and transient. Slivers of time, fragments of moments, rather than something permanent and steady.

Cassian hadn’t realised he’d come to a standstill until Nesta said his name. “Look,” she said, but there was something imploring about the way she ordered him, as if she knew the direction of his thoughts and wanted to divert him from the truth of it.

And, because Cassian needed to be distracted, he looked.

Mas stood on the stone step at the front door. Her wings were held proudly behind her back, her thick, dark hair ruffled by the wind. Her grin was toothy and wide, her expression pleased. And at her feet, clinging to her legs, was Roksana. 

“Sinta,” Mas said in greeting as they climbed the few steps that staggered to the door. She clapped Cassian’s face between with her palms and peered into his face in a way that made his chest tighten, as if someone was fisting his heart. Hazel eyes skated over him and what Mas read in his expression had her recoiling slightly. Cassian could have sworn a light winked out in the depths of her irises. 

He knew he must look a state. Whilst his body had healed from his fall from the sky, he was still covered in mud and pine needles and only the Old Gods knew what else.  

For a few heartbeats, Mas just studied him. The concern on her face was indisputable, but in the end, all she said was the blatant truth. “You are tired.”

For a second—just a second—Cassian allowed his eyes to close. He leant into Mas’ touch. She had been his mother in so many ways, had loved him irrevocably, filling the empty space in his heart that longed to have someone care for him in the way mothers did. “Just a little,” he admitted, even if it was a lie. Now he’d had a moment to stop, his exhaustion was so weighted his limbs felt like lead. 

Understanding deepened in Mas’ expression. She stepped back slightly, giving him space. Her head tilted slightly to the side. She glanced sideways at Nesta and then back to him. “You have had bad news?”

“Some,” Cassian admitted, because he couldn’t begin to explain, not even to her. Not even to his brothers. 

But Mas didn’t push him to explain. She only patted his forearm before she rested a hand on Nesta’s arm. “Come inside and sit by the fire, both of you. Roksana and I will bring you chai.” 

Now, Cassian sat with a drained mug cupped in his hands that Roksana had masterfully skimmed over the floor to hand it to him - the obvious skill a credit to Lorrian’s regular flying lessons — and waited for Nesta to reply to his brother. 

“My trip beneath the Lake was enlightening,” Nesta told Rhys in that way that was so Nesta—so artfully worded. “From what I’ve learnt, it’s clear that Kallon has been planning this long before he called to vote the suspension of the Rite. Ramiel has always been his back up plan, when all else failed.”

Nesta paused, her fingers closing around Cassian’s shoulder, asking his permission. So far, Nesta had purposely evaded Rhys’s assumption that she had met with the Seer of the Sage below the Lake of Souls. But now there was no avoiding it, the truth had to come out, and Nesta knew that Cassian couldn’t look his family in the eyes and tell them about his mother. 

Cassian did not turn his head. He didn’t nod or say anything. But something unravelled slightly in his chest, the barest of movements, like gears slipping before they locked back into place. 

Nesta took a measured breath. 

“There’s more,” she announced to the room. 

Cassian felt the peak in interest, the weight of everyone’s attention but he fixated his gaze on the threads of the carpet, on the individual fibres and didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

And then Nesta told them.

She explained how she’d not met the Seer of the Sage, but the real Maya—the twin and mother who had fled to Spearhead pregnant in the face of a Prophecy. The twin who had raised her youngling away from prying eyes, hoping that he could be better than other Illyrian males. 

When Nesta’s voice fell away, a stung silence followed.  

“So, Maya is not Maya,” Feyre said, eventually. Cassian imagined her eyes darting to him, but he remained hunched over on the couch, his elbows propped up on his knees.

The words fell into the quiet, sinking like a stone plummeting through water. 

It took Cassian too long to understand that they were respectfully waiting to see if he might speak. 

Cassian clasped his hands together, watching the way the tendons at his knuckles strained, the blood squeezed out until they were bone white. His siphons caught the light from the movement, the log burner blazing in the gems’ reflection, creating the illusion of a wet well of blood.

His lips flattened, the muscle in his cheek ticked before it disappeared completely. Cassian knew he was taking too long to answer, but he felt as if he were mute. “No,” he said eventually, his tongue thick, his speech slow even though he’d only spoken one word.

And that was all he said. His throat clogged up again, his ability to speak locked away, the key tucked into some secret pocket inside of himself that even Cassian wasn’t aware of.  

He hadn’t known he’d be like this—so silent. His body had decided for him, his slowly processing mind shutting everything down. Perhaps it was trauma of some kind, a delayed reaction that had everything in him grinding to a halt. His past had been cracked open and laid bare for everyone to pick at and Cassian wanted to hoard the truth of his mother, of his lineage, as fiercely as Amren guarded her jewellery.

Cassian had still not reconciled that the female living in his countryside cottage on the outskirts of Velaris was not just someone they had rescued from Ironcrest. She was his aunt, his mother’s twin, and her real name was not Maya, but Lyanne. 

As if sensing the knot of his thoughts, Roksana crawled across the carpet from where she’d been sitting close to Lorrian and Frawley and came to sit at his feet. 

“Lyanne was protecting her sister,” Nesta announced in wake of Cassian’s silence. “She can’t be blamed for keeping the oath to her twin.”

“Of course not,” Rhys cut in smoothly and Cassian felt his brothers violet eyes searing into his skin, felt the lightest touch of a claw raking down his mental shields. “I would do the same for my brothers—for anyone I consider to be family.” 

Cassian knew that was true. He, himself, would do the same for Azriel and Rhys. For Mor and Amren. For Feyre—for any members of his family—without a second thought. 

And Lyanne had sacrificed so much to ensure that everyone believed her twin to be dead. She had faked her own death and taken on the identity of her sister so convincingly that nobody suspected that she was not Maya. She had watched the male she had loved grieve for her even though she’d been right in front of him all along. And it was Marsh’s grief which had been the greatest distraction of all. It had stopped him looking too closely, had stopped him from realising that the wife he’d loved had not been unfaithful and burnt to death but had been living alongside him masked as someone else.

It was that mask which had acted as a constant reminder to Marsh of the wife he had lost. To Marsh, Maya had become an object of hate. She was the wrong twin: his brother’s widow had lived and she was the spitting image of the wife Marsh believed he had lost.

But he’d bedded her anyway. And in all that time, he’d never grasped that the wool had been pulled over his eyes. 

It made Cassian question how deeply Marsh’s love had really run.

If Nesta had an identical twin, Cassian could never mistake the two. He knew Nesta, down to his bones. Down to the cavern within himself where even now, her name still whispered like a secret that only he and Nesta understood. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

As if his innermost thoughts called to her, Nesta’s fingers fastened even tighter on Cassian’s shoulder.

“It makes sense.” Azriel’s voice cut through the sigh of Nesta’s name. As always, the Shadowsinger’s voice was chilling—not awful but the soft caress of midnight clouds passing over stars, the coolness of shadows seeping into your skin, dew on the grass sinking through your boots. “We’ve been wondering why Kallon hasn’t been acting, why no more females have been sacrificed in his attempt to bond the blade. Illyrian magic is amplified over the Rite.”

Cassian knew Azriel had directed the conversation purposefully, shifting the focus away from Cassian’s family history. His mother.

He and Rhys knew better than anyone that Cassian had mourned his mother. Since the moment he’d been torn from her and thrown into the Windhaven camp, Cassian had grieved for a female that memory had finally eaten away at, until she was nothing but the barest of fragments.

“It’s a sacred time,” Rhys admitted slowly—carefully. Cassian could still feel Rhys’ gaze on him, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he rested a scarred hand on the tangle of Roksana’s wind-tossed hair. The youngling didn’t shrug him off, she only nestled closer until she was tucked in the valley between his legs, her wings resting against the sofa. 

“And Ramiel can only be accessed tomorrow?” Feyre interjected. “If Kallon wanted to attempt to bond the blade by dark magic, then he’d have the best luck there?”

“It was Maya’s belief that the immense power found on Ramiel could be used to amplify the magic Kallon would need to bond the sword to him,” Nesta confirmed. “And Cassian and I have discussed it at length. Everything adds up. We believe that Kallon visited the Seer of the Sage to try and confirm his belief that he could bond the blade at Ramiel. And whilst we don’t know what the Seer of the Sage told him, we know for a fact that the Blood Rite isn’t just a time for Illyrians to gain status, it’s the anniversary of the thirty-third day of the battle against Vanth. Oya and Enalius defeated Vanth atop Ramiel’s summit and if the sword originally belonged to Enalius, where better to sacrifice the females than—”

“—atop Gods-blessed ground,” Rhys finished, the cadence of his words slow and stretched out as the realisation hit him. “And Kallon has sole access to it.”

There was a breath of silence, short and fleeting, and then Rhys was interrupting it with an abruptness that mimicked the change in his entire countenance. No longer was he their brother, he was the High Lord of the Night Court ready to defend his territory and brimming with power. 

It made Cassian look up.

“How successful will Kallon be if he attempts to use dark magic, complete the sacrifice and bond himself to the sword?”

Rhys’s gaze had pinned itself on the pale witch sitting in the corner of the couch, a blanket draped over her knees. 

As petite as she was, Frawley’s very existence had a way of commanding a room. It was like a tug at the periphery of your senses, like prey sensing something other.

Frawley didn’t so much as move but Cassian felt her authoritative presence expand into the room, until she was larger than life, even whilst she sat small in frame in the corner of the couch.

It was a while until the witch spoke up, her voice scratchy and beat up in a way that told Cassian that she hadn’t yet recovered from her trip to the Lake with Nesta. It gave Frawley’s voice an eerie, prophetic quality.

“Dark magic exists to attempt the unnatural, Rhysand, you know that.” Frawley laid out her palms, as if there was a story unfolding in the centre of them. The rest of her body was so still it was almost as if she had been frozen in place. Only her lips moved and whilst her eyes remained directed at Rhys, they blazed with focus, one burning hot, the other cold. 

“In the past,” Frawley began, “dark magic has been used to bend original intention and force the intended direction of power against its will. And sometimes it has worked, whilst other times it has caused great devastation in its failure. Dark magic is rarely ever permanent.” Now Frawley’s frosty blue eye snapped in Cassian’s direction, to the female standing guard at his shoulder. “As I’ve taught Nesta, magic feeds off sacrifice and eventually, it will get hungry.”

The static quality to Frawley disintegrated as she leant forward, her focus back on Rhys. “So, Kallon might be successful in bonding the blade to him but it will only be for a time. And when the blade begins to fade again, when its magic starts to flicker like a dying star, what will he sacrifice then? How will he maintain his facade?”

Nesta’s voice cut in without hesitation. “A sacrifice will become a ritual.”

“Yes,” Frawley agreed, her voice dropping out of its rasp to something hushed and undulating. A teacher praising their student, not in a condescending way, but in the way of two people being on the same wavelength. The witch and the Made.

For a short time, Nesta and Frawley looked at one another, but then Frawley’s hazel eye slid to Cassian. It felt like a touch, like something burning, and Cassian knew that Frawley would dare to tread where noone else would. “Yet whilst that is a problem in itself, we also need to consider that Kallon might want to keep the sword bonded to him not only for the sake of status and the support of the Rebellion, but due to his increased strength.” Frawley’s brown eye swivelled to Azriel, whilst the blue remained on Cassian. “You noted at Ironcrest that the Princeling’s power had grown to earn him a fourth siphon in the training ring—weeks after he’d acquired the sword—did you not, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel’s cold hazel eyes barely moved yet somehow they met Frawley’s. “I have it from multiple sources.”

And, as Frawley knew it would, it was the new direction of conversation which instinctively loosened the noose around Cassian’s throat, the one trapping his speech. Because just like Rhys had slipped from brother to High Lord, when it came to a question of power - of strength on the battlefield - Cassian couldn’t help but fall into his role of general of the Night Court’s armies.

Cassian’s voice was terse. “Kallon comes from a lord’s bloodline. His Killing Power is still reaching maturity. The growth in his power could be entirely unconnected to the sword, especially given that the blade disappears when he tries to wield it.”

“But what if it’s a byproduct of both?” Feyre asked quietly, tentatively treading down the path they all knew they needed to head down. 

Unsurprisingly, Rhys agreed. “That’s a good question, Feyre darling.” 

Rhys leant casually against the mantlepiece but Cassian was not fooled by the illusion of calm. Cassian knew that despite his best efforts, Rhys had read Cassian’s body language down to a tee. And whilst Rhys knew how close Cassian was to snapping, he still asked, “Remind me, brother. How many training siphons were you using at the age of twenty-four?” 

A growl coalesced in Cassian’s throat. Six. He’d had six siphons at the age of twenty-four and Rhys damn well knew that. “Don’t ask questions you know the answer to,” he replied shortly.

Seemingly unfazed, Rhys merely shrugged. “If Maya is your mother, then you and Kallon share the same blood. If, like you, his genetics have provided him with a large amount of Killing Power and Enalius’s sword grants him even more, he could potentially harness magic that makes him the most powerful full-blooded Illyrian in history.”

“If you combine a Prince’s status with an impressive amount of Killing Power and a fully-bonded sword, you’ll have a hard time convincing the Illyrians that Kallon isn’t God-given flesh,” Azriel added. And if Cassian hadn’t been bristling at how blasé everyone was being with his heritage, he would have been surprised to detect something dark in his brother’s voice, as pitch as the shadows curling around his ears. 

“And that there is both the key and the danger,” Frawley announced, lifting a finger before Cassian could even open his mouth to interject. The witch settled back into the cushions, as if their understanding meant that she could now rest. “Cassian and Kallon share the same blood. They are cousins. It is possible that the reason that the sword showed itself to Kallon is because the sword recognised the bloodline.”

“But,” Frawley continued with an abrupt finger, ignoring the way Cassian had finally straightened up, his expression black, “I’d wager that Kallon’s blood isn’t quite right. It’s not the blood the prophecy foresaw, so the blade disappears when he tries to use it.”

Feyre straightened up from where she was sitting across from Cassian, her palms pressed together between her knees. “If the blood isn’t quite right, how will Kallon successfully bond it to him?”

Frawley observed Feyre unflinchingly. “Dark magic twists and turns the intention of normal magic. That shared blood connection could be the very thing that allows Kallon to bend the sword to his will.”

Then, her eye swivelled to Nesta before she even spoke. “Maya thought that the sword might be using Kallon as an avenue.”

Cassian stopped feeling affronted about the way everyone was talking about him with a suddenness that was jarring. His heart had given an awful, adrenaline-fuelled thump.

“Smart female,” Frawley remarked with a dip of her chin.

“So you think she’s right?”

“Do you?”

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know that she was raising her chin. “I think that Kallon was never the intended end recipient of the sword.”

Rhys nodded. “I think we all hope that to be the case.”

Quiet hung around them for a pause, suspended like stars in a night sky. And Cassian couldn’t bear the pregnancy of it. He knew where the conversation was leading, what everyone around him had likely come to the conclusion of given his heritage. 

Even he and Nesta hadn’t touched upon it. But just as he opened his mouth to say something,  anything to break the awful suspense-filled silence, Nesta was speaking again. “Even so, Maya warned me that prophecy is not guaranteed truth, but an alignment in the stars that can rearrange themselves into a new orbit at any time. Allegiances can change.”

Feyre was following along, her chin bobbing, her eyes knowing and… old, somehow. It was something Cassian hadn’t seen in Feyre for a long while, but when he did, it was usually at times like this — when they all came together to discuss politics and enemies.“If that’s true, then we have to consider the possibility that the sacrifice might result in the sword acknowledging Kallon as its master?”

For a few breaths, Feyre’s question hung above them like a canopy of stars.

Slowly, all eyes turned to Frawley.

“It’s possible,” Frawley contemplated slowly. She lay out her palms again but the gesture was not unsure. Instead, it was as if the lines and creases on her palms were a map of constellations. A foretelling of what was to come. 

When Frawley looked up, both irises were glowing. And Cassian knew from the moment that her eyes hooked on his what the witch was going to say and that he wasn’t going to like it. “Kallon is not the only one who has the bloodline.”

The heat of everyone else’s attention was scorching, but Cassian didn’t back down from Frawley’s challenge. Even if under the surface he was thrashing like an animal caught in a trap.

Star-born. They thought he was star-born. 

The statement was so direct and so blunt that it would have pierced like an arrow if Cassian hadn’t mustered every ounce of warrior training into deflecting it. 

Cassian imagined Frawley’s words skittering off of him, the metal of the arrow head crumpling rather than piercing as Frawley leant forward and asked, “When you were in Ironcrest, did you touch the blade?”

Internally, deep down inside the impenetrable fort Cassian had built for himself, he bristled. But outwardly he didn’t allow himself to so much as blink. Even his wings remained motionless and expressionless, tucked in tight. 

Nesta’s hands tightened on his shoulder, just a fraction, and the movement felt as if she’d taken the brunt of the attack for him. 

Cassian fought the instinct to clench his jaw. “You know I didn’t.”

“But you felt its aura, didn’t you?” Frawley probed. 

“It would have been hard not to,” Cassian replied curtly, because it was true. 

“Your siphons winked,” Lorrian remarked. He’d remained quiet until now, his mouth set in a grim line, but now he spoke up, voicing what Cassian had already admitted to himself but had not spoken aloud. “And the gem at your chest. It lit up like a beating heart. I didn’t think think much of it at the time, I assumed it was because you have more siphons than the lot of us, but perhaps the sword was calling to you.”

Cassian thought of that moment. Everyone had felt the power of the sword in that room. They’d all known, undoubtedly, that it had been Enalius’. Nobody had disputed it, even before Frawley had confirmed what they all knew. 

He forced his voice to come out calm and steady. He knew where this conversation was leading and he wished they’d all just say it, speak their conclusion out loud so they could put a damn plan in place. “The sword called to all of us. Power thrummed off of it in waves. It was indisputable."

That, at least, was true. At the time, Cassian’s blood had howled, battering against his skin as it tried to beat its way out of him.

But had Cassian truly felt the sword’s power more keenly than the others? He’d not thought anything of it at the time. Lorrian had described the sensation as odd, but to Cassian it had felt like a rush of adrenaline, a calling. It had felt, Cassian realised, the exact same way as when he’d first met Nesta. As if something had turned over inside of him, flipping to the other side of a coin. 

His skin had itched for hours afterwards. His magic had moved inside of him like a restless tide, his power desperate to surge, on edge and ready to expel itself in a way that Cassian knew would have been relentless.

Cassian had attributed that to his proximity to Nesta, to the stress of their situation as they walked the precarious tightrope during their time in Ironcrest. They’d shared a room that night. They’d exchanged heated and angry words. They’d argued about Mor, about the war. About the bond between them, even though they hadn’t addressed it directly.

And all of that seemed so long ago. So much had passed since then. A bond had been accepted. 

And it had been broken. 

“My mother,” Cassian announced slowly, “told Nesta what we already know. The prophecy is a prediction, not a clear glimpse at destiny. We can’t fly headfirst into a plan that relies on me being—“

“—Starborn?” Frawley finished.

The word made Cassian’s stomach knot. And it almost bordered on humorous that Cassian had spent his entire life searching for answers about his mother, about where he came from, only to discover that he was linked to an ancestry that he despised. 

For years, Cassian had searched Illyria. He’d destroyed Spearhead camp and the males who were complicit in his mother’s death looking for answers. But now he was confronted with the truth of his past, he found that it was not how he’d imagined. 

All Cassian had ever wanted growing up were people that he could call his own and who would accept him for him. People who would recognise his worth not for the siphons on his hands, chest, knees and arms, but for who he was inside.

It turned out that Cassian had living cousins, an aunt, maybe even a father. He’d spent the first half of his life abandoned and so lonely it had ached inside of him, weaving into his blood until it became a part of his identity as a bastard. He’d never been able to shake off that feeling.

It was only Nesta who had eased that ache, like a palm smoothing over a brow. When her arms were banded around his neck, her nose in his hair, nothing else seemed to matter.

A sword would do nothing for Cassian. He had long learned that his race’s begrudging acceptance of him was due to the Killing Power in his veins and his ability on the battlefield. And it had never made it easier to bear the sneers and the derisive comments. Because at the crux of it, Cassian would always be one thing to them: a bastard.

Yet, Cassian knew that his mother had taken a great risk when she had fled from Ironcrest. But she had done it because if the prophecy had turned out to be true then the child growing inside of her was destined to be star-born. And Cassian’s mother had wanted her child to grow up fighting for what was right. If her child was destined for the sword, she wanted it to be wielded by someone good.

But Cassian couldn’t help but wish that there didn’t need to be a sword at all. 

��We are going to stop Kallon,” Cassian announced, grim resolution in his voice as he redirected the conversation where it needed to be—to the issue at hand. “Before he even gets to the top of Ramiel, we’re going to stop him. We are going to confiscate the damn sword and then we’re going to decide what to do with it. Wield impenetrable wards around it, just like we’ve done for the Cauldron.”

“And what if you have to intercept it?” Frawley pushed. 

“I am a warrior,” Cassian replied tersely. His jaw felt tight, his wings were tucked in so tightly his muscles ached with the effort of restraint. “I will always do my duty.”

“Do you know how it works?” Nesta asked from behind him. “If someone worthy was to touch the sword, would it immediately bond to them?”

Frawley’s head tilted to the side, her hair moving with the gesture. “If legend is to be believed, then yes. For the true intended recipient, there will be no need for dark magic. But we must also consider that the sword may be broken.”

“Broken?”

“The gem is missing on the guard,” Frawley reminded them. “Enalius might have wielded the blade to defeat Vanth, but it was Oya who forged the sword from her own blood and bone. Without that gem, we must consider that the reason that sword might not be bonding to Kallon isn’t because he’s not worthy, but because the sword is damaged.”

“And from her chest she drew a blade / Bloodied steel and amplified rage / Bone of a prison,

the scarlet of sacrifice / A sword to banish immoral greed,” Nesta whispered. “Heroicis.”

“Yes,” Frawley confirmed sinisterly. “Roksana, can you fetch us the book?”

Thrilled to be useful, Roksana scooted over to the shelves and then made in Frawley’s direction, the brown leather-bound book too big her small hands. But Frawley shook her head. “Give it to Cassian, please Roksana. It’s his, after all.”

The leather was soft and supple as it always was—worn from hours and hours of perusal. 

His mother had touched this book, Cassian thought, as he stared at the cover. He’d known that all along, but to have a piece of her now, after Nesta had so recently met with her, had a lump forming in his throat. 

He opened the front cover, his eyes trying not to fall upon her writing inscribed on the inside of it, even though he knew the words by heart—warrior heart, never forget that you are loved—and turned to the drawing that he’d stared at countless times. He knew it like the back of his hand. When he couldn’t read, this is what he’d stared at. This line drawing with the arced blade and the curved pommel which he knew to be bone, not just because of the Heroicis’ stanza, but because he’d seen it in real life. 

“The gem was definitely missing from the sword in Ironcrest,” Cassian confirmed. He held the book up and tapped at the drawing so everyone could see it. “The handle was cracked, too.”

“Expected from centuries of existence,” Frawley replied matter-of-factly.

“But does Kallon know the jewel is missing?” Nesta asked. “And is the sword not bonding to him because the jewel is missing or because he’s not the intended wielder?”

“If we don’t stop the sacrifice we’ll find out,” Frawley said gravely.

Cassian’s jaw tensed as his brain worked overtime and came to the conclusion that he was sure Frawley had already drawn. “Blood. You think the females’ blood might restore the jewel, just as Oya used her blood and bone to create the sword.”

“What I think,” Frawley replied sternly, “is that dark magic might have the capability of manipulating the girls’ blood so the blade accepts it as a substitute of Oya’s.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Nesta said shortly. She looked to Azriel. “What do your shadows whisper to you? Have your spies tracked Kallon’s movements?”

“We believe that he remains at Ironcrest.”

Cassian knew what that meant. “What you mean is that nobody has seen him leave,” he said grimly.

Because Kallon could winnow - any Illyrian could the day before the Rite. 

Azriel remained still as always, his expression unreadable. But his shadows coiled around his ears. “Yes.”

Lorrian’s eyes darkened. “How many people have you got watching him at his residence?”

“Enough,” Azriel replied. “But he could winnow from within his rooms. My spies are excellent, but they can’t follow him there.”

Cassian heard the urgent bite in Nesta’s tone. “He could winnow himself to the base of Ramiel and your spies could be none the wiser for hours.”

Longer than that, Cassian thought. But he didn’t see the point in highlighting the obvious. 

“So, what do we do?” Feyre said. 

“We need warriors patrolling the skies and on the ground around Ramiel,” Cassian said brusquely.“Kallon can’t winnow directly to the summit until tomorrow. If we can pin down his location now then we can catch him before he has the opportunity to act.”

“I can look to deploy some Windhaven warriors that I believe we can trust,” Cassian continued, falling back into the role of general. Already his mind was sifting through the male faces that he ordered about during training, remembering which males stood out from the crowd. Loyal males that he knew didn’t follow the Rebellion and would have his back in battle. 

“How many?” Lorrian asked. “Mallory, Andreas and Protheus stand out from the aerial unit,” Lorrian said. “They’re quiet flyers, excellent at keeping out of sight, but I don’t know where their loyalties lie.”

“We can’t take risks,” Rhys said. “If any of those males are loyal to Kallon then we risk everything—”

“The widows will fight.”

Everyone turned.

Mas stood in the left-hand archway that led to the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hands. She was only looking at Cassian, as if to her, there was noone else. “We are not much, but we are loyal. And we will fight for you.”

***

The soapy water in the sink was so hot it was scalding, but the scream of Cassian’s nerve endings felt like a balm somehow - a silent expression of something that he could not express outwardly but wanted his body to scream all the same.

“That is not your job.”

A voice came from behind him. A familiar one. A motherly one. It held the sort of understanding that came from someone who knew him very well. From someone who saw it as their duty to analyse someone in the way that only family could. When they knew his every tick, the thoughts running through his head, without even glimpsing his face.

Mas drew up beside him, a tea towel in hand. “And by the looks of it, it’s not one that you’re good at either."

She ushered him aside to the draining board, until he had switched places with her and her hands were submerged in the suds. Silently, she handed him the cloth and he took it, because whilst he might lead the Night Court’s armies, he’d handed over the duties of the bungalow to her.

“You are angry with me,” Mas observed after a silence that stretched out taut and thin. She handed him one of the mugs the colour of Nesta’s eyes and Cassian took it, stuffing it with the cloth and twisting the fabric to dry the inside.

He did not look at her. “I’m concerned for your safety.”

The clink of porcelain promptly stopped and Cassian knew that if he cut his gaze to the housekeeper he’d not find Mas glaring at him, just simply watching him.

It took him too many heartbeats to summon the courage, but when he did turn his head to meet her eyes, she was waiting for him. Her expression was one of steady earnest, burnished with silent understanding.

But she did not back down. Instead, she gripped the top of his hand. Her skin was chapped and rough, forever weathered from her years as a laundress, but her grip was strong. Insistent. Her voice soft. “This is what the training has been for, has it not? We are learning to protect ourselves, to stand up when a threat rises against us. We might not be much, but we will fight for you.”

With slow deliberation, Cassian set down the mug onto the draining board. Then he closed his palm over the top of hers and let the barricades he’d constructed fall away so she could see his true expression.

All the worry. For her. For Nesta. For all of the Illyrians who would be harmed as a result of Kallon—his cousin.

When Cassian spoke, he heard the crack in his voice, the roughness around the edges before he exposed the soft and vulnerable middle. “You are much,” Cassian told her with quiet vehemence, “but nothing prepares you for using the sword. For battle. You saw Nesta. She’s the strongest fae I’ve ever met and Hybern haunts her even now.”

A shadow passed over Mas’s irises, but she straightened, an invisible hand of courage supporting her. And Cassian supposed he’d nurtured that hand. Since the moment he’d met her, he’d wanted to teach Mas to defend herself so she could walk with confidence. And now here she was, small yet tall before him.

“You forget I have seen battle fatigue, sinta,” Mas told him. “I have seen battlegrounds—I’ve been a part of them.” 

The skin around Cassian’s mouth tightened, bracketing his mouth like a grim smile. Because Mas was wrong on that count. He would never forget the day of the kerit attacks. He would never forget Mas’s body on the ground, her blood. He would never forget Nesta kneeling beside her, wreathed in the purest of light as she knitted the torn flesh back together. As she healed long brutalised wings. 

“Nesta saved me,” Mas continued, her voice resolutely soft in its purpose but determined all the same. “She brought me back for another life and I intend to fight for that life. For you. For Nesta. For everyone who has ever suffered under our own people. For a better life.”

Her words fell away and into more silence. Mas retracted her hands and reached back into the suds, her fingers slipping against cutlery which clattered against the sink. Eventually, she drew out a teaspoon and began to methodically clean it before she extended it out to him without glancing away from her task. 

Cassian found that he was relieved. To look at Mas now would mean to memorise every inch of her face, terrified that he’d not have the chance to study it again. He’d already begun to do it with Nesta without meaning to, his mind whispering its own cruel prophecy. 

“You saved me, too,” Mas continued into the grim yet resigned silence Cassian had woven himself into. “When we met, I was beaten down. I was so small and insubstantial, the wind could have just tossed me away. Do you remember?”

Now, Cassian forced himself to look at her. He felt his brow collapse in on itself, his eyes felt as if they might melt with the emotion—with the memory. “Of course I do,” he rasped through the chokehold in his throat. 

Because of course he did.

It had been a particularly icy day in November that Cassian had flown to Empyr’s monthly market. He’d braved the trip in frozen temperatures to order some specialised steel with a travelling Illyrian blacksmith and afterwards, he’d stopped at one of the many stalls to buy some food before he hit the skies back to Windhaven.

Cassian had been leaning against his chosen food stall polishing off a pastry when he’d noticed a small female in the long queue. Her clothes were clean but, like most Illyrians, they’d seen better days. Yet, it had been the black eye that had snagged Cassian’s attention. Hunched over and hobbling, Cassian guessed that the female was suffering from cracked ribs that had yet to heal properly. 

And from the look of her cracked and bleeding hands? Laundress. Definitely a laundress.

As it always did when Cassian forced himself to truly look at the Illyrian females around him, Cassian’s heart panged, as if someone had plucked a sad and melancholy string inside of him. The female had looked so small—not just in height, but in presence. She was a ghost, wraithlike, folding herself up, allowing the males to go ahead of her, head bent, timid and forgettable.

By most Illyrian standards, she was the perfect female.

It had taken her a while to make some headway in the line. And the entire time, Cassian had watched her, unsure why he was so transfixed by her progress—until it happened. 

Throughout Cassian’s life, he had learnt that good things happened because you brought them about yourself. Through blood, sweat and tears. Through fighting tooth and nail to survive and then to thrive. But sometimes, on a rare occasion, Cassian believed in destiny. He believed people could step right out in front of you, people who would change your life because the Gods had destined it so, if only you’d seize the reigns. 

Cassian had sensed it when Rhys had found him in his draughty and battered tent in the middle of the night. He’d felt it the moment he’d lain eyes on Azriel, even if he and Rhys had made it as hard as possible for the Shadowsinger at first. Later, he would believe it of himself and Nesta. From the very moment he’d set eyes on her in the human realm, he’d felt that flutter in his gut, some magnetism pulling them together. 

And Cassian had felt it then in Empyr as he watched a female that he’d later learn went by the name of Masak give her meagre coin away just so a little girl could eat. 

The little girl had snatched up the pastry as if she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. And then, fearful that it was too good to be true, had taken off, half-flying half-running across the frozen ground, across the bridges, until she disappeared into the woodland and was gone. 

Mas had watched the girl disappear with a look that was both heartbroken and rueful. But before she could turn away from the line, Cassian had found himself moving. 

A heavy, deliberate clunk had sounded as Cassian placed two small coins on the wooden counter. “Four more pastries, please.”

The Illyrian male behind the counter froze. Cassian had watched him sneer down at the youngling, ready to snap at her to scarper. And when he’d not been able to emit his anger, Cassian had known it was coming for the Illyrian female next in line. 

But Cassian’s face was known all over Illyria. Even if he hadn’t been sporting his siphons that adorned the backs of his hands, his knees, his shoulders, his chest… the Illyrian community knew the face of the General of the Night Court’s armies.

“And some chai,” Cassian added firmly, as he remembered how the female had eyed the cauldron bubbling gently away behind the counter. “Two cups.”

The male’s lips drew back for a second, as if he couldn’t stamp out the instinct to show his disgust at the female before him, before his expression was wrangled under control. “Anything else, General?”

“Not from you,” Cassian rebuffed coldly, the instruction in his voice the sort he used on the battlefield rather than with friends. Then, he’d turned to Mas. 

When his eyes had met hers, she had taken a small step back. Then another. 

When he held up the pastries and the cup of chai, she actually flinched. Stepped even farther away from him, jostling accidentally into some a male who sneered in disgust—as if she was dirty.

And in that moment, Cassian chose to do what he did best. He read his opponent.

The female before him knew who he was. Knew the control he had in Illyria. She was a low-born female who had been brought into the world to serve the male species. She would not dare disobey him and he… wanted to speak to her. Needed to.

The tug in his gut instructed him to.

So, he kept his voice deep and commanding. “Come with me.”

For a moment, he thought he’d read Mas wrong. That she might bolt. Her eyes darted around her but when she remained on the spot, when she fleetingly dared to meet his eyes, Cassian knew that her hunger was great enough that it won over her fear of him. And he could scent the latter on her, the tang of it so sharp, it could cut. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t use the weapon on him—none of the males who came to Empyr would use their weapons out of respect for the sacred site—every Illyrian female was raised to fear the fist just as much as the edge of a blade. 

Cassian had walked over bridges with water running steadfast beneath him. The air at Empyr was always heavy with the tantalising scent of food, the finest sort of mist, and the slap and roar of cascading water against rock. 

When he reached a wide clearing in the woodland that closed around the lip of the valley, Cassian stopped. 

There, he set down the food and drinks on a rock and took a few steps back. His senses told him that Mas had kept to the trees that hugged the open space, but he gestured to the pastries anyway. 

“Please,” he said. “Eat. Drink.”

Mas remained silent. She didn’t move, but her eyes darted to the food before they snapped back to him. The bruise around her eye socket was still black and purple—fresh, rather than old. A fae body should have healed her by now. And if she wasn’t healing? She hadn’t eaten for a long while.

So, Cassian told her straight. “Those injuries won’t heal if you don’t eat.” Pine needles crunched under his weight as he sat down on the cool earth and began to eat one of the pastries he’d kept in hand.

Slowly, he ate. Slowly, he drank his chai. 

Patiently, he waited. 

Eventually, Mas crept over to the food. Snatched at a pastry before she backed away to the trees again, far away from him. As if the pines would grant her safety. 

Finally, she ate. Small bites at first. Then huge ones, as if she hadn’t had a meal in days. In moments, the pastry was gone. 

Slowly, so as not to startle her, Cassian stood. Entreatingly, he held out a cup of chai to her. He did not dare her to look her in the eye. It was an olive branch—a sign of respect, a choice not to dominate and Cassian was certain Mas had never been granted that courtesy in her entire life. 

In fact, Cassian looked purposefully at his leather boots as he placed the cup on the ground between them, before he backed away. 

The winter wind ribboned around the clearing and Cassian scented roasted chestnuts and wood shavings beneath the dirt and grime of a fae body, heard the crunch of pine needles break as Mas chose to take the cup.

He felt her eyes on him the entire time she drank.

When she finished, Cassian gestured to the remaining pastries as he took another bite of his own. “Don’t let them waste.”

She didn’t.

When Mas was done, Cassian had formulated a plan. He knew what he was going to do and how he was going to go about it.

Gaze still averted, Cassian took a drag from his cup. The chai was too sweet and already lukewarm thanks to the punishing Illyrian weather, but he swallowed before he asked, “Where are you from?”

Mas stiffened, her fear spiking sharp. Yet, when she didn’t turn on her heel Cassian lifted his eyes.

It struck him that she was a small female by Illyrian standards, her dark hair thick yet cropped short, the ends hastily and unevenly cut in a way that made Cassian suspect it had, until very recently, been long. But it was her hazel eyes that haunted Cassian. They were dark in the only way someone’s irises could be when they’d witnessed too much.

When their eyes connected, Cassian found that there was something steadfast in Mas’ expression. It was not hope, more of bleak resolution. A female who had no choice but to run away from everything she’d known. 

Mas’s voice was scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it for days. Broken, as she spoke the dire truth Cassian had suspected, “I can’t go back.”

“I don’t imagine you should,” Cassian commented with a forced lightness that didn’t quite hit home. There was a grave quality frosting his voice that Cassian hadn’t managed to thaw out. And to be honest, he hadn’t wanted to. The way females were treated in Illyria? It was a crime. “I certainly won’t be taking you,” he added.

Mas’s lips parted. The bottom one was still red and swollen, but she managed to jam her mouth shut without a hitch of breath. It told Cassian that she was not unfamiliar with pain. 

A few beats passed before she spoke again. 

“Spearhead,” she admitted in a whisper. And Cassian knew that the fault in his voice had convinced her that he would not take her back there, because she affirmed more loudly, “That’s where I’ve come from.”

Just the mention of the camp had Cassian’s expression tightening. Yet, he made a show of brushing his hands together, ridding himself of the wayward flakes of pastry as he nodded slowly, processing the information. 

Then, he looked up at her. The bruises and scrapes were starting to heal, her body no doubt able to begin repairing itself now it had the energy to do so, but her wings—her clipped and brutalised wings—remained mangled. “And how did you get here?”

Clearly having noticed Cassian’s gaze, Mas tucked her wings in tight, away from view. “I paid someone to fly me.”

Cassian nodded again. The gesture seemed stupid and meaningless, but it gave him something to do. He knew better than anyone that paying someone to bite their tongue didn’t mean anything in Illyria. And the males at Spearhead? They gave Ironcrest a good run for their money when it came to cruelty. “And now? Where do you plan to travel to next?”

Mas didn’t say anything, but he could see behind her eyes that her thoughts had began to stampede. Cassian might have extended a kindness to her so far, but if she betrayed her next location—if she even had the money to move on—he could track her. He could report to whoever was looking for her where she planned to fly to. 

But, even so, Cassian could tell Mas had more pressing issues. If she had decided to leave her camp, she was running from something—or Cassian would guess, someone. And Illyrian males did not take the possession of their females lightly. They would hunt for eternity for something they believed to be theirs.

So, to go on the run? Mas either had no choice or she was formidably brave. 

And Cassian respected bravery, both on the battlefield and off of it.

“I’d hazard a guess that you’re out of funds,” Cassian commented, nodding to the empty wrappers and cups. “I’m in need of a housekeeper back in Windhaven. I travel often for work and I need someone to take care of the day-to-day running of the home: overseeing laundry, cooking, cleaning, tending to the fires. I can offer free accommodation and a good wage, but more importantly, I can offer you safety.”

For a long while, Mas remained in shocked silence. Her hazel eyes—which over time would shape into something soft and motherly when she looked at him—had been wary and confused.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because you had barely any coin to your name but you gave your last pennies to a little girl who could not afford to eat,” Cassian told her. “Because this,” he gestured to her black eye and took a step closer to her, “is everything that is wrong with Illyria and you do not deserve it. Because you look like someone who has been beaten down and needs a new start. I can give that to you.”

“I might have deserved it.”

The words were so unexpected that Cassian wanted to blink. But he just stared her down, telling her with every second that passed that he didn’t believe her. Even if Mas had hurt someone, it was most likely in defence. If she’d made someone bleed, if she’d lashed out, Cassian was sure whoever who had received it had deserved it.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not true though, is it?”

“No,” Mas admitted after a moment. She had grown brave enough to study him a little and he knew she was attempting to read him, to catalogue his face. It seemed to be something instinctual that she’d been tamping down—a warrior instinct suppressed from birth but clawing to get out. “Don’t you want to know what I’m running from?”

Cassian lifted a shoulder. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.” He didn’t really need her to. He could hazard a pretty accurate guess: her husband. Not mate—a mate would never harm the one they were bonded with.

“You’ll be safe in my residence,” Cassian told her. “If you work for me, I can promise you protection. And I can absolutely promise that I’ll never lay a finger on you. What do you say—”

A hand fell on Cassian’s shoulder. The sensation jolted him back to his place in the kitchen and away from the past.

Beside him, Mas was shooting him a knowing look. Her face was so different from when they’d first met. It was clean and free of bruises. Her eyes rippled as if she’d too just come out of the memory of that winter day. 

“I’d lost all hope when we met,” Mas reminded him, even though it wasn’t needed. Cassian had just relived it, after all. “I had no faith in anyone around me. But you saw me, bruised and dirty, and you bought me food anyway. You offered me an honest job, the chance to live a different life. And I took a leap of faith and decided to trust you—”

“Because you were out of options,” Cassian interrupted in reminder. 

He handed her the towel he’d been using and offered it to her so she could dry her hands.

But Mas ignored it, focussed instead on their conversation. She tapped a wet finger over his heart and leant towards him. “Not because I was out of options. Because you were different from the other males. And in time, as I came to trust you, I learnt that you were simply kind and good.” Mas punctuated her next words with a pointed tap against his chest. “You. Saved. Me. And I will never forget that. I don’t want to.”

A thick hand seemed to clutch at Cassian’s throat. Suddenly, it was hard to speak, but somehow he managed. “It was my pleasure.”

Mas dried her hands on the towel before she patted his cheek to show she understood. But she wasn’t done. “You freed me from my husband, a life of abuse, sinta. And now I owe you. Let me do this. Let me fight for you.”

The words unravelled something bound tight within Cassian, unfurling faster and faster until his emotions were unbound and swimming.

“What I did is not something you are meant to repay,” he started, but he had to stop to swallow. To gather himself, to speak the truth that needed to get out. Because he knew that Mas had heard them talking earlier—about his past and his ancestry. Knew she finally understood. And he needed her to know. Wanted her to, despite the fact that his voice dropped into something both hushed and cracked—exposed. “But if that’s what you’re worried about. You already have. You’re the mother I never had.”

Mas smiled sadly. Her eyes had grown soft and shining. In that moment, they looked like butter melting in sunlight. It was a vast contrast to her eyes when they’d first met. Lost and scared. Now, there was nothing but truth reflected in her irises. Something simple and uncomplicated and true. “And you are my son, stella,” Mas said simply, as if it was obvious. “And Nesta, my daughter. I like to think that we have given each other family.”

Cassian had to blink to stop the burning in his eyes. When he looked to Mas again, he saw that a tear of her own was rolling down her face. He caught it. As always, the skin of Mas’ face was soft and thin with age, but so lovely. “Does this mean you’ll finally move into this outhouse when it’s all over?”

Mas’s expression shifting into something earnest. “I like to stay with the other widows, the orphans. But when this is all over, when we’ve beaten Kallon, we will build houses in the camps together. We’ll give other females a home—anyone who wants a roof over their heads. How about that?”

One corner of Cassian’s mouth ticked. His heart was so warm and so painful. Like it was bleeding. 

But he just said, “That sounds like a deal.”

Mas straightened. “So you’ll let us come? Whoever wants to?”

“We’ll need to be selective,” Cassian told her. “Only the most competent and only if they want to come. I trust your judgement, but know that we’ll brief them in an hour and that they can’t breathe a word about it to anyone.”

Mas dipped her chin to let him know that she understood. “They won’t, not when it comes to you,” she told him. Then, she gave him a toothy grin. Ruffled her wings with mock-pride. “And not when it comes to me.”

Cassian couldn’t help it. He conceded a laugh. 

***

Nesta found Cassian in their bedroom. He’d left on the pretense of readying himself for battle, but really his intention had been to stand by the window and watch Mas leave. The housekeeper’s wings were held high and proud behind her and she held Roksana’s small hand in hers as they walked in the direction of the widows’ camp. 

The youngling fluttered alongside, fluctuating between walking, hopping and skating over the mud.

If Cassian could paint, this would be the image that he’d choose to brush against canvas. An endearing portrait of two seemingly happy figures retreating into the distance—a distance which meant that they were out of reach and safe. Unharmed.

The sensation of Nesta’s fingers sliding through Cassian’s snagged at the periphery of his attention. As always, his body sung at the proximity of her and he let that feeling vibrate through him until their fingers were interlocked.

“You agreed?” 

Nesta’s voice was muffled by the scales of his leathers. She’d pressed her chin into his bicep as she looked up at him. Affection was something that Cassian had been yearning for without realising it, but now Nesta was leaning into him, the warmth of her soaking into him, Cassian sensed the desire for it etched deep into his bones. It was like an unbearable ache, a building pressure that layered upon itself. And Nesta pressing against him, holding him to her? It made that pressure deflate a little.

If Nesta’s hair wasn’t woven back tightly for battle, Cassian would have threaded his free hand through her hair in thanks. Instead, he pushed back the sigh that coalesced in his throat. “They’re not as battle ready as the males.”

“They won’t be for a long time,” Nesta supplied simply. “Someone once told me it takes years to become a warrior. That it’s constantly a work in progress.”

“And you listened?”

Nesta’s snort was a wave of air, but she didn’t admonish him. She just clutched at his arm a little tighter, the silent gesture his admonishment. “I did.”

Usually, Cassian would have smirked—anything to rile her. But now, in their shared bedroom, Cassian couldn’t summon it. Not when he knew what they were about to walk into. “It’s going to be dangerous.”

Nesta straightened at his words and the scent of her, the jasmine and vanilla, finally tugged his focus away from Mas’ retreating back to the female beside him. 

Nesta had changed out of her everyday leathers and into the ones Rhys had gifted her. The smoky silver scales rippled in an exact replica of the flames at her fingertips, but Cassian couldn’t marvel at the magic of it, not when the female in question was pinning him down with her formidable eyes. “Isn’t battle always dangerous?”

“It is,” Cassian agreed lowly. “But I’m already worried about your wellbeing. And now Mas? The other females?” He swallowed, and his words caught in the clog at his throat. “There’s so much at stake—”

“You are not responsible for our lives, Cassian.”

Cassian’s voice became sharp without his command. “I am always responsible for those that step onto a battlefield for the Night Court, whatever shape that might take.”

“You are forgetting,” Nesta told him calmly, unperturbed by his whipped reply, “that those who step onto the battlefield do so out of their free will. Tonight, when we make our way to Ramiel, none of us will be coerced. But we are all driven by the same motive: to stop Kallon gaining power and starting a Civil War. The females are taking a stand because they have been oppressed for too long. They are finally standing up for themselves, showing their allegiance despite the fact that they could suffer the consequences. And I am doing the same. You can only respect that. You can’t take responsibility, Cassian, it’s not your right.”

There was no response to that, so Cassian just stood still, fighting the temptation to rub his tired eyes. 

Together, they had a rough plan in place but they didn’t know how it would all go. And if Cassian had learnt anything in his long years as a warrior, it was that no battle was a sure thing. There was no guarantee that everyone entering the battle would emerge breathing and whole. The battlefield was swathed in the promise of glory, but when you were in the thick of it, when you were knee deep in guts and shit and blood, it was nothing but horrifying.

And whilst they might not be entering a true battlefield, none of them expected to emerge from their conflict with Kallon unharmed.

None of them were that deluded. It wasn’t a pessimism, just a hard truth. A possibility. 

Cassian turned his body fully to face Nesta, his hand slipping from hers only for both of them to find purchase on her arms. 

“Don’t say it,” Nesta interrupted him, reading the grim look in his eyes. 

It took everything in Cassian to arch an eyebrow. To play. “Some might accuse you of being superstitious, sweetheart.”

Nesta let out a huffed breath. “Why tempt fate?”

“You are my fate,” Cassian told her quietly. He tracked her face, cataloguing it all—his Nesta. Again, that thought hit him: he wanted Nesta to be his wife. He wanted them to be joined in that way. She’d given him everything when she’d accepted the mating bond, and now he wanted to give her something human, something that she had always thought had been in her future. 

If she wanted it, that was.

Nesta’s hand tightened on his just as her mouth flattened. The movement was so brief Cassian would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so closely.

“And you’re mine,” she assured him slowly, and even though her face was near unreadable, Cassian felt the spark of embers in his chest as they glowed. Knew that she was telling him the truth.

For a brief instance, Nesta observed him. And Cassian let her, unstacking every guard he held around himself, as tight as a burning ring of flames until there was nothing left behind but ash and the heart of him.

What Nesta saw pulled a faint smile onto her face, but it was too brief and it was not wielded out of happiness. It was too sad. And when Nesta confirmed it by drawing his knuckles to her mouth and pressing her lips there, he knew that every worry he had for how tomorrow would play out… it festered inside of Nesta, too.

They both had a feeling. An ominous sense of something dark and lurking. 

Cassian watched Nesta drop his hand and turned towards the door. 

But when she reached the entryway, she paused. Her slim fingers wrapped around the frame and held on tight. 

Seconds passed as Nesta hesitated. Then, without turning to face him, she told him, “Ask me when we’re on the other side.”

The ensuing pause ate up her words, until nothing but a ringing silence hovered between them.

If they were in different circumstances, Cassian would have closed the distance between them and wrapped her hair around his palm. He would have looked down at her, revelling in the way her chin would tilt stubbornly up to meet him, that regal air wreathed around her like its very own crown.

But instead, Cassian just stared steadily at Nesta, waiting for her to turn. But she didn’t.

Cassian fought the temptation to curl his hands shut in a bid to distract the quickening tempo of his heartbeat. His siphons pulsed in anticipation. A whisper of something wound through him. A sighed name. “And what will I be asking, Nesta?”

He couldn’t see her but he knew Nesta had raised an eyebrow, the execution as perfect as the arch of it.

Her fingers tightened around the door frame, but still she did not turn. “Ask me when it’s over. And I’ll say yes.”

And it was in that pause, as her words stretched out between them, that the screaming started. 

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[buckybarnesss]

So, I'm rewatching LotR a lot these days and during The Two Towers, Denethor (Boromir's dad) is super dismissive of Faramir, insults him and his abilities, and pushes Boromir to go and try to bring the Ring back to Gondor. It's clear he's abusive, in the way that they avoid looking him directly in the eyes and how neither want him around. They're visibly uncomfortable and upset, even though they do try to tell him to fuck off.

And I'm like, wow, if these movies came out today, there would be too many people on this website who see this behaviour and say "You know, Denethor's not actively hitting them, so he's clearly not abusive!!"

I was expecting racists to come crawling out of the woodwork. I was not expecting people to see blatantly abusive behaviour and say "That's not that bad, let's see Sally's bruises."

all my homies hate denethor. how he treats his sons is a very clear golden-child and scapegoat dynamic. such blatant favoritism is abusive too.

it's been, uh, interesting to see the reaction to the changes to gabe. in the books i found him to be an over the top abusive step dad trope. he's like a greasy car sales man. i was always reminded of danny devito's mr wormwood from the 1996 adaptation of matilda.

i read the percy jackson books when i was 20 and was always personally deeply uncomfortable with the underlying "stay with your abuser for your kid" that was simmering under the sally and gabe relationship in the books.

it made me uncomfortable because i had lived it. my parents separated mere weeks after i had turned 18 and my mother has explicitly told me one of the reasons she hadn't divorced my father sooner was because of me.

that shit does stuff to you as a person. kids are smart but they also internalize things and it's not always the right things.

sally doesn't need to suffer to keep percy safe. suffering for righteousness or martyrdom smacks of puritanical ideology that's very pervasive in the america consciousness.

what i saw on screen with gabe and sally was an intimately familiar abusive and dysfunctional relationship. i appreciated the changes as to me it appeared that in the 20 years since rick had written the lightening thief he had reflected on what he wanted to polish and change from the book.

i think the changes to gabe's storyline also might be connected into how medusa seems to be getting a more sympathetic storyline.

gabe is still an abusive shitty person and he doesn't have to physically harm sally to be that way and who knows maybe he still is. physical abuse doesn't have to happen all the time. it can be infrequent too.

some of the comments i've read online have felt very "sally isn't beat enough and cowering so gabe isn't abusive." or "sally was able to stand up to him so he's not abusive" but off the top of my head:

gabe was shown as being a lay about with unreliable income leeching off sally financially yet still refers to the apartment as "his" house. this says he sees her money and assets as his.

he answers sally's phone which indicates a lack of boundaries and privacy for sally. he even indicates that he answers "whatever" is ringing in "his" house.

he's aggressively argumentative with the super, sally and percy.

he insults percy's intelligence and applauds the idea that percy physically assaulted another child.

sally has to negotiate use of the car to have time away from the home.

i'm sorry if this isn't abusive enough to some people i guess.

[munsonownsmyass]

Lily my love!

How about Dipping in a natural hot spring with Matthias Helvar?

Can be spicy, soft, or both! Dealer's choice!

Matthias Helvar x reader

Summary: Taken prisoner by the Drüskelle, you find yourself in the cold, unforgiving land of Fjerda. Freezing and fearing for your life, an unlikely savior comes to your rescue.

Author's notes: Thank you so much for this ask, Pheebs! I'm glad I've made you simp as much as I do for this man ❤️

Also... Lava in Fjerda works different. That's all I'll say about that.

Warnings: Enemies to lovers big time. Angst, mentioning of killing someone, pining? Maybe? SMUT! 18+. Grinding, handjob, unprotected sex, cream pie (you know me by now), kissing, fluff.

The weather had turned colder faster than you expected. Even with the many layers, you could feel the cold seeps though your flesh, freezing you to the bone. You weren’t used to the cold, far from it, but as a prisoner of the Drüskelle, you had been taken far into the icy lands of Fjerda.

The last few days have been on the move with barely any sleep or food and especially without much warmth. The Fjerdan men in front of you keeps pushing on, used to this harsh weather, born from the cold. You could hear the men snickering around you, having a laugh on your expense. They know you’re freezing, but they don’t care. Your life means little to them.

Except for maybe the youngest of the Drüskelle. Matthias. He’s barely said a word to you, yet he is the one of them you trust the most. The other men had eyed you in ways that made you uncomfortable, but not Matthias. He seemed protective over you, even though he didn’t hide the fact that he hated what you are.

Being a Grisha was never good in Fjerdan territory, let alone in the hands of the Drüskelle. They had orders not to harm you, but the only one who seemed to heed those words were Matthias. Still now, you hear them mutter silently between each other, words like drüsje and mörd spoken with clenched teeth. You don’t speak Fjerdan, but you do know those words. Witch and death.

As the winds pick up, the men make camp in a small forest, the trees providing some cover from the storm. Used to the harsh environment, the men settle down and doesn’t seem faced by anything, making you feel worse as your teeth clatter so hard you fear they will take permanent damage. One of the oldest, the leader, yells at you harshly in Fjerdan.

“I already told you, I don’t understand what you’re saying!” you bite back, no longer caring if they kill you. Then at least you’d no longer be freezing. He stands up, walking over to you as he draws his knife from its sheath.

“Scön der top.” He mutters under his breath, stopping a mere inch from your face. “I said; If you don’t stop the clattering, I’ll remove your teeth to keep you quiet.”

Matthias cuts in between, putting a hand to the leaders chest. Their discussion sounds heated, the leader’s eyes darting to you more than once. For the first time you really fear for your life. Matthias gets to his feet and pulls you with him.

“Go then! And take the drüsje whore with you!” The old man spits out, before turning away from you and Matthias. He pulls you away from the group quickly and leads you further into the woods. Trembling, you fear what he’s gonna do. Is this it? Was he ordered to take you into the woods and dispose of you?

“Are you gonna kill me?” You try, voice weak and barely above a whisper. He stops, his grip on your arm loosening as he turns to you, eyes softer than you expected.

“No. I was saving you.” He looks at you for a moment, before walking again, but this time the grip on your arm is softer. “He was ready to kill you, but we need you alive to get our money.”

For some reasons, your heart sinks in your chest, making you feel hollow. Did you expect him to save you because he cared? Stupid girl. No, of course you’re merely a way for him to earn some coin.

“If you’re not gonna kill me, where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t answer, he just drags you through the trees. The woods slowly gets darker as the day comes to an end, but suddenly up ahead, you see a faint light. Following close behind Matthias, you see the light grow stronger until you realize what it is. Lava. Heard about it, but never seen it with your own eyes, you’re intrigued by the warm colors.

“Why did you bring me here?” You ask confused, hoping he was telling the truth earlier and isn’t planning on throwing you in the lava.

“You were cold. Lava is hot.” He shrugs, sitting you down near a tree. He squats down in front of you, starring into your eyes. “If I go find food, will you promise to stay? Or will I have to tie you down?”

He watches you intently, his blue eyes boring into your soul, making you shiver. You hate the way your body reacts to him. He is Drüskelle, trained to capture or kill you. You’re Grisha, his enemy from before either of you were born, so why do you long to reach out and touch him? Why do you feel yourself blush when his eyes linger a little too long?

“I promise.” You whisper softly, but as Matthias turns to walk away, you can’t help but bite back. “Besides, where would I go on my own? Die of the cold or die by the hands of the Drüskelle, what’s the difference?”

You see Matthias stop for a second, shoulders tense, before he walks off into the darkness. For a second you want to run after him, fearing what would happen if he doesn’t come back. But at least he left you someplace warm. You can already feel your body relaxing as it warms up, the tremble slowly subsiding.

After a while you get bored and start exploring. If you’re still near where he left you, it would still count as staying put, right? Always been curious by nature, you walk closer to the lava.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice an opening in the rocks. Intrigued, you walk closer only to find a small tunnel. Walking in, your hand brush over an old torch on the wall. Quickly taking it and running back to the lava, you get it lit before you run back into the tunnel. Along the way there are more torches you can light, illuminating your path. At the end, it opens into a cave. No, not just a cave. Someone lived there once. A makeshift bed with furs in one corner, small shelves with trinkets and old books. All covered in layers of dust, abandoned for years.

Exploring the rest of the cave, you light every torch you find, when suddenly you see the flames reflected in some water. Walking closer, you realize it’s not a puddle as you first expected, but a whole pool of water. Deep enough to submerge in, the sides processed so they’re smooth. Whoever lived here before, made sure the edges weren’t sharp. Dipping your hand into the water, you find it warm. Probably kept that way by the lava surrounding the cave.

It’s been weeks since your last bath, always used to long relaxing and scented baths back in Ravka, so you wonder if you could bathe quickly before Matthias returns. Quickly, before you can change your mind, you discard your clothes and climb into the pool. Once submerged in the hot waters, you instantly feel better, the warmth spreading through you. After cleaning off weeks of dirt, you lean against the edge of the pool, allowing yourself to close your eyes just for a bit.

“What are you doing?!”

You jerk awake, looking up to find Matthias a few feet from you. He is clearly angry, and you can’t really blame him. You turn to face him, making sure to keep your body stays hidden under the surface.

“I’m sorry. I got curious and found this place.” You gesture to the cave with a nervous smile. “And when I saw the water, I didn’t think. I just really needed a bath.”

He just huff, annoyance painted on his features as he settles down on a stool to prepare the bird in his hand. Unsure what to do now, you linger in the water, looking at him. After a while, he throws the bird down, looking at you.

“What?!”

“I was just thinking…” You start softly, not even sure you should tease him when he’s already angry. “You could use a bath, too, you know. I’m not the only one who smells.”

“So, I should go into the water and then what? You could use your powers to kill me?” He bites back, never taking his eyes of the bird as he picks it up and start plucking of it’s feathers again.

“I would never-”

“Yes you would! I’ve seen what Tidemakers can do.” He stand up, closing the distance to you, anger burning like a rapid fire in his eyes. “You Grishas are all the same. Drüsje.”

At the last word, you feel a tightening in your chest. It never stops hurting, no matter how many times they call you a witch.

“We are not evil. I have only used my powers for good. It’s not my fault you were taught to hate me. You don’t even know me!”

Matthias avoids your gaze, but you see his eyes soften. He sighs before looking back into your eyes. “I do not hate you. I hate what you are.”

He sits down at the edge of the pool, his eyes looking anywhere but your naked flesh, which you find quite endearing. “When I was little, my family was killed by people like you. So tell me how I should not hate your kind?”

“I wasn’t even born. Why should I pay for the sins of those who came before me?”

“And why should I? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard that all Drüskelle are bad?”

At that you laugh, leaning onto your arms on the edge. “Says the man who holds me prisoner.”

Matthias laughs when it all dawns on him. Running his fingers through his hair, he looks into your eyes again, his softer than before. “I guess we are both bad.”

“Or we were both taught wrong?”

He nods, smiling softly at you. For a second his eyes travel down, but instantly he looks away, the blush creeping up his neck and cheeks. Interesting. You shift your stance, the top of your chest breaking the surface of the waters. Matthias blushes even more, muttering a Fjerdan curse under his breath.

“So… If I promise not to drown you, will you come in? You do really stink.” You ask, feeling bolder than before. Pushing away from the edge, your lean back as you swim backwards, the soft flesh of your breasts peeking above the surface. “I promise not to look as you get in.”

With a smile, you turn your back to Matthias, waiting in silence. After what seems like hours, you hear the sound of his thick coat hit the floor of the cave. The rest of his clothes soon follow and as you hear his footsteps nearing the edge, you sneak a peak at his reflection in the water. You knew he was big, the tallest of all the Fjerdan men, but now you see that everything about him is big. Biting your lip, you try your best to hold back the gasp that was threatening to leave you.

Once he’s in the water, you turn around to face him. He looks uncomfortable, vulnerable, as he sits there in the water, shed of his armor. He is right. It would be easy for you to manipulate the water, drown him. But you won’t. Like it or not, you’ve come to care for the big brute. And you believe he cares about you too.

Looking into his beautiful blue eyes, you swim closer, holding his gaze. He shifts in his seat, bottom lip quivering as you get closer. You shouldn’t do this, but every rational thought is gone. Left is only him and those eyes so deep, you could swim in them forever.

You straddle him, causing him to gasp when he feels you close. You feel him grow harder against you, his breath hitching in his throat. Scooting closer, you feel his hard length against your slick lips. You grind against him, eliciting a whimper from him.

“You’ve been so kind to me. Protecting me. You put all my thoughts about the Drüskelle to shame.” You purr, hands running over his chest, coming to a halt on his shoulders.

“They brought us up to hate each other, but I was so wrong to listen.” He pauses, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch gentler than any you’ve ever felt. “We are more alike than I could ever have imagined.”

“So you don’t want to kill me?” You ask, the words you really want to say left unspoken.

“No, that’s the last thing I want to do.” He whispers, leaning in to claim your lips in a soft kiss. As he deepens the kiss, your hand wanders down to his hard cock. Matthias moan when your fingers wrap around the base, slowly dragging your grip up and down his length. He whimpers, rolling his hips in response as you continue stroking him. Picking up the pace, you grin to yourself when you see Matthias’ flustered face, mouth open in a gasp as he throws his head back against the edge. The moaning turns to a deep growl, his hands coming to a rest on your hips in a bruising grip.

He opens his eyes, the blue replaced by black lust blown orbs as he takes you in. His lips find your again in a long, hungry kiss. “Please.” He whimpers, knowing you will know the meaning of his plea.

You let go of his cock, pushing off his lap until you’re hovering above his throbbing length. You tease him, letting the head slide through you wet folds before you cave in, lowering yourself onto him with a gasp.

“Fuck, min hjerte.” He hisses out through gritted teeth, his grip on your hips tightening. When he slides home, his whines echo in the cave. You bury your head in his neck, shivering by the feeling of him filling you up.

“Move, Matthias.”

And he does. Rocking his hips up and into you, while you hold onto his shoulders, one hand entangling in his soft dark blonde hair. With each snap of his hips, you gasp, loosing yourself in the feeling of him. You kiss him, desperate for release as you clench around him.

“A little more…” he begs, snapping his hips again, causing the water to ripple around you. “So… close…”

It’s only a few more thrusts of his hips before you come, moaning his name. it’s too much for him and he spills inside you, filling you with his cum. You fall against his chest, breathing hard as you come down from your high. Wrapping his arms around you, Matthias holds you close, placing soft kisses on your hair.

There in the cave, wrapped in his embrace, you feel the world fade away. None of you knows what the future will bring, your love a forbidden one, but none of it matters now. Right now, he’s yours and you’re his, however short a time it may be.

TFC girls: @phoebe-danvers @mindidjarin @e-dubbc11 @itwasthereaminuteago @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @mattmurdocksscars @pedrito-friskito @a-bang-for-your-bucky

Tagging: @our-chaos

[hmshermitcraft]

For the theme False was moderately sure that the town she had moved in was cursed in some way or maybe the townsfolk were really paranoid. False would routinely see them walking quickly, not looking at each other, keeping hushed voices, wearing weird cloaks, and more. But False didn't really get any hint to what was actually happening until her crush, Gem, got deathly sick and wanting to help her (and maybe win her heart) False began to search for cures in the town for Gem. False didn't really make much progress until someone told her that there was something that can help Gem but False could only find it in the abandoned part of the town False was well equipped to search the ruins and defend herself when she went but nothing would've prepared her to see this eldritch looking monster with an incorporeal form wearing a hood wandering the ruins. The monster had seen her and seemingly started to toy with False before attacking False. After a long fight False had won, when she had plunged her blade into the monster the blade phased through the monster and the metal immediately rusted and broken off When False looked up from her confusion she now saw a (very beautiful looking) young woman standing in front of her with a curious look on her face. False would've thought that she was going crazy and would've told the cute girl to run and hide if she didn't notice that the girl was wearing the same cloak that the monster wore Pearl was this 'girl's' name and when False asked how and why did she do that Pearl merely responded that "Magic exists". False was really confused (and a bit flustered) when Pearl had started to poke and touch her curiously, as if Pearl hadn't seen a person like False before she asked if humans didn't have magic before. False shook off her feelings and asked Pearl if she could heal Gem which Pearl said yes and agreed to so yay! The bad news is that False now had a crush on Gem, a regular human, and Pearl, who can apparently turn into a mini eldritch horror on a whim and has heavily implied herself to be one of many manifestations or omens of death or is just a really deranged and powerful witch

Much to False's... Exasperation, let's say, Pearl for some reason decided now was the time to stick around. She's not been around humans for a while (False points out attacking them doesn't give the best impression. Pearl giggles.) She thinks it'll be interesting to see how much they've changed!

False sits by Gem's side, uncomfortable with Pearl being there alone. She... Kinda lies to Gem a bit, saying that Pearl is a healer from outside the town. Within a few days, she starts seeing Gem's condition improve. She goes from being unable to even sit up by herself, to changing clothes.

False relaxes more around Pearl at that point. Despite their first meeting, if Pearl intended to harm either of them, she'd probably have done it whilst Gem was weakest. She decides to indulge Pearl, showing her the aspects of human life she's been interested in.

People eye them warily, crossing the road or refusing to look at them at all. False learns to ignore it. Sure, Pearl isn't human, and she's kind of... Eerie. But she's pretty friendly! Just unfamiliar with human customs.

Once Gem is well enough, she starts to join them on their outings. She uses a wheelchair as her strength grows, excitedly showing Pearl around her favourite places.

False is... Surprised when she doesn't feel jealous. No, watching Pearl and Gem interact, she realises she feels fond. Watching them interact gives her the same butterflies thinking about them individually does!

So, now she needs to confess to her crush and an eldritch being. Who might not even know what dating is. She's really done it this time.

[alatismeni-theitsa]

People like anon don't search your blog beyond what other people told them because they wouldn't risk seeing you like anything other than a "bad guy". You make them uncomfortable by sharing how things are and by forcing them to rethink what they were taught, so you must be the "bad guy", right? They'd rather guilt rip and harass a Greek for speaking up against centuries old cultural appropriation rather than admit they looove their imperialist comfy cloud of misinformation.

Exactly! Isn't it sooo strange that the hate anons are never there when I post about different cultures and interactions between people, and minorities of all types in Greece? Or maybe they never look at one post if that means their delusion of being "the good guy" will shatter.

What am I supposed to do when people lie about posts that are right there??? 🤦‍♀️Put a huge neon sign about the things I've spoken about? It's crazy at this point, that they will make stuff up just to spread hate. The phrenology thing really got me cause I... don't analyze heads? I don't remember ever doing that?

They must get uncomfortable when there's no evidence to support what they were taught. Mere historical facts, on their own, make them feel insecure. They're lashing out at me, the person who presents the facts.

No evidence of Zeus being portrayed as "Black"? -> Racist.

Pointing out that Inanna and Ishtar and Aphrodite were never seen as interchangeable? -> Racist.

Pointing out that archaeological and linguistic evidence points out to Andromeda being Near Eastern (still a poc in their book but apparently not poc "enough"??) and not "Black"? -> Racist.

No evidence of ancient Greek areas being as diverse as modern Chicago? -> Racist.

I'd like to say to these people: Just because things are not as you pictured them, it doesn't mean that there's racism there. Sometimes... you are just wrong. Or you have been taught wrong. And the actual problem there is that lying is happening. Sometimes things... are not about you and your pov. Don't force a foreign culture into fitting your pov because other cultures are not here to serve you.

Perhaps, for some reason, people think that I point out misinformation so people cannot use this misinformation to counter racists. As if there are no real and accurate historical facts, or even common sense, to use against racists. You don't have to lie about Zeus and Cleopatra and Aphrodite in order to make your point. By spreading misinformation about Greek figures you take part in a long harmful trend of people doing that.

Finally, I was never opposed to conversation. If someone has other facts that contradict mine, we can do some back and forth. I might counter with other facts, they might counter with new facts, etc etc. But so far I haven't seen any of these hate-anons give any real things that I can read, study, or counter. I've said multiple times that if there was evidence to really counter what we know so far, I would choose the side of evidence.

I personally wouldn't gain anything by refusing evidence. I am always on the side of what is more accurate since I want things to be passed on as they were intended. I don't want povs like "American modern feminist lens" to teach Greeks what their culture is. We have history for that. And when I don't know about something, I might present ancient povs and accounts but in the end, if they're not enough for me to say something with certainty, I'll just say "I don't know".

Eitherway... Thank you anon for the uplifting message 💙

[t0kidal]

Return From Origins Part 4

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

(Ok! Time for serious talk, serious talk only here.)

Part 3 ; Masterlist

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

After relocating to Kalego’s office:

“You knew that those who returned to origins have decided to devote their lives to destruction beyond all reasoning and whatever the hell they want with no regards for their rank and the rank of others as well as their own safety and the well being of others! Why! How could you make that decision! Are you out of your mind!?”

“… I returned to origins because I couldn’t stand living by the laws of people who left me behind. And that those laws, both social and legal, allowed those who were merely physically stronger than me to cause me harm or challenge me…”

“And what about us? Opera, Shichiro, Me? Were we not enough for you? Were we not there for you to help when you needed us?!”

“You were, You were enough for me... but that’s the worst part... that I chose to throw that tantrum despite that. Maybe in an effort to prove my own strength and determine my own capabilities because I couldn’t stand leeching onto the three of you.”

“... You left… turned your back on demon society.”

“I left so that I wouldn’t hurt anyone at Babyls...”

“Yes, and instead you chose to terrorize some obscure village in turn.”

“BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T MEAN AS MUCH TO ME!”

“...”

After a long pause...

“... What made you come back?”

“I was bored... and I noticed over time… that things started to change… I started to miss what I had…”

“... sigh”

He was torn. But you knew that he would choose his duty over this waning relationship, after all both of you might only say "we went to school together" and nothing more. You really did miss them... but perhaps because you weren’t strong enough to forgive your clan for disappearing, you weren’t able to keep the demons who were there for you later in life. 

“I’m not a forgiving demon… Shichiro told me you were on probation of some kind, so as Babyls’ guard dog, consider the fact that I’m watching you. Pull anything out of line or put any of the students here in danger and I will put. you. down.”

“Understood. I wouldn’t have it any other way, Kalego.”

He pauses at his name, but doesn’t say anything else.

“Ah, before I forget, I have a son now.”

“WHAAAT!?”

~~~

As expected, when betrayed, that dog won’t forgive easily. But hopefully, with time, you could learn to trust each other again.

For now, it’s all about Iruma-

Something bumps into you as you made your way back to the library.

“I-I’m so sorry, Ms.-!!”

Your eyes lock, and the nameless student freezes in fear. 

‘Hm? Are they actually frozen?’ 

That’s not the best quality to have when trying to survive in the netherworld...

“E-EEP! I’MSORRY IT WON’THAPPEN AGAIN!” they quickly yell and run off.

‘At least they were polite about it...’ 

But this does raise the question on what to do about your eyes... 

Contacts would be the most secure than glasses... though generally uncomfortable.

Such musings followed you back to the library where you continued to think whilst organizing some of the books there.

Perhaps... a veil? Most of the time only demons of high society wore those... and while they were held as a status symbol as well as a fashion piece there was a kind of... allure to them that you thought wouldn’t suit your current state of wild hair and body build from life in the wilderness.

Maybe if you had stayed.

“Y/n-chan~!”

Ah, the principal.

“Hello, Sullivan.”

“Hm~ I just thought I’d stop by and give you a little something that should help you during your time here~”

He presents a simple, metal, blind mask. Nothing too ornate save for gentle inked etchings. (hhhhhh spent so long looking for a reference, it’s just “fatui mask” from genshin or whatever you want to imagine there.)

Your concerns with having your vision inhibited are eased as you retained full vision, must’ve been due to some magic...

“It suits you~!”

“Thank you again, Sullivan... for everything really.”

“It was no problem~!”

“I have a question though... what exactly do you get out of me being part of your clan? You and I both know that as... well... myself, it doesn’t reflect well.”

“On the contrary~! I think having you around would be good for Iruma! And I get to have a lovely daughter! Though she is a little rough around the edges! Not to mention, this is an opportunity to see if the harm caused by the Netherworld’s shortcomings could be redeemed...” 

His voice takes on a more serious tone. You had heard that he was around to witness the demon king’s disappearance... perhaps the backlash from such could be partially to blame for your own mistakes, but that isn’t entirely true. For now, for the sake of those who come after (who will do better), it’s best to suck up and ensure they don’t go astray.

“Wait, did you say daughter?”

“Well what else would you be?”

“Uh... some kind of proxy... or something...”

“Now now, because if Iruma is my grandson, and you’re his mom it’s only logical that you’re my daughter~! You are his mom yes~?” he peers at you from behind his spectacles. 

“I’m... yes, I’m his mom...” saying it aloud sounded condemning... not that you minded though.

“And don’t worry~! Opera and I will be there to help him grow!”

“That’s... a relief... I actually wanted to talk to you about his education.”

“Of Course!”

You spent the rest of your evening like that, till it was time to return to your son at least, talking about methods to teach him how to survive.

You knew it would be a little risky but you really wanted to teach him survival as soon as possible. Sullivan, reasonably hesitant on the matter, eventually relented on the grounds that either Opera or him would supervise. 

Mostly because your idea of survival training would be to live like a wild hell beast again. But, you both agreed that that could wait till Iruma was a little older than infancy.

~~~

You’re back with Iruma again. 

He’s staring at you, a little fatter now, but that was for the better.

Perfect for belly raspberries and chubby cheek kissies. 

How could you even describe this feeling.

“gaa!”

“Yes, yes, you’re so lovely and cute Iruma~”

Unconditional love. It felt like a warm beam of sun on a clear autumn day. It felt like being encompassed in a little den, like the hell deer and their little fauns or the dire bear and her cubs. It felt like hope, and anticipation for the days ahead that you two would get to share. It was like a whole other welcoming world you were familiar with but completely foreign to. 

“My little Iruma~ I love you.”

Yes, the words ‘I love you’ might never be spoken to anyone else other than this little bundle of joy, this complete adoration and devotion to another in such a way that you would flip the world upside down if only to protect your son.

Your Son. Your beautiful baby boy.

Should his biological parents even dare to approach him after leaving behind such a gift of life and love you weren’t sure what you’d do. 

Probably go ape shit.

“Iruma~ Mamamamama. You... you have so much room to grow...”

That afternoon nothing could be heard but a bit of baby talk and whispered wonders of the love of a mother for her child. It filled the room, it floated on the air like a blessing, it traveled through the cracks under the door and into the cracks in your heart and sealed them shut.

Every moment in your life couldn’t compare to the opportunity handed to you, to love and be loved like there was no other. You’d hope that everyone might be able to feel like this one day.

~~~

(Thank you for waiting! I was thinking about how I should go forward with writing this piece in addition to The Alef. I wanted clean writing but clean writing, as I realized backreading everything, felt... a little sterile and didn’t capture the right essence I wanted for each moment portrayed in the story.

Hopefully it’ll be a smooth transition to a more flexible writing style.)

[pisceanvixen]

Anger, healing, & everything in between

I've always told myself and others that healing isn't linear. There's no one correct way to heal from past traumas and abuse. In a sense, it tends to come in stages...much like the workings of grief. It's kind of like you're grieving the person you were before you started healing yourself. And that comes with everything. The good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly.

The one thing I do understand the most about healing is that you're actually growing into the new you. You're forever changing and growing into the person that you're meant to be. However, that also means letting go of past tendencies and people who make your growth stagnant.

In this third pregnancy, I've learned to finally let go of those who didn't suit me or my well being. I've stopped communicating with individuals who only really provided me with a one way friendship. I stayed friends with people because they were exes (in attempt to keep the peace, but who am I kidding? Ex-girlfriends absolutely despise me & their jealousy speaks volumes), girlfriends of close friends, or just friends with my husband. But my connections with those people shouldn't feel like a weight, right? I explained to Avery how I felt and how uncomfortable and disrespectful these people have been to me. He understood and he didn't question it. And I've never had to question his loyalty and respect for me. So, we both just simply deleted these people off of our Instagram or explained to some that we will no longer be communicating with them.

Then this leads me to anger. Now, that I'm pregnant again...weed has not been in my life. I've been having to deal with an immense amount of new and returning feelings. During my pregnancy with my daughter, I felt a mixture of sadness, excitement, and happiness. The sadness was mainly because I was pregnant during 2020. The events of COVID and constant social injustices made me feel so much more then I already felt. My mother always told me that I care too deeply, mainly because I'm a highly sensitive being (to which my daughter is as well). So, I feel the sadness and anger of others so intently and deeply, that it genuinely hurts me too. However, I always felt such kindness being pregnant at that time. As hard as it was to believe there was any good in humanity, I saw it. I felt it, too.

But with this pregnancy, I feel nothing but rage, contempt, and anger. I was starting to worry because I felt that all this anger was so unhealthy and stressful, especially for the baby. However, I learned. that anger was apart of the healing process. I spent so much time being sad and feeling like I deserved what happened to me. I felt like I blamed myself for a lot of things that weren't even in my line of control. And now, I'm angry. I'm angry that I was mistreated. I am angry because I deserved better. I am angry because I wish I could go back in time and hug the old me; tell my old self that it wasn't my fault. That it was okay to feel sad, but not okay to harm myself in ways that I did.

Anger is your friend. It protects you because it knows you deserve better then what you received. It's helping you realize that what happened to you wasn't okay and it was never right. People think that anger isn't a part of healing... but it is. It's not a lifestyle, but a mere stepping stone into the next stage of your life. It's a part of your grief...to the person you once were. And once I've let my anger take its course, I realized that I can finally start to repair the damages and unlearn the unhealthy habits I've taken place in before.

Don't get me wrong though, just because I'm healing doesn't mean I won't kick your ass if necessary. I just want people to know that's obviously my last resort to disrespect.

And please, if you're reading this then understand that anger is a human feeling. You're not any less of an adult because you get upset over someone disrespecting you. You're not childish just because you yelled at a man for disrespecting your boundaries at a bar. I'm not inciting violence, I'm saying that you should allow yourself to feel those feelings fully and wholeheartedly so that you can finally move on. Pent up anger that's just been pushed aside or hidden under the shitty advice of "oh don't be so angry" or "move on" comments will just lead to worse consequences for yourself.

Be human. Feel your damn feelings and grow into the best possible version of yourself.

[linklethehistorian]

Total Eclipse (1995) — A Movie Review by linklethehistorian (Post 2/4)

(Continuation of review placed under the cut for length and spoilers; proceed at your own risk.)

The Good

Casting & Acting

Okay, so let’s start out by addressing the first (and arguably also one of the very most important) decisions of this film: the casting for its major characters, and how well each of those chosen actors do their parts.

In my many ventures around the internet, I have seen quite a bit of criticism and doubt aimed towards the acting skills of the movie’s main stars — and especially the casting choice for Arthur Rimbaud, in particular (the role of which River Phoenix originally intended to try to obtain, before his tragic death lead to it ultimately being given to Leonardo DiCaprio) — but despite this incredibly harsh attitude that some have taken, I need to make it very clear that I truly don’t believe any of the film’s numerous issues lie with them or their skills at all.

Considering the material they were given to work with, the lines they had to say, and the individuals doubtlessly directing their actions every now and again, I honestly feel that they all did a simply stellar job at being exactly what they were told to be, in a wholly convincing and authentic manner.

David Thewlis, with the aid of good makeup and an excellent set of acting skills, is effortlessly able to pull off the role of Paul Verlaine in the way that Total Eclipse endeavors to present him — both in appearance and personality, and the same can very much be said of the as-of-then young, up-and-coming Leonardo DiCaprio, with his role as Arthur Rimbaud.

Certainly, the two characters are often extremely melodramatic and over-the-top with their actions, and, as many point out, both absurdly unlikeable and largely unsympathetic to boot, but this is not the fault of the two actors portraying them — it is the fault of the writing that makes them out to be this way; Thewlis and DiCaprio are merely doing their jobs, and doing them very well, I dare say.

To David’s great credit, it is impossible not to be genuinely disturbed by the sheer sense of authenticity whenever his character descends into violence; particularly horrifyingly real are those parts in which he drunkenly abuses his wife and child, and the penultimate scene in which he fires his gun upon Rimbaud to prevent him from walking out of his life — both of which, as a victim of abuse myself, I find to present the cycle of abuse in such highly realistic and uncomfortable ways that it often sends my system into true fight or flight mode. It is extremely difficult for me to watch, and yet, exactly because of that, I find myself nevertheless filled with a deep sense of appreciation for the work that he has done in portraying it so well.

His versatility in seamlessly transitioning between moods in fairly rapid succession when necessary is also something to which I would also like to offer some measure of strong praise — not just for those two aforementioned scenes, but especially in them, as well; the lashing out in a fit of rage with or without any measure of provocation and then immediately turning around to apologizing, while crying and/or turning the degradation and threats of harm upon himself, is something he manages to perform very well as Paul.

Furthermore, while ordinarily I would not think this to be very flattering to say about someone, I also find him to just make for an exceedingly fine drunkard in general; I have seen many different portrayals of drunken people throughout various forms of media, but I honestly have to say that even among all of them, I find his performance to be the very most convincing.

As for Leonardo DiCaprio, it seems he may not be everyone’s preferred actor for the part of Rimbaud, but I think it’s extremely unfair of certain people to use their preference for another star who is no longer with us — and who never even got to be properly cast for the part — to put down DiCaprio’s performance by comparison to what their imagination tells them River Phoenix’s would have been.

All things considered, I find that he performs very admirably in his effort to portray Total Eclipse’s interpretation of the youthful 19th century poet. Not only is his soft, youthful, unassuming appearance a near perfect approximation of Arthur’s so-often-called ‘angelic’ charm, but his frankly staggering amount of talent in the delivery of his lines does an excellent service to the script he was given.

Yes, as many have pointed out, there are a good few times when he seems to possess an almost total lack of emotion in his words — or at the very least, a heavy detachedness between himself and the concepts and thoughts he expresses, but this is intentional; it is how the movie itself wants Rimbaud to come off — as a cynical, cold-hearted, apathetic, sadistic, arrogant, obnoxious little edgelord brat who has basically no room in his non-existent heart for kindness or sympathy towards others. 

The only times at which the young genius (and hence, DiCaprio) is ever allowed to show strong emotion in this film (with the exception of one singular scene I will be talking about later) is when he speaks of or reacts to things that impact himself in a negative way, but when he does, it becomes very apparent that the actor is more than capable of doing it — if only afforded the chance.

As I have stated earlier in this section, it is indeed true that much of Leonardo’s actions and the few strong emotions he does express throughout the movie can come off as rather melodramatic, but on that note, I would like to remind everyone that, genius or not, Arthur is still just a teenager who throughout most if not all of this movie is likely experiencing many of the ups and downs that usually come with the types of changes his body is still undergoing; it would be much less realistic if DiCaprio was to make sure that in every single line, the boy came off as nothing except perfectly put together and constantly mature.

While not all teens are this way and this trait is not necessarily confined to teens only, it is true that many teens can be melodramatic in their younger years, and just in general, from what we do know of Rimbaud, this particular facet of his personality is not necessarily an inaccurate depiction; we know that he felt very strongly about his beliefs, convictions, and aspirations, and having gone through many extreme situations in his life — many more, I should say, than this film will ever begin to tell you or depict — as he did, it is hardly out of the realm of possibility that he had many moments in his life where his angst and overall high emotions were very apparent to the world.

And yes, although I will later have very much to say about the absolutely sadistic way that Arthur is so often written to be in this film, it should nevertheless be stated that the ability of his actor to make him appear so incredibly merciless and borderline sociopathic in his words and actions is something that I do laud — at least in the sense that it is clearly an incredible performance of exactly what the script calls for him to do; there were many moments in this that I found genuinely uncomfortable to watch because of it, and given that it is what the writing intended, I can only put that down as a good thing on Leonardo’s part.

Oh, and speaking of things which are uncomfortable, I have indeed seen far more than a few complaints from various viewers claiming that the apparent age difference of the two lead characters and/or the actors who portray them due to their physical appearance makes it difficult to watch and is therefore a terrible casting choice, but…well, we will get into that more when we talk about the good parts of this film’s Mature Content and Overall Historical Accuracy.

As for Romane Bohringer, who plays Verlaine’s battered and yet still-hopeful wife, Mathilde, I only give her the greatest of praise for her performance; it is clear that the film intends her to be the most likable and sympathetic character in this story, and she performs that role exceedingly well. Her struggles to believe in and change her abusive husband for so long are nothing if not relatable to those of us who have been through similar experiences, and her sweet performance makes the scenes all the more heartbreaking when they happen.

With skills as good as hers, it is only a shame we did not get to see her a bit more often than we did, but given the story’s direction, I suppose that was mostly inevitable.

The woman who plays Mathilde’s mother, Denise Chalem, is also quite sweet and likable, which to our known knowledge — at least as regards her approach to Mathilde and, at times, Paul —  she typically was; likewise, Andrzej Seweryn, the man playing Mathilde’s father, was also very serviceable in his acting, for the brief times that we see him.

The rest of the cast I would not say particularly stand out by any means, but they are all at least decent, and I cannot say I have anything negative to note about them or their performances that I would say is in any way their fault.

Writing & Script

Despite the overall writing and script being…not the best for many reasons I’ll discuss later, there are actually a lot of lines in this movie that I found to be pretty quotable and/or thought provoking, and a few scenes or partial scenes I genuinely did enjoy to some extent unironically, for one reason or another.

For the sake of brevity, I’ll probably just later include a link to a compilation to most of those lines and scenes [here (link TBD)] when I have the time and opportunity to upload them, as it’s not as if there’s a lot of great value to be said about most of them that I won’t have already mentioned elsewhere in this review.

While at the time of writing this, I have not yet thrown the compilation together, I am almost certain that within it, I will have included the end of the sixth scene, in which Paul quotes Foolish Virgin, the Infernal Spouse for what is probably the third time throughout this film as he watches Arthur walk off down the street after the teen gives his monologue about love, thinking to himself that there never was a man who wanted to ‘escape reality’ so much as Rimbaud and questioning why that was.

Really, although I do adore the delivery of this particular line from Thewlis and the visual imagery surrounding it and that is why I am sure I will have listed it as one of the better moments in the movie, I have to be honest that I’m not sure I can properly appreciate the actual context of it or the implications it holds within said context, though that is mostly something to be saved for discussion in the “bad” section of this review, rather than here. 

Nevertheless, being the fan of that particular piece of Arthur’s that I am, I do appreciate so many references and excerpts from it being included in the film (even if it does lead one to wonder at times if the writers had only ever read just two or three of his poems total, as this, the Sleeper in the Valley, and L’Eternity are really the only major ones I can recall being quoted or referenced throughout the entirety of Total Eclipse.)

I probably won’t have included this in the compilation because I don’t really find any of these scenes to be all that great or exciting on the whole, but it does bear saying that I did very much appreciate their decision to show Arthur’s bond with his siblings, however brief the scenes may have been; the dynamic he and Isabelle in particular seem to share as brother and sister throughout this mostly seems very sweet, although I’m somewhat unclear on how accurate that is to reality, given that historically, we seem to know very little about her role in his life except that she was with him on his deathbed, and sided with her mother after his death in wanting to destroy some of his works; the only bonds we know he had for certain with his siblings were with his brother Frederic in his childhood and seemingly his other sister, Vitalie, given how much he mourned her very premature and tragic death later in life.

Relatedly to the topic, I’m also pleasantly surprised that in scene 24, Frederic is for once shown to be the one more disturbing the Rimbaud family dinner than Arthur himself, given this film’s penchant for otherwise making him the center of every problem that exists at any given moment; a small reprieve though it may be, it is, regardless, a nice one.

A lot of the rest of these scenes that had parts or lines I enjoyed are even more of a mixed bag in regards to having both ‘good’ and ‘bad’ moments; for example, I have some very…strong feelings about scene 27 — where Paul and Arthur are drinking at a bar, supposedly a few days after Verlaine abused his wife — on the whole, but even so, I did find a lot of the dialogue here between the two poets to be very good in theory even if not always in context, and quite telling in regards to the older man’s weaknesses, too. 

Likewise, I think that some of these lines that Arthur says here and in a few other scenes in rebuttal of Paul’s actions towards both Mathilde and Arthur himself are quite hard hitting, honest, and realistic in the same painful and disturbing way that a lot of Paul’s acts of abuse are, regardless of whether or not these are all historically backed; in particular, I found the part in which Rimbaud reacts incredulously to Verlaine’s claims of faithfulness and then asks with a smile what he means by that to be very human, believable, powerful, and gut-wrenching, even among all of the other very good examples that exist.

My personal feelings about the murky nature of this moment aside, I also think the choice to have Arthur examine Paul’s ring within this same part just before stabbing him with the knife was an excellent — if extreme —  way of portraying his thoughts and attitude towards Paul’s constant hypocrisy.

Although I don’t feel it is done quite nearly enough in this film to make for a remotely believable building grounds of a relationship, one thing I definitely do applaud overall was the choice to include the more light-hearted traveling montage after Verlaine decides to begin traveling with his affair partner, as I believe that it serves to highlight the very important fact that their relationship — like nearly all abusive dynamics that have ever existed — was not all pain and suffering, all of the time. By showing some moments which, without the context of the rest of their relationship, could almost be considered ‘cute’ or heartwarming, you appropriately embody the way and the reason why many abusive relationships form to begin with: because, however few or many there may be in a given scenario, there are those moments in which everything seems perfect and happy, and which draw you in to believing that things can be good and that they can change for the better.

Beyond that, the two other moments that I enjoyed in an unironic manner and think bear a brief mention are the well-acted partial reading of an actual letter Arthur wrote to Paul after he abandoned him in London, and, prior to that, the set of lines in scene 42 where Paul essentially asks Arthur to also be willing to go to jail for him so that he can have a chance of reconciling with his wife, which I feel further highlights the utter selfishness and downright absurdity the Parisian man displayed when it came to his indecisiveness over choosing a partner.

Ah, but that’s not exactly all the good there is to be had in Total Eclipse; no, as with a decent chunk of other movies that could be categorized as ‘bad’ on any major level, there are some very good bits of ironic enjoyment to be found in this film, too. 

Indeed, if you’re a fan of movie moments that can make you absolutely cringe or laugh from the sheer absurdity, then I’m very confident you’ll find some parts of this silver-screen disaster absolutely hilarious.

Starting off strong with its flexing of its level of cringeworthy absurdity, this movie makes it clear just from scene 3 onwards that it has a certain love for its main characters pointlessly mimicking animals by having Arthur bark at Paul as they pass each other at the train station, and — oh, did you think that was just a bizarre one-time gag? Don’t be ridiculous! Scene 8 exists solely to prove you wrong about that, as it shows the young genius approach a set of dog statues on the mantle of a fireplace in Mathilde’s parents’ home, only to pick one up and relentlessly pant and bark at it while staring in a mirror for a whole 27 seconds, before he finally smashes it in the fireplace. Why does this happen, you ask? Because it can, I suppose.

Oh, but the fun isn’t over just yet! If you thought the writers were content with just barking alone, rest assured that they were not biased only towards one simple animal; they also made sure, in checking off their strange wishlist of unusual things to make Leonardo DiCaprio do while pretending to be a deceased poet, to have a scene in which he crawls around on his hands and knees on the grass in a field amidst many goats, bleating and pretending to hike his leg to his fellow actor, who also gets in on the goaty action. There is not a single doubt in my mind that the brief moment in which they start cracking up while acting out this scene is their genuine laughter, given just how absurd and unbelievable all of this truly is; the makers of the film ought to consider themselves absurdly lucky that they were able to convince DiCaprio to do all of this before he reached the height of his fame, lest they have to pay him more compensation for the absolute embarrassment of these scenes.

This scene has absolutely ruined my ability to look at a goat the same ever again, and that is most certainly devastating news, considering that there are at least three scenes that seem to include them for whatever bizarre reason — whether they are just walking around in the background or actually interacting with the cast in some very unnecessary way.

Other great-but-sadly-not-so-animal-related weird and mortifying moments in this movie include a half-dressed DiCaprio doing a shoulder blade dance, several instances of awkward and/or wildly out of place poetry quoting and monologuing purely for the sake of a reference, even where it clearly does not fit into the dialogue properly or otherwise feels nothing like a human conversation, moments where the editors simply give up and awkwardly transition or cut to the next scene mid-dialogue, and one of my personal favorites: a particular instance in which the audio is so poor and Thewlis spoke so softly that a line which one would assume was meant to be of fair importance is actually now entirely unintelligible.

I have tried rewatching scene 41 at least fifty times by now trying to figure out what Paul claims to be his greatest fear in response to Arthur’s question, and even asked another of their opinion, and yet still I and the person I asked can only come to this one hilarious yet certainly wrong conclusion: that Verlaine’s answer is, “I wouldn’t like to mislay my balls.”

A strange yet certainly understandable concern, I suppose, under the circumstances; though I dare say the argument could be made that perhaps he already did, since he certainly doesn’t seem to have any when it comes to decision making.

Yes, while I would never say that the greater bulk of Total Eclipse or its subject matter is anywhere near amusing in any sense, it is undeniable all of the little moments like the above are indeed goldmines for accidental comedy.

Costumes & Scenery

While I wouldn’t really consider myself a fashion expert by any stretch of the imagination and thus can’t 100% attest to the authenticity of the entire wardrobe for all of the characters used throughout the film, at least from what I do know of the fashion trends of the era and the outfits worn by the actual people that are being portrayed in the movie, I definitely do feel that the costumes used here are all very appropriate and genuine overall (though I do have one minor nitpick I will discuss later).

The more extreme makeup used in this film, as well, is very good and exceedingly convincing, and I must have it said, both giving props to the casting and the costuming at once, that the way Thewlis is done up for his scenes as the much older version of Verlaine is so strikingly accurate to the real existing photos of the actual poet at that age that it is uncanny and, in a way, almost eerie.

As for the sets and the filming locations chosen, they are all excellently selected and tailored to fit in well with the time period in question.

I’m not certain if this particular comment should be categorized best under “costumes and scenery” or “editing and filming”, but either way, I also think it bears saying that although I have read the odd complaint about the choice to make the film look so unbelievably dreary in its palette at every single moment, I personally find it to be a well-suited decision in the case of this particular movie.

Yes, I understand the argument that cinematically, it can get tiring from time to time seeing anything pre-1900s (and sometimes early 1900s as well) being presented through a dreary lens, as though the world were devoid of all color back then, but I think that in this particular case, the symbolism of the gloomy design goes far beyond just that of representing it as an older time period; the very nature of the subject itself — both the story it is telling in its writing and the actual events themselves — is incredibly dark and bleak, and I think given that fact, they couldn’t have chosen a better pallette if they’d tried.

Music & Sound Effects

Okay, this is something that truly deserves much more positive attention than it gets.

Although there may be a lot of things that I could speak very poorly of about this film, the soundtrack is absolutely not one of them; the music — done by Jan A.P. Kaczmarek — is easily one of the best things about this movie, and in my eyes, an incredibly underrated masterpiece.

It is honestly difficult for me to put my true feelings on the matter into words, but I suppose it will just have to do to say that many of the tracks heard within just have this lovely, nostalgic, enigmatic feeling to them that, when married with the already wonderful costuming and the film’s intentionally dreary color scheme, lend themselves very well into the intended aesthetics of the various scenes and blend completely perfectly into the late Victorian time period in which this story is set, as well.

Indeed, at times I would even dare to say that the music is sadly much better at capturing and evoking the proper emotion of a given scene than the writing, filming, or directing is, and it is also very pleasant and easy on the ears when listened to outside of the movie, too.

As far as the other sound effects go, well, I have the odd complaint or two that I’ll mention later, but overall, they’re just very serviceable — nothing particularly groundbreaking or remarkable, but not really below par, either. There’s simply not much good or bad to be said about most of them at all; they’re purely quite average and decent, in an unnoteworthy sort of way.

Editing & Filming

Well…the camera is steady in most scenes. It’s usually aimed at the character that’s speaking — most of the time, at least.

And like I said, the color palette of everything is well-suited for the movie, if that counts in this section.

‘Mature’ Content

Well, I am pretty damn asexual, so I can’t really comment too much on the value of the sexual content here from the perspective of someone who is watching those scenes looking for “sexiness”, but I suppose if you’re here to see any of the three lead actors in various states of undress, there is a fair lot of that here to be had, and then some — what with it being labeled an erotic film and all.

Purely from a narrative perspective, I do think there is some value in a few of the more sexually charged (and/or nude) scenes here, as well, as some of them do lend themselves admirably to historical accuracy.

In the case of scene 34, for example — where Verlaine reunites with his wife at the hotel in Brussels — we are given further establishment of a primary character motivation behind Paul’s actions not only by the continued exposition of his interest purely in his wife’s body alone, but also by the very powerful discussion and argument between himself and his affair partner that is later prompted by said thing when the teenage boy discovers his elder lover in the room and Verlaine gladly tells him of how Mathilde knew to undress herself before meeting him.

Naturally, as I began to state a bit earlier in the “Casting and Acting” subsection, I have of course seen multiple complaints from viewers which stated that seeing the rather mature looking Thewlis paired with the teen-passing DiCaprio in erotic, suggestive, or even just plain romantic scenes felt deeply uncomfortable at best, or even that they could not stomach the content and considered quitting watching as a result; however, whilst all of that is an extremely valid feeling to have and I very much agree with the sentiment that it often feels rather disturbing to watch, I still have to push back against the insinuation that this was in any way an incorrect decision regarding casting.

Anyone who knows anything about — or has even so much as merely seen photos of — Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud, should easily be able to recognize and appreciate that this is nothing more than an attempt at a very accurate depiction of the two men, and, in fact, if anything, is perhaps still not extreme enough.

Arthur, at the mere sixteen that he was when he and Paul first met in person, naturally had a very youthful appearance, and Verlaine, already at a mature 27 years old as it was, also happened to already look easily twice his own actual age; the way that they are depicted in this movie by their respective actors is thus by no means an exaggeration of how they actually appeared in real life, and if that makes you uncomfortable, then good! It probably should. At least at the time of filming this movie, Leonardo DiCaprio was a full grown adult; up until near the very last year of his relationship with Paul, Arthur was so young that, according to the age ratings of his own country, he wouldn’t even have been able to watch this movie without adult supervision.

Let that sink in for a moment: Arthur was so young when he and Paul were together that, throughout most of their relationship, he wouldn’t even be allowed to watch the film about said relationship on his own had it existed at the time.

Honestly, as someone who is more than well-versed in all of the actual events this movie is claiming to portray, the mere idea that someone might be walking into Total Eclipse with even the slightest expectation of ‘comfort’ is beyond my ken; even if it had been completely accurate to its source material and the true events in every way as it so claims (which it most certainly was not), it would still just be even more absurd to think that you are in for a pleasant and heartwarming experience on any level.

Total Eclipse is uncomfortable, yes; even taking the age differences and the physically apparent age differences out of the picture entirely for a moment, there are still many heavily disturbing elements and moments to this movie that could potentially be considered very mature topics, and regarding that other content that might be considered ‘mature’ but is not necessarily sexual in nature, as I have also said before, this film does not pull any punches when it comes to them. The sheer feeling of authenticity behind the acting of these various types of violence and forms of abuse portrayed throughout this story is — especially from the perspective of someone who has been through similar — greatly disconcerting at best.

However, that — even if nothing else can be said for the film in terms of its writing, directing, or overall accuracy — is exactly as it should be; from its very conception, due to its subject matter, Total Eclipse was born to be uncomfortable, and if it had not been, then that too would have just been one of its failures rather than something deserving of praise.

Indeed, if you are just looking for good, genuinely disturbing content, a lot of shock value, and/or if you just want to be made uncomfortable in general, you will almost certainly be able to get your fix of that sort of thing by watching this film, for that is something Total Eclipse is not only built upon but also exceptionally good at providing.

Overall Historical Accuracy

Well, if we’re being truly honest here, there’s far more I can think of to say that isn’t good or accurate than that is, but that doesn’t mean the film is without any good points when it comes to historical accuracy.

As I’ve taken to pointing out already throughout this section, for one thing, we have some very excellent and authentic feeling sets and filming locations, as well as wonderful costuming and makeup — with some of the outfits and makeup looks being greatly true to the overall appearance and certain known wardrobe pieces of the genuine historical figures being represented. 

For another, the casting choices for Arthur and Paul, especially in the realm of their physical visages, were as close as one could reasonably hope to get to having carbon copies of them, without sacrificing any skill along the way — and with much consideration towards what was (sometimes rather unfortunately) asked of them in the script, the amount of talent expressed in their portrayals is through the roof, as well.

By the same token, Romane’s interpretation of Mathilde, insofar as the writing allowed, was excellent, and the same can be said of the actors who played her parents.

And then, of course, there is the overall uncomfortable nature of the movie itself, which, even if not done or channeled into all of the correct places or ways all of the time, is still well within the spirit of the troubling true events insofar as that any interpretation or retelling of this tale absolutely should leave its viewers deeply unsettled; it should be raw, it should be dark, and it should be horrific — and all of that, it certainly was.

There’s also a fair bit of poetry quoting and referencing done in here, as well as the reading out of one of Rimbaud’s actual letters, and a few other small real life references scattered here and there — such as having Arthur refer to his mother as “Mouth of Darkness” in one scene, so if just having some historical references here is enough to fill your quota, regardless of if they’re actually well done or the rest of the plot is accurate, then I guess you’d be decently satisfied with this.

Other

Hmmm, let’s see…are there other good things about this movie? Well, yes, actually; it has an end — eventually, at least! That means that no matter how much you can feel your soul is withering away inside your husk as you watch this film, a part of you can still survive knowing that although it may feel like an eternity is passing you by, there will ultimately be a reprieve and you can breathe a sigh of relief when those credits finally roll.

…I’m just kidding — somewhat; it’s not actually that bad, probably. 

I mean, despite the fact that every single time the movie ends, I wonder what in the Hell I just did with two hours of my life and vow to never do it again, I’ve still watched it like 40+ times by this point, so…it can’t be all that irredeemable, right? Something has to be keeping me coming back to this movie and making me sit through it every time like a deer in the headlights. Morbid curiosity, maybe — or all of those good points I’ve mentioned above. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I’m a hopeless Rimbaud fan that will consume anything as long as he’s involved in it for at least five seconds, and this just happens to be the most easily consumable piece of media that isn’t his own works. Take your pick. 

I’d like to say it’s so bad it’s good, but I’m not sure I’d go that far with it — both because I don’t think the movie itself really lends itself well overall to comedy, and because I don’t think it’s fair on the actors, musical artists, makeup artists, and set and costume designers to insult the film that much, as again, their performances and work on Total Eclipse were far too good to lump them into such a category.

Either way, I can definitely say there are things I’ve enjoyed less than this movie, if nothing else (for example, The Addams Family 2, or Final Fantasy Type-0).

[Click here for Part 0: Preamble]

[Click here for Part 2: The Bad]

[Click here for Part 3: The Takeaway]