#anything they do is futile and doomed to fail

[the-girl-with-too-many-ideas]

[thewertsearch]

TT: So what about Jade? […] TT: You didn't tell her your expedition with her would result in your death, let alone one she'd inadvertently cause. TT: Or that she'd be stuck with the job of resuscitating you. Did you? TG: what am i really supposed to say TG: hey were gonna hunt frogs til you shoot me through the jack TG: then i die and youve got to make out with me TG: that kind of changes how the whole thing goes doesnt it

Plus, after the first loop, you already knew you weren't going to tell her. The window of opportunity to decide the circumstances of your death had already closed.

TG: you dont know anything TG: about what i was feeling or what happened on lofaf TG: you were all pavement faced and babbling your throefester speak and flipping off the shit with your own crazy deathwish thing why do you think you know what was going through my head TG: youre just assuming and throwing around psyche buzzwords like aspd complex disorder

I don't think we've ever seen Dave this angry.

I think he's earned it, to be honest. These kids have been stuck in Skaia's emotional pressure cooker for nearly 24 hours, and they’re all reaching their respective breaking points. Dave's had just about enough, and he needs to let it out.

TG: im telling you if i said anything at all about it she probably doesnt even fire her gun once and all im doing is dragging her into a doomed timeline with me TT: I guess I'm learning to be impressed by your sense of obligation to inevitable misfortune. It's a strange case of inspiration through futility.

Well, it’s complicated.

On a surface level, it really does look like his misfortune was predestined - but the more of Homestuck I read, the more I gravitate toward the theory I linked in my previous post - that the Alpha Timeline can only 'force' you to do things that are already consistent with your personality. After all, we still haven't really seen a time loop that forces a character to act against their own nature.

If it's true, then perhaps Dave’s getting these shitty loops because he expects them – and maybe, if he changed his perspective, he’d start to be presented with kinder ones. It's worth a try, at least.

It’s not like this is exclusively a Sburbian phenomenon, either. Outside of Homestuck, plenty of us feel like our personalities trap us in loops of our own, forcing us to repeatedly experience the same thoughts, actions or situations.

We might not be time travelers, but our own metaphorical loops can feel just as inescapable as the literal ones binding Dave.

TG: i was never that cool with this TT: With what, exactly? TG: you know how you turned out to be this incredibly shitty seer of light and basically failed at that in every way imaginable TT: Hey!

Eh, I think you deserved that one.

[rallentando1011]

empathetic (emphasis on pathetic)

Hamato Donatello did not frequently feel fondness. Nor attraction. Nor much of anything, for that matter.

Feelings were like syrup: superficially sweet yet so easy to boil over, develop a sludgy, sticky mess of. Texturally, they were a resounding no.

And so he avoided them, ignored them at all costs, swept them under the rug then proceeded to incinerate said proverbial rug.

It worked like a charm, time and time and time again without fail.

Until it didn’t.

Somehow, this weird, warm, fuzzy sensation managed to infiltrate his nigh impenetrable defenses and make a muddle of things and his mind, i.e. he was struck by the L-word, i.e. he met you.

So quickly had the almighty fortress of his emotional front crumbled upon your arrival, so quickly had his resolve instinctively melted, so quickly had he caved.

It was terrifying.

He’d never quite seen the appeal in confiding in others. Sure, he had his brothers, father, April, but they were different, steadfast, reliable, family.

Letting new people into your life and mind and feelings was too vulnerable, too complicated, too messy.

Emotions: fickle, fleeting, forlorn, unlike the reliable cogs and circuits and familiarity of his lab and normal life. An anomaly in themselves.

It certainly was not intentional, letting you into his life, his lab, his affection; it was more of you simply waltzing in and staking claim and refusing not to occupy his thoughts at each and every waking hour.

The realization of the existence of his ill-fated infatuation dawned upon him nary a few months following your introduction as he recognized the textbook signs of it.

Feeling comfortable, at ease with you, longing to message and text and talk to you, experiencing restlessness nightly at the thought of you - he was certifiably done for.

If his fancies were unrequited, it may have been easier; just confess to the hopeless romanticism, get utterly rejected, accept the futility of love and how it was doomed from the start, go back to being your companion.

But no, you just had to complicate things further.

Your reciprocated affections, your incessant presence at his side, an accidental I love you or two - it was unbearable.

So he ditched it. Ditched you. Poured himself into his work and holed himself up in the lab.

Was it the coward’s way out: leaning into the easiest option without consideration for the alternative of not being an emotional recluse? Certainly.

Would that hinder him from doing so in the slightest?

Negatory.

He would rather get the situation dealt with earlier on than encourage the muck of emotions between you two to grow, fester, rot.

No chance he’d ever given for a relationship resulted in anything but failure, pain, anger - giving it another shot could only end in a repeat.

So maybe it was for the best that he pushed you away; better to focus on something sturdy, tangible, real rather than whatever blend of oxytocin and endorphins and serotonin and dopamine was convincing your mind that you loved him.

Those hormones, and consequently those feelings, would fade with time.

You’d get over it.

And he would too.

[hawke-from-kirkwall]

Solas. The Dread Wolf. He is an incredibly fascinating character to me. He has many names. His history is tangled and twisting with love, loyalty, pain, wisdom, betrayal, pride, power, fear, failure, regret- each part telling the story of a truly complex and nuanced person. In this Essay I will...

Something I find absolutely fascinating about Solas over the course of DAI and now DATV is that I feel you can see him struggle with the fact that at every turn his desperate belief that those around him are on some level not real people (a belief he holds on to with white knuckle fists because he knows he cannot complete his goal if he allows himself to see them as real) is challenged. Varric, Cole, Sera, Bull, Lavellan, or even an Inquisitor that's not Elvhen, Felessan, even to some extent Mythal, they directly challenge his view of them. He has to silence them or he won't be strong enough to continue his mission- he'd fail again. So he kills his closest friend, can't even look him in the eye when he does it, he breaks up with Lavellan (or distances himself from a friendly Inquisitor), and abandons the Inquisition without a word, even cuts himself off from Cole because Cole knew who he was and could reveal too much.

Solas cuts himself off from anyone and everything that could tear down his idea that they could be REAL, that they could deserve the same chance he and the other ancient elves had to live, or he knows he will abandon his work. He'd once again fail. And Solas fears he couldn't survive that.

So he forces himself to be detached, cold, calculating, deceptive, and strategic. He once again bears the mantle of Dread Wolf, once again the cost is never too high if it means the People are restored.

Solas fascinates me in his obstinate determination to not accept what he sees, and I believe he knows deep down, is true - his original plan succeeded, but the cost was great and that there is truly no way to reverse it. The world of Thedas, as it is now, completely changed from anything he ever wanted, is the result. But change is a part of life. It cannot be stopped. Fighting change or seeking to reverse change only serves to change things further and never in the way you had planned. Ultimately, Solas's plan was doomed from the start- he could succeed in pulling down the veil, he could "minimize the damage", but the world that would result from it would still not be the world he wants. It would still be subject to the thousand years of change it had gone through and would change further still at the abrupt return of magic and spirits to the world. He cannot predict the outcome and consequences that would be the aftermath of his success. And he doesn't want to! He cannot reconcile his failure so he pushes forward to erase what cannot be erased. It's futile. And I don't believe he is fully blind to it. I am certain he knows, even if he refuses to sit with it long enough to admit it.

Solas is a broken man who's so focused on his one failure that the cost of "repair" doesn't matter. HE has to fix it. HE has to sacrifice. HE has to go it alone. Else he might be persuaded to change his mind, to do the selfish thing and move on, when the ancient elvhen no longer have that chance.

So he holds tight to his bitter resolve only to be challenged again at every turn by Rook and their team, old allies and friends, those he had betrayed. Again.

His story is one of pain, loss, regret, failure, twisted purpose and the incredible power of a small seed of hope.

If you choose this end, Solas finally removes his blinders to see the light of hope in front of him. With or without Lavellan taking the journey with him, Solas finally sees what he'd been so forcefully shoving out of his view - it just takes one choice. One right decision to start a journey towards redemption. He cannot be absolved of guilt for his actions. He cannot change the past. But perhaps with time he can redeem his future.

[Me, typing this up at 10am on a Tuesday... like a normal person. Lol]

[jjkamochoso]

The Perfect Fit

Overview: Levi Ackerman begrudgingly finds himself falling in love with the Survey Corps’ seamstress. Will they be able to own up to their feelings for each other? Or is their love doomed to fail before they discover the truths of each other’s hearts? This slow burn reader insert story will be filled with angst, yearning, and a bit of mystery as we slowly unravel the truths behind Y/N’s past… and explore her and Levi’s future!

Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

Chapter 10 linked here

Chapter 12 linked here

Levi Ackerman x female reader

Warnings: cussing

You looked at Levi expectantly. "What do you say, Captain? Ready to run away with me?"

Levi couldn't deny that he was craving a change of scenery as well. With his injuries, he couldn't participate in training and the four bland walls of his office combined with never ending paperwork was enough to make even the most sane man mad. He also really liked the way those words sounded coming from your mouth. He knew he had a duty to humanity and could never drop his responsibilities to run away from it all and live a more peaceful life, but boy, he'd enjoy playing pretend with you for a little while, focusing on humanitarian duties rather than fighting for once.

"I'm ready to leave right now if you are."

You broke out in a smile, relieved that he still wanted to help you give away blankets and clothes to people in the unfortunate areas of the interior.

"Good. I am too, but the paperwork that allows us to take leave and horses isn't. I have to talk to Erwin and see when we can go. I'm thinking as long as you're cleared by the doctor, we can head out in 3 days' time. Is that alright?"

Levi nodded yes and you told him to get some rest before leaving to find your oldest friend, the commander. When you knocked on the door, he granted you entry and you closed the door behind you.

"How's my dearest friend been holding up lately?" Erwin asked you as you two shared a hug before taking a seat.

"Oh, I've been alright, nothing too crazy," you answered. "How about yourself? You've got a lot more going on than I ever have or hope to."

He took a sip of the drink on his desk and you wouldn't be surprised if it was some sort of alcohol.

"It's as much to be expected for the man in charge." His blue eyes danced around the room, not meeting your own. "It's nothing I can't handle. It's... a lot sometimes, though. I become afraid that no matter how much I try to do, it's all futile. I have so many goals that I can't-" He cut himself off as he swallowed another drink and you took notice of the deep eye bags he was sporting. You knew he had a lot riding on him, but he usually handled (or hid) it so well. You reached out to grip his hand as a sign of affection.

"I know you're in charge, but you're not the only one who should be held accountable for any failings, so stop blaming yourself. What you guys do is a thankless job but you're not without so many accomplishments. It seems like it's always one step forward, three steps back working here, but if there's anything I learned from you, it's that you have to keep walking. So, Erwin.” He looked up at you. "You have to keep moving forward. You're the heart of the Scouts. You're the only one whose faith has never wavered. We all believe in you."

Erwin let out a deep sigh and squeezed your hand back. "Thank you. I needed that. This is why I keep you around."

You chuckled, happy that you were able to lift his spirits a little bit.

"I know you didn't come here to see me wallow in pity, so what is it I can do to help?" he inquired.

"I'm planning on leaving for Wall Sina to do my charity work in a few days and I was wondering if I could borrow a cart and horse. I'd be gone about 10 days, 4 days traveling each way, 1 day passing everything out, and an extra in case something goes wrong. I was also coming to put in my request for leave, as well as Captain Levi's since he'll be accompanying me."

Erwin's eyebrows raised at the sound of his close friend's name. "Levi, huh? I've noticed that you two have gotten pretty close but he wouldn't leave work with just anybody, you know. He must think you're pretty special."

You felt embarrassment worm its way up your body as Erwin tried to contain his teasing smile. The commander's two closest friends couldn't fool him--Levi hadn't been this outwardly affectionate since he had shown up with Isabelle and Furlan all those years ago and you hadn't been this smiley with anyone, ever-- but he found the whole thing endearing.

"I'm not trying to embarrass you, y/n. I think it's nice that he's found something with you, whatever it is. I haven't seen either of you this happy in many years, or ever. This trip of yours will be good for the both of you to get out and do something for the betterment of humanity. It would bring some much needed positivity to you and the captain, I'm sure. I'll process the papers and send you on your way in no time."

You thanked him as you heard a knock at the door. Another soldier had told Erwin it was time for a meeting so you thanked him for his help and waved goodbye. You were held up at the door by the sound of his voice once more.

"Hey, y/n. Where exactly in Wall Sina are you going?"

You tilted your head in confusion. "There's the shelters in the capital that house citizens from the Underground until they can safely leave for Wall Rose. They're the same ones you and I usually go to. Why?"

He halted for a second, choosing his words carefully. "Well, with Levi there, I don't want... Just try to avoid the Underground. I don't want you two getting hurt."

You didn't understand what he was trying to get at, but you figured it wasn't the time for you to probe him. If the chance arrived, you would have to ask Levi exactly what Erwin meant. You thanked him for his warning and left, wracking your brain on what that enigma of a man was going on about.

Several days after your meeting with Erwin, he had told you everything got approved and Levi told you of his clearance from the doctor. You were to leave in a few hours so you began packing, your stomach fluttering with anxiety. You always got nervous before a trip but this one was stressful because of its unknowns. You had never traveled between walls without Erwin and his words hadn't left your mind. Why did he mention you getting hurt? You'd been there plenty of times prior with the blonde man, none of which had gone wrong, so why was he being cryptic about Levi? You tried to shake it from your head. Erwin had been under tons of stress lately so you chalked it up to him still reeling from the losses of the expedition. You had just thrown the last of your shirts in a bag when you heard a knock at your door. Levi was there, a duffel on his arm and a surprisingly pleasant look on his face.

"I'm ready if you are."

You were. You had already brought outside the bags of donation items so all that was left was your personal bag. You went to pick it up from the bed but Levi beat you to it.

"Aren't you still nursing broken ribs?" you asked, watching him in amusement as he shuffled down the hallway with both of your belongings.

"The doctor cleared me for all activity. I would be training shitty cadets to be less shitty right now if it weren't for you."

"Should I be saying you're welcome that you're not?"

Levi pondered for a second. "Four eyes is always saying I need a vacation."

"Their wish is now granted. So you're welcome," you replied, giggling a bit. When you stepped outside, you were expecting to be greeted by an open air cart, but instead, you were face to face with a fancy contained carriage. You thought maybe it was for someone else, but when Levi started loading your things inside, you knew it was for you.

"Did you know about this?" you asked him, flabbergasted. He put away the last of the bags as he answered you.

"The weather's supposed to be bad in a few days. I didn't want you catching a cold on our trip so I made Erwin reserve this instead."

Levi never failed to surprise you. He was so kind the way he thought about you and made your life so much easier. You nearly kissed him on the spot but didn't want him to keel over and die before you could get anywhere. The raven haired man wouldn't look you in the eye as you climbed inside the carriage, presumably shy about his caring so much about your wellbeing. The carriage driver took off and you two left the castle walls. You kept your eyes pointed out the window, not wanting to miss the opportunity to watch the foliage pass you by. It was your favorite part about riding in a cart or on a horse while holding onto someone else. Seeing the trees fly by you in this area almost reminded you of Levi taking you home that one day all those months ago. This carriage should have brought up that same feeling of freedom, but this time you were heading toward a place that had held you in its wretched confines for far too long. As you rode further and further away from your home and closer to your family in Mitras, you felt like you were starting to drown in a deep ocean of melancholy and stress. As you were lost in your own world, you didn't notice Levi staring at you from his bench across from yours. He was thankful that you were day dreaming because it meant he could observe you without hesitation. You normally looked very beautiful to him, but today, in your civilian clothes and more relaxed hairstyle than usual, you looked absolutely stunning. Even though this trip certainly wasn't just for pleasure, he was looking forward to a short break from the woes of every day life. He was hoping you were, too, but he saw your eyebrows furrow and you had a sad glint in your eye.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Levi's voice brought you out of your daze.

"Hmm? Oh. No, I just-- I get nervous on trips, that's all," you said. If Levi could tell you weren't giving him the whole truth, he didn't say anything.

You sighed, opting to speak your mind a bit more. "When I leave my home and head into the city, I get hit with this indescribable sadness. I think it's because I see people who have literally nothing and I can't help but think I'm not doing enough for them when I have so much."

"Don't be stupid. The fact that you're going out of your way to show kindness when others don't is a testament to your character. What you're doing will be appreciated by those who need it most. Trust me."

He spoke with such conviction that you wondered if he was ever one of those people who needed help. You didn't give it much thought since it was rude to make assumptions about someone's past.

"You always know exactly what to say to make me feel better, Levi. Thank you."

He scoffed. "I think you're the only person that's ever said that."

"That makes it all the more special then, doesn't it?" you asked, making him roll his eyes but you knew he agreed.

The carriage continued on its fast pace while you two sat in silence, both reading books. You kept peeking your eyes over the pages, taking the time to appreciate how Levi looked today. He never looked anything less than handsome to you, but him out of a uniform made your heart beat faster. He was wearing a long sleeve shirt with black pants and both items highlighted his frame perfectly. You loved the way he looked with the cravat but you were mesmerized with the graceful way his neck craned without something covering it up. He shifted in his seat and you quickly averted your eyes, hoping he hadn't seen you checking him out.

"Is your book that boring you'd rather look at me?" he asked, his gaze staying on his own unturned pages.

"Boring, no. Rather look at you, definitely," you said, taking the fact that you got caught in stride.

"Tch. Have some shame, brat," he chided, a faint blush showing up on his cheeks. You found it fun to tease Levi here and there. You wanted to keep showing him that you found him desirable so he wasn't left wondering if you still liked him romantically or not. Not that physical looks mattered to you two anyway, but you figured it didn't hurt to flirt with him every once in awhile to keep him on his toes. Afternoon turned to night and it got too dark to read, opting to leave the gas lamp off for now to conserve it in case of emergencies. The carriage slowed to a halt and the driver let you know that you were stopping for the night at a local inn. You and Levi exited the carriage, Levi taking your bag once again, and made a plan with the driver to meet up in the morning to set off. A room wasn't ready yet when you checked in so you and Levi went to the restaurant to partake in a nice warm meal. Conversation flowed easily between you two as you tore into the bread and meat you were served. When you finally got a key to your room, you opened the door and immediately frowned. You were supposed to get a room with two beds, but there was only one. You looked at Levi who didn't even seem to notice as he was already inside and discarded the bags in the corner of the room. You followed him in, confusion taking over you.

"There's only one bed," you said, stating the obvious.

"It's fine. I'll sleep on the floor," he replied, grabbing the extra blanket from the bed and laying it out. You stomped over to him, grabbing the soft textile.

"No way, especially not when you're still healing. I can go downstairs and talk to the owner, there has to be another room."

There wasn't. You and Levi had booked the last available room and the one with two beds that you had requested when you had gotten there was previously reserved. When you got back to your room, Levi had already laid down on the floor in an attempt to rest for a little while. You stood over him, your arms crossed.

"Get up, idiot. You're not sleeping on the floor."

"I don't sleep much anyway, idiot. Go to bed."

"If you don't get up, I'm sleeping on the ground, too."

That got Levi's attention, prompting him to sit up. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard and I'm around teenagers all day."

"Look," you said, defeated, "the bed is more than big enough for the two of us. You'll have your personal space and I promise I won't invade it on purpose."

Levi took his sweet time thinking about what he was going to do while you were loving life on the plush mattress, your pajamas on, and cozy under the covers. You heard the mattress creak as his body took up the spot next to yours.

"Finally decided to join me, loverboy?" You were joking with him to cover up the fact that you were nervous about sharing an entire sleeping space with the love of your life. Normally, sharing a bed with someone wouldn't be a huge deal, especially when that someone was a person who you trusted with your life, but Levi was a special case. You never wanted to push him into doing anything too fast or make him uncomfortable and you knew that relationship things like this could easily freak him out.

"I will not hesitate to snuff out your life with this pillow."

Well, at least he was acting like his normal self. He was, up until you heard shuffling under the sheets and felt the mattress dip down closer to you. It was nearly pitch black in the room so you couldn't see anything, but you felt your breath hitch in your throat as Levi scooted close enough to your face where you caught a glimpse of the faintest reflection of moonlight in his eyes. His breath was barely fanning over your arm that was lying next to your cheek on your pillow. All of a sudden you felt his hand on yours as he interlaced your fingers. It was a good thing that the room had no light because you were both flustered messes.

"Is this okay?" he whispered.

"Very," you whispered back, brushing your lips over the back of his hand like a kiss from a fleeting ghost. Even though Levi barely slept that night because of his ever present insomnia rearing its ugly head, lying next to you, with your bodies eventually intertwining, he found himself more rested than he ever knew could be possible.

Chapter 12

Taglist: @blueeclipsepaperstudent @raginginferno267 @come-away-with-me87

[tanadrin]

This is the Palestinian resistance. It’s not beautiful. It’s not inspiring. It’s desperate and futile and sad. Generation after generation of children, throwing themselves into the path of one of the most brutal military machines in human history, smashing their skulls against its steel hull, mangling their limbs in its treads, thousands of them, for seventy-five years, destroying themselves as they try to face down an engine that simply rolls on over the dying and the dead. These kids were brave, much braver than I’ll ever be. They rose to defend their honour. It’s noble. But stupid beyond belief. Later, Hedges talks to Lieutenant Ayman Ghanm, a Palestinian police officer who says he’s given up on trying to save these boys’ lives. ‘When we tell the boys not to go to the dunes,’ he says, ‘they taunt us as collaborators.’ I began by saying that this is a war without opposing sides. Israel is not actually trying to defeat the resistance; it has no political objectives, just violence. But the same goes for the resistance: they are not, in fact, doing anything to meaningfully resist. Think about what actually happens in Hedges’ story. The Israeli soldiers call through their loudspeakers for the Palestinians to come, come and be killed—and the Palestinians obediently show up. Their resistance is indistinguishable from following orders. The Israeli state wants a certain level of violence from the Palestinians, it actively courts it, and the resistance factions keep doing exactly as they’re told. They teach Palestinian children that the best thing they could do with their lives is lose them. This is not a very healthy attitude, but when you start up your bullshit about the glorious resistance you are part of that sickness. What would actual resistance look like? Maybe it would start with not handing over your life to the enemy. Not climbing up the dunes. In saying all this, I’m obviously breaking one of the biggest taboos on the left, which is that you must not presume to tell Palestinians how to go about their resistance. I might have spent time in Palestine, but I’m not Palestinian. I’m not subjected to the daily nightmare of occupation. Who am I to start preaching? My only reply is this: if the armed resistance factions were resisting sanely and effectively, this kind of taboo wouldn’t need to exist. If there were a better argument for their actions than don’t criticise the victims, you’d be making that one instead. But there isn’t, so you can’t. It’s not a coincidence that the exact same rhetoric is deployed by Israel and its apologists: yes, we’re committing hideous atrocities, but how dare you notice? Who are you to say anything to us? Whoever’s saying it, the fact remains that there is no military path to a free Palestine. This fact is inconvenient and unfair and doesn’t leave much room for the optimism of the will, but that doesn’t make it any less true, and if you think there’s an exemption from unfair truths that’s awarded to especially just causes then you are wrong. Israel has nuclear weapons: it will not be overthrown with small arms and explosives. I don’t think I have the right to condemn violent resistance altogether—but I can reject violent resistance that’s doomed to fail, that achieves nothing and produces nothing except violence for its own sake. Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad claim to be fighting for an Islamic republic, in which Jews will be free to live peacefully as long as they don’t dispute the sovereignty of Islam. The PFLP claims to be fighting a revolutionary people’s war for a liberated workers’ state. Their critics say that both are actually fighting for an unlimited genocide, the death of every single Jew in Israel. But what difference does it make? This is all make-believe! None of it matters, because none of it is ever actually going to happen! They’re not fighting for anything at all. They’re just fighting.

This is a good essay in general, but this point draws out something I think is important: the need to believe that, if there is a group of Bad Guys in a conflict, doing Bad Things, there must be an opposing group of Good Guys doing Good Things. But there's no law of the universe that says it must be so; mostly there's just the churn of senseless, sickening violence, to no useful or redemptive end.

[czerwonykasztelanic]

asking you your "top 5" anything: (persons with rabbit pfps) Lenin quotes

5. "Things are harder for our generation than they were for our fathers. But in one respect we are luckier than our fathers. We have begun to learn and are rapidly learning to fight [...] We are fighting better than our fathers did. Our children will fight better than we do, and they will be victorious." (from The Working Class and NeoMalthusianism - the past must not eclipse the present, nor should it be seen as superior the future, for a new world will come!)

4. "The sacrifices of the Commune, heavy as they were, are made up for by its significance for the general struggle of the proletariat: it stirred the socialist movement throughout Europe, it demonstrated the strength of civil war, it dispelled patriotic illusions, and destroyed the naïve belief in any efforts of the bourgeoisie for common national aims. [...] The lesson learnt by the proletariat will not be forgotten. The working class will make use of it, as it has already done in Russia during the December uprising. [...] And although these magnificent uprisings of the working class were crushed, there will be another uprising, in face of which the forces of the enemies of the proletariat will prove ineffective, and from which the socialist proletariat will emerge completely victorious." (from Lessons of the Commune - when reactionary forces temporarily triumph over world-historical progress, to assert that failed revolutions are revolutions nonetheless is to avoid despair)

3. "One of the biggest and most dangerous mistakes made by Communists is the idea that a revolution can be made by revolutionaries alone." (Popular support! The vanguard must be firmly rooted in the masses to wield legitimate power! Thermidorrrrr)

2. "I must say that the tasks of the youth in general [...] might be summed up in a single word: learn." (from his speech to the Youth Leagues; ever time I question the importance of education and self-improvement, every time the pursuit of knowledge appears to me a futile and vainglorious squandering of time, I remember that it is not just a right, but a duty - even if it's as trivial as, I don't know, reading the procès-verbal of the National Convention from June 1794)

1. "[...] there is nothing more dangerous than illusions (and vertigo, particularly at high altitudes). Communists who have no illusions, who do not give way to despondency, and who preserve their strength and flexibility "to begin from the beginning" over and over again in approaching an extremely difficult task, are not doomed (and in all probability will not perish)." (from On Ascending a High Mountain; predictably enough, I have a certain weakness for geographical metaphors...)

[zombiecicada]

That was… not how they wanted their first mission to go.

They could already hear Enmity taunting them for being unsuccessful at such a simple task. There was nothing more simple than finding and killing the saviour of the universe. They had nobody to blame but themself and their morals.

No amount of debriefing or training prepared them for some wimpy runt blowing up like a hydrogen bomb.

If it was not for the horrifying amount of embarrassment flooding through its body that far rivalled any pain they felt, they might’ve considered telling Doctor Cruce they needed a raise when they got back.

….

Were they….even getting paid at all?

…

…

…

Better yet, where were they?

It finally pried its eyes open. Pain in their eyes wasn’t anything abnormal. They supposed, cynically, that they could add ‘pain from being blown up’ to their roster of different experienced painful sensations.

The pain was quickly forgotten as its surroundings came into place, a void… but this one was different. It wasn’t white. It was a mix of blues and dark purples, massive glowing shards of some glassy material floating around with them.

And then the equally as massive eyes blindly fixated upon them.

Rem bit back a sharp gasp, spinning helplessly in the spot as gravity seemed to be nonexistent. The massive beast merely listened to the faint sounds of the small sefortian struggle, the massive rune dotted tendrils making up almost a mane around the head of the beast slowly weaving like black waves.

Perhaps it was the realization that struggle was futile, or the final onset of recognition. It stopped struggling.

“You’re a riftwrath. A demonbeast.” They uttered out. “I thought- all of your kind were bested in the war.”

Maybe this was an ally..?

Rem was suddenly overcome with the weirdest, most awful sensation they had ever felt in their entire life, every finger going stiff, their wings clenching, their tail going rigged.

Their mouth moving all on its own, like their body being puppeteered, as their own voice spoke back to them.

“Is that what Nightmare said? That my kind was ‘bested’, as if we were not some spite at life, machines built to participate in a war not our own? We were bested, not slaughtered as we fought a doomed battle against the brightest celestial?”

The force let go of Rem’s limbs, they shook and gasped and tried not to heave, clutching their chest as they realized autonomy had been returned to the body that seconds ago had been controlled and used to speak, all while their mind was helplessly aware.

“…….. what.” Rem choked out, a scream of protest being silenced as the force once again grabbed it.

“Nightmare left me to rot for failing to be a useful pawn in his game. You are simply his next pawn in this war. When your duty complete, succeed or fail, this board will be wiped and his pawns replaced, you need escape while there is still a chance to do so.”

Rem gasped a little less when they were let go this time, eyes stinging fiercely as orange tinted tears bubbled up around the corners of its eyes.

“Nngn.. hhhnn…” Rem panted, they needed to get out of here. Their paws clenched, electricity running throughout their feathers. Their tail twisted attempting to right themself, if this was even right side up.

“Let me out of here,” it demanded, the demonbeast looming over them like a black mountain didn’t grab them again, and Rem swallowed back saliva and bared their teeth. “Let. Me. OUT.”

They shot a bolt of electricity at the monster, the monster shook his head a bit as if he was shaking off stubborn water droplets, before flicking Rem like it was nothing more than a pesky bug.

Their eyes slammed shut just before the limb hit them, and like waking from a dream where you fell to your death, just before the impact they were awake again, stumbling upwards. Their wings and tail slammed by the return of gravity, their chest aching from the sharp inhales.

Back in the void. The first one. The weird white one. Completely alone.

….

……

Maybe they’d lay down for just a minute. Not to think about the horrifying words that they- he-

No. It … just needed to rest for a minute and then get back to work. Shut up, do their job, and as long as they did that, everything would be fine.

[gloomstalkertav]

Summary: In which all of Act II is summed up in one angst-riddled chapter, and no tieflings are spared the horrors of canon.

Part 6 of 10

Warnings: Slaps roof of chapter: This bad boy can fit so much angst! TW: trauma flashbacks, semi-graphic descriptions of canon character deaths and not exactly canon but not not canon character deaths, and super unhappy sad times pretty much all the way around.

Word Count: ~8.2k

View story masterpost | Read on Ao3

“Listen —” 

But instead of saying anything more, Alfira snatches up her tankard and takes her first real drink of the interview: a long, slow, fortifying draught. When she sets it down, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes overbright, but her voice is strong and steady as she resumes:

“Listen —” 

But instead of saying anything more, Alfira snatches up her tankard and takes her first real drink of the interview: a long, slow, fortifying draught. When she sets it down, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes overbright, but her voice is strong and steady as she resumes:

“I know this part will be hard. For me, too. I don’t like to think of the Shadow-Cursed lands any more than I can help, but … it’s an important part of the story. Tav’s story. Personally, I think it’s where she sort of … came into her own as a hero. I saw a lot of her at Last Light and she was … different, somehow, than she was at the druids’ grove. Older, almost. More sure of herself. Like she knew what she was doing now. In fact, the only time I think I ever saw her panicked was when she found out you were missing.”

Alfira’s eyes flit to Zevlor’s, but his are fixed on his tankard — the contents of which he's barely sampled, nor does he allow himself to do so now: penance for the little shiver of satisfied pleasure he feels at hearing of Tav’s concern. Not that a few sips of weak ale will make a difference. Zevlor knows there’s not enough alcohol in the Elfsong to dull the pain of what he must remember next.

“Anyway,” concludes Alfira, shrugging on a brisk, business-like tone, “none of us would have made it out of that place alive if it weren’t for Tav, and we’re doing this for her, so…” The bard reclaims her quill, dips it in ink, and shakes her parchment out in front of her: her sword and shield against the trial ahead. “So, all I really need to hear is her part: how she rescued you from Moonrise. You don't have to talk about what happened when we … when you were captured. Or about being tortured or whatever else that cult did.”

The privacy curtain ripples. Alfira starts, but the dusky tail and leather boots visible beneath the velvet hem are already hurrying past. She jumps again at a sound from across the table: Zevlor clearing his throat to speak.

“Torture—”

But his voice fails. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. And when he starts again, it is not for Tav, though it is Alfira's picture of the hero she became at Last Light that lends him strength. It is for Alfira herself, and every other tiefling outcast he betrayed: another sort of penance, and one long overdue.

“Torture,” says Zevlor at last, “would have been a blessing I did not deserve.” 

Yet he longed for it. For whips or racks or needles or knives. An enemy to fight, a punishment against which to rage. But his tomb-like prison was too narrow for Zevlor to lift his arms any significant degree, let alone assault its translucent sides, and the shrouded figures that occasionally wandered across his limited field of vision did not spare him even a passing taunt. 

His was the suffering of utter stillness. The hell of frozen inaction. A doom befitting his crime...

… Screams. A spray of red, bright in the darkness. The metallic scent of blood. The thud of falling bodies all around while he stood passive and unmoving, hypnotised by the voice caressing his mind: promising power, purpose, a place in Baldur’s Gate, the realisation of every fantastic possibility he craved—

Zevlor ripped his mind free of the unbearable memory, and, in a futile effort to keep it at bay, shook his head until his neck ought to have ached. But sensation did not exist inside his prison. He felt neither hunger nor thirst, heat nor cold; his body registered no physical pain. How long had he been trapped here, fading in and out of nightmare? It felt like an age — like a lifetime had passed since he’d made the decision to lead his people through the fringes of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, since the cultists had ambushed them, since he’d heard his own voice command their surrender — but it might only have been years, perhaps mere tendays. The dim, red light outside his prison never changed. There was no way for Zevlor to mark the passage of time. Avernus had been the same...

…The blood-red sky broken only by the crackling lightning of the black Companion. Elturel’s clock tower toppled - time another blessing the gods had revoked. Life reduced to short bouts of restless sleep between the swinging of his sword, the bracing of his shield, the holding of the line against demons and devils and the risen corpses of his own fallen friends. A fight for survival he feared would never end. Perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps the ascent and all that followed were nothing more than fevered dreams: his exile from Elturel, the road to Baldur’s Gate, the struggles at the grove, the fight against the goblins, Tav—

Zevlor’s mind resurfaced blearily. He could not guess at how long he’d been under. But outside his prison, shadows shifted in the weak, red light and muffled echoes filtered through.

“… those without the tadpoles?”

“Let them rot. The Bonedaughter wants more bodies.”

“Surely a few more wouldn’t go amiss? In case the Harpers and those bloody rogue True Souls find their way down here?”

“General Ketheric says not to worry, they’re no longer a threat. He has the Duke and the Nightsong, and he’ll be…”

The voices drifted away, leaving Zevlor once more at the mercy of stillness and silence and stewing madness, his only small comfort the knowledge he would, at least, be permitted to die. He wished it would come soon. Death would be infinitely better than the hells inside his head. He tried vainly to rally his thoughts, to pick through what he had heard — minutes, hours ago? — for useful meaning, but the words drifted anchorless through his brain, swallowed into the roiling sea of distorted memory…

“…wants more bodies...” But there were too many bodies already: his platoon of Hellriders, the soldiers for whose lives he was responsible, lay dead in heaps at his feet. Or were they his fellow refugees? Blank faces blended. The lifeless eyes all looked the same. He no longer knew which hell he was in. “…bloody rogue true souls…” True Soul. That’s what the Absolute offered him. Her honeyed voice enveloped the sounds of people — his people? — fighting and falling; her visions subsumed his sight. He saw himself entering Baldur’s Gate not a beggar, but a leader, a conqueror, a paladin once more; toppling that godless city by the river and rebuilding it in her holy image: a second, better Elturel, a home for his displaced people, and a worthy offering to any beautiful, raven-haired tieflings who would one day make their way there. Until the voice slithered away and the golden vision vanished, leaving him to cruel hands and cold chains and dying screams that rent his soul as he was dragged into the dark. “…said not to worry…” Tav’s face smiled up at him, silhouetted in the grove’s flickering torchlight, her hand warm on his arm. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t worry. Zevlor?”

Even in memory, her voice carried a tangible clarity. Zevlor blinked back to hazy consciousness again. But Tav’s voice remained.

“Zevlor? Zevlor!”

The roll of his name in her accent, strangely muffled though it was, was an undeserved comfort. As was the vision of Tav that swam into focus before his eyes: slightly wavering, but distinct, like a reflection seen through water. Was he dreaming again? He must be. Only this was not a memory of Tav he could place. She wore armour Zevlor did not recognise, her dark hair held off her face by many intricate plaits, and, though she still carried her rapier, a short sword dangled at her other hip. The steel of the two mismatched blades glinted in the dim, red light. She stretched out a hand to touch him and hit translucent barrier instead.

Tav was standing outside his prison.

Which meant madness had claimed Zevlor at last. Or death. Perhaps the gods had conjured an image of her to guide him to whatever plane waited beyond. Charitable of them, he supposed, though they might have made her look less horrified. Unfamiliar lines of fear and anguish broke like lightning across her storm-coloured face as she pounded with both fists on the barrier between them.

“Zevlor! Can you hear me?”

The thuds reverberated around Zevlor like rolls of thunder, disrupting his precarious mind’s attempts to grasp her words. One thing alone was clear: Tav could not get to him, divine emissary though she must be. Was the prison preventing his soul escaping his body, somehow? Zevlor tried to relax, to release, to follow her voice, but both it and her reflection were fading back into red shadows. Panic rattled in his brain. Little though he deserved even the sight of Tav, he could not stand to lose it. But new figures were parading past his prison now: another, taller tiefling; a slight, pale elf; two men, one sporting purple robes, the other curling horns Zevlor thought he must once have seen. The man turned his head towards the prison, and Zevlor recognised the stone eye: the Blade of Frontiers.

These were Tav’s companions, he realised, or some of them at least. Was it ... was it possible they were truly here? Had she come to rescue him yet again? Or had his sanity finally shattered? Zevlor’s vision flickered as the dark maw of delirium tugged at the edges of his mind, threatening to drag him under. He struggled against it. Muffled voices overlapped in argument — but were they real or in his head? — until Tav’s rose above them—

“I don’t give a tuppenny fuck how many mind flayers there are, Astarion, I am not going to let him die!”

—and all Zevlor's fragmented thoughts were extinguished by a hideous crush of sound. Pressure engulfed him. White steam obscured his sight. He toppled forward, his arms abruptly free but too slow to break his fall, and hit the ground face first. Pain radiated from the base of his horns to the back of his skull. Heartbeats he could once more count pulsed loud in his ears. He lay still for several of them, un-thinking, simply breathing in and out, lungs greedily accepting his ragged gasps of rank air. Then someone tripped over his prone legs. Zevlor grunted in discomfort, automatically lifting his head. And the world outside his body impressed itself upon his newly-woken senses.

It was chaos.

Shouts, the twang and hiss of arrows, a sulphurous smell of what must be some infernal magic, and the unmistakable thunks of steel striking flesh filled Zevlor’s mind. No. His ears. This fight was not a memory. It was happening here, now.

On instinct, he rolled to his side — clumsily; his body more cumbersome than he remembered — in time to see four taloned feet attached to a something his brain could not name scuttling straight for his face. He braced his hands against squelchy ground to push himself up and away, but his arms refused to bear weight. He threw one across his eyes, steeling himself for the gouge of claws that never came. A light splat of liquid hit Zevlor’s vambrace instead. He lowered it, and watched a thin rapier retracted from the top of what his eyes insisted was a four-legged brain. Then boots he did not recognise kicked the thing aside, and a tail he did brushed the limp end of his own as Tav lowered her weapons and crouched next to his face.

“Zevlor! Can you move?” she yelled over the clamour — a bellow, the breaking of glass, and the crackle of flames, close enough for sweat to bead on the back of Zevlor’s neck. “Come on, you've got to get u-ah!”

The word ended in a cry. Tav dropped hard to her knees, both blades tumbling to the ground. The edge of the short sword missed Zevlor's bare hand by a breath, and only because he succeeded in struggling to a seat: some hidden vestige of strength igniting within him at Tav’s distress. Her eyes were squeezed shut; she clutched her head as if struck from behind by a pommel. But the enemy levitating slowly towards her wielded no weapons, apart from whip-like tentacles and the razor-sharp nails of its outstretched hand.

A mind flayer. Zevlor knew the monster instantly, though he’d never seen one before; nor would it have held any particular terror for him — he'd met plenty worse in Avernus — were it not for the tentacles wriggling purposefully towards the back of Tav’s bent head. Zevlor found himself suddenly on his feet, the fallen short sword in his hand, with no idea how he'd accomplished either and no time to think of it now. He swung. Tav’s sword, sharp — but slighter than he was accustomed to — missed the meat of the tentacles and sliced the outstretched tip of one instead. Distraction enough. The mind flayer stumbled as its feet touched ground. Its small, orange eyes locked on Zevlor’s, shrieking its indignant rage — not into the shrouded air between them but directly into Zevlor’s head. He could feel the creature’s consciousness grate against his, then twist and contort, becoming less a shriek than a song: an enticing stream of notes that wrapped themselves tenderly around his thoughts, coaxing, cajoling, commanding him to lower his blade.

"Enough!" Zevlor heard himself shout, voice cracking with long disuse. "My mind is my own!"

He gripped the pommel of the sword until his knuckles popped, lifted it over his head, and brought it down on the creature’s neck where it erupted in a fury of radiant sparks — a ghost of the holy power Zevlor once commanded — and passed cleanly through rubbery flesh. The mind flayer's body toppled first. Its severed head followed, tentacles still twitching. Zevlor merely adjusted his stance and swung again. And again and again, riding the surge of familiar power until the last sparks of divine wrath were gone, and there was no coherent form left to aim at, and the silver blade of the borrowed sword was black with alien innards. Blinking drops of the same noxious fluid from his eyes, Zevlor swivelled, searching for more enemies to smite, but the battle around him was dying an equally swift and bloody death.

A few paces away, a second mind flayer corpse lay charred and smoking. A third hung pinned by arrows to a wall, uneven and spongy as the chamber’s ground. Near this violent tableau, the pale elf was bent double, tugging salvageable arrows from more fallen, oozing brains; while across from him, just visible through the smoke and dim, red light, the Blade of Frontiers and the other tiefling — Karlach, Zevlor’s brain belatedly prompted — helped another figure clamber from an eerily steaming pod. Zevlor blinked at this, his sword arm faltering as his brain made another connection, then whirled in place. An identical pod loomed behind him. His prison. The narrow, sensation-less, time-less tomb he'd been trapped in for who knew how long, where he had been so sure he would die. Where he would have died, if not for...

Zevlor let the short sword fall from his fingers as his eyes sought Tav, but she was already on her feet, tripping over bits of pulverised mind flayer to meet him. Her cobalt eyes sparkled with tears that might have been lingering headache or joy; for she was smiling: the exact smile she'd offered Zevlor in his every memory of her. A wave of dizzy unreality shuddered through him. He wet his blood-flecked lips, almost afraid to ask:

“Are you real?”

His voice was a croak he barely recognised. Tav's, too, was unusually distorted as she answered through what sounded like both laughter and a wild sob.

“Yes!” She tore frantically at her fingerless leather gloves to cup Zevlor’s gore-streaked face in clean, bare hands. “Yes, I'm real. I'm here. And you're here. You're alive. You're alive,” she repeated, as if she, too, found this miracle hard to grasp, and ran her fingers desperately over his face to prove it: her thumbs tracing the sharp, infernal ridges of his cheeks, the base of his horns, the outline of his ears, her long nails tangling in the loose, unkempt strands of his hair.

“Alive,” Zevlor echoed, hardly aware of his words or anything else that wasn’t the blissful feel of Tav’s skin against his. “Hells. I - I didn't think I was going to make it. But how did you … how—”

“They told me you were taken.” Tav's face was so close to Zevlor's he could taste each of her rapid, shallow breaths. “But when we rescued the other prisoners in Moonrise, you weren't with them, and none of them knew where you’d gone. I looked everywhere, all over the shadowlands and that whole bloody tower and I couldn't find you. I was afraid—”

She broke off: whether unwilling to name her fear or because she, like Zevlor, had become aware of footsteps behind her, he wasn't sure. Careful to do nothing that would dislodge Tav’s mindlessly stroking hands, he threw a glance over her shoulder and watched her companions tromp into view: the pale elf and the wizard from one direction, Karlach and Wyll from the other, supporting between them two new figures whose grimy, tattered tabards proclaimed the insignia of the Flaming Fist. Hope welled in Zevlor’s parched throat. If Tav had rescued prisoners, and more were alive down here, then surely that meant there was a chance…

“The others. The ambush,” he whispered against the skin of her wrist, unable to look her in the eye as he asked, “Did you find them? Did they survive?”

It took Tav a second too long to respond.

“Don't - don't worry about that now,” she stuttered, her hands sliding slowly from his face. “There’ll be time for stories and - and explanations later. First, we need to get you out of here. All of you,” she added, turning to the two new arrivals; and the loss of her warmth and her ominous non-answer left Zevlor abruptly shrunken and cold.

Battle, and the ecstasy of reuniting with Tav, had driven the memories which had haunted his imprisonment temporarily from Zevlor’s mind. They caught him up in a breathless rush — screams; that spray of wet red, bright in the living shadows; the sickening scent of spilled blood — and escorting them was a new, unconsidered horror: how Tav would react when she found him out. What would she say, how would she look at him, when she realised she had spent all that time searching for, not a victim of the cult, but a villain every bit as much to blame? Guilt, grief, and pure selfish panic washed over Zevlor so palpably he swayed. Voices rose and fell around him, but they sounded strangely distant, as if he were once again a prisoner in a pod.

“I’m sorry — you want us to climb back up that wretched hole we just spent an hour climbing down? And what — leave a note with one of those brain things asking Ketheric to pretty please pause whatever he’s planning with the Nightsong until we get back?”

“Astarion’s not wrong. Finding and stopping Ketheric has got to be our first priority, surely?”

“I’d say destroying the Absolute deserves a slight precedence.”

“And finding Zariel’s asset. Wyll’s not becoming Kyton food on my watch, soldier.”

“And we are - mmph - we’re not going anywhere till we find the Duke. I heard one of those cultists saying Ketheric’s got him somewhere below. If I can just - arrgh - borrow a sword...”

“Not to rub proverbial salt in a very literal wound, but as you can barely lift yourself, I’m not sure how you expect to lift a sword.”

“It’s that or fall on one when we return without our - urgh - charge!”

“Enough.”

Tav’s command was quiet, almost careless, and all that was needed to snuff out the other voices. Including those in Zevlor’s head. He blinked away the intrusive visions and refocused on Tav, who had reined in her frantic joy and replaced it with an authoritative calm: comfortable on her face, and as inherently comforting to see as the first hint of wisteria sunrise after an endless-seeming stretch of night.

“Gale’s right.” She addressed the unhappy female Fist doing her damnedest not to lean on Karlach. “Neither of you is in any condition to go running after Ketheric. But that’s where we were headed before we found all of you, and,” - her eyes drifted in Zevlor’s direction before snapping back - “finding him is the priority right now. If the Duke is really down there, you have my word, we’ll do everything you would have done and more to bring him back.”

Tav held the Fist’s gaze until the woman grudgingly relented, or was simply unable to stand any longer — she nodded once, then slumped against Karlach’s arm. That settled, Tav turned to Zevlor.

“Can you help them out of here if I tell you the way?”

A task. A mission. An actionable item to occupy his body and distract his mind.

“Of course,” he agreed without hesitation, and threw himself immediately into the job at hand.

While Tav and her companions collected themselves and their gear, Zevlor picked a careful path across oozing pieces of mind flayer to Karlach, and helped her transfer the Fist’s arm across his shoulders. His own muscles, no longer cushioned by adrenaline, wept at the added weight. He ignored them; his body deserved far worse punishment than this. He waited only for the second Fist to gather his comparatively steady feet underneath him, then set a laborious pace across the oddly fleshy ground. Tav hurried ahead of him, ordering her companions on in the opposite direction while she herself showed Zevlor the way out.

“Through there. Stay to the right,” — she indicated a passage every bit as dim and unpleasant as the room he was to quit — “and you’ll come to a dead end. You’ll have to climb for a bit, but Shadowheart and Lae’zel are standing by at the top. Call up, and as soon as they can hear you, they’ll help. And here. Take this.” She tucked her short sword, hastily wiped clean of ichor, carefully into Zevlor’s belt. “Just in case.”

Zevlor paused, resting the Fist’s dead weight against the ground, and shook his head. Loose hair fell past his horns, tickling his face; he swiped his free hand uselessly across it as he protested:

“You’ll need that more than I.”

“It won’t make a difference,” Tav insisted, fumbling something from around her wrist Zevlor could not see in the darkness; but he understood what it must be when she closed the short space between them, stretched on her toes and gathered the limp strands of hair from his face, fastening them behind his head. “We threw all the steel we had at Ketheric before and barely scratched his armor. I don’t think swords are going to win us this fight. It’ll have to be speeches.” Her lips twitched as she dropped her hands. “I’ll get it back from you if I manage to pull it off.”

Tav's tone was light, but, as she leaned back to inspect her handiwork, her calm assurance flickered. And for a moment, she was simply staring at him: her cobalt eyes wandering his face, as if memorising its every sharp angle; clearly worried she was seeing it, all of him, for the last time. In a way, Zevlor thought, she was.

“You will,” he said in lieu of farewell, and it rang with bittersweet surety.

For he had no doubts whatsoever. Tav and her companions would defeat the General, the cult, perhaps the Absolute itself — nothing seemed beyond her anymore. But when she returned and discovered the part he had played in his people's destruction, Zevlor was equally certain she would never again look at him like that: with such tender care and concern and, he'd once allowed himself to hope, love.

Ale dribbles down Zevlor’s constricted throat as he takes a few clumsy gulps. But this draught seems less fortifying than the first. On the contrary, he feels distinctly ill. His fingers tremble again as he replaces the tankard on the table. He wonders if Lakrissa can have put something in his drink. He’s noticed her colourful hair bob by the privacy curtain more often than strictly warranted while he's talked.

Ale dribbles down Zevlor’s constricted throat as he takes a few clumsy gulps. But this draught seems less fortifying than the first. On the contrary, he feels distinctly ill. His fingers tremble again as he replaces the tankard on the table. He wonders if Lakrissa can have put something in his drink. He’s noticed her colourful hair bob by the privacy curtain more often than strictly warranted while he's talked.

“So,” prompts Alfira, “I… assume you stayed at Moonrise after that? I mean, none of us ever saw you at Last Light.”

Despite her efforts to sound gentle, unpressing, Zevlor can tell the bard is eager to move the story on; to put the Shadow-Cursed lands behind her for good. But the awful memories he's already been forced to relive and the ones still ahead, not to mention the ale now churning his stomach, have shaken Zevlor's resolve. He imagines refusing to speak; leaving the interview here. Simply rising from the rickety wooden chair and walking out of the Elfsong's open doors into the night. Even with Lakrissa's help, Alfira could hardly stop him.

But something does. An innate sense of duty, an ingrained commitment to justice, the almost physical need to atone for his failures in some real if negligible way, keeps Zevlor bound to his seat; just as it had at Moonrise Towers those many months ago.

“Yes,” he sighs, “I stayed at Moonrise. At least, until Tav returned.”

“Zevlor?”

A voice he knew without thinking roused Zevlor instantly from a slumped and unrestful doze. Harder to identify were his surroundings.

He was seated at a long wooden table, a sword that wasn’t his laid out on the bench at his side, in a room that, in spite of its expensive windows and intricate tapestries and paintings obscuring the stone walls, had the cramped spartan beds and unmistakable stale odour of military barracks. And the memory came sidling reluctantly back. This was the cult's barracks in Moonrise, where the githyanki, Lae'zel, had assigned him to sit after leading the three rescued prisoners from the top of the ruined tower. Zevlor uncurled his spine, and hissed in discomfort. His back was stiffer than he could ever remember it being, every muscle in his body fiercely cramped. The result of tendays of disuse, followed by battle and a painstaking climb out of that mind flayer hell. And he supposed sitting hunched over and unsupported for the last few hours had not helped.

He shifted on the bench again, more gingerly, and the blanket one of the Harpers had thrown over the sticky, gore-slick armor he'd refused to remove slipped down his arms. Zevlor snatched at it automatically, but faster hands beat him there. They arranged the itchy wool more securely over his shoulders, then removed the empty plate and tin cup he’d knocked over in his doze to a spot further down the table. He dropped his eyes to the ground and watched as boots still splattered with blood and worse stepped around him to retrieve a fallen chair. It was lifted and set right at the head of the table beside him, and a creak of old wood informed Zevlor that Tav had sat down.

Neither spoke. Zevlor did not know for how long; he was out of the habit of counting time. Nor could he interpret Tav’s silence with his eyes still locked on the smooth stone floor. He contemplated asking how her mission had fared, but if she was here she had obviously succeeded, and pleasantries only delayed the inevitable: the moment she would broach the subject, and he would have no choice but to explain and to watch her wisteria face grow stormy with disappointment and disgust. He dreaded it more than he had his own death in that pod.

But when Tav did speak, it was only to ask, “Have you slept at all? I mean, actually slept? Laid down? You can’t get a real rest like that. If you don’t fancy any of the cots, you could try Ketheric’s bed. I’ve seen it, it’s quite grand. And he won’t be needing it anymore.”

Zevlor knew the younger woman well enough by now to recognise her babble for what it was: nerves. Though what she had to be nervous about, he could not fathom.

“Or, if you’d rather, I can have someone draw you a bath? Or find you something else to wear, at least, if you want to get out of—”

Unable to bear another second of sweet considerations he did not deserve and could not accept, Zevlor interrupted, his voice a hopeless rasp, “I know I don't deserve to ask, but ... will you tell me if the others … if any of them survived?”

Tav hesitated: one second, then two. Then—

“Some of them,” she admitted. “Rolan kept the children safe, and they and a few others managed to escape and find refuge with the Harpers. A few more were captured and brought here to Moonrise Towers where we rescued them. They’re all at Last Light Inn together. I can take you there. Now, if you like.”

Zevlor winced, tail spasming under the blanket, at this offer, but did not bother it with a response. Instead, he asked, “Who didn't?”

Her pause was longer this time. Too long. After a minute, Zevlor raised his eyes enough to watch Tav’s bare hands twist together in her lap. She had shed her unfamiliar armor, but, he assumed by the sweat stains and the distinctive wear on the knees of the dark cloth trousers, was still in the soft kit she had worn underneath.

“I … I don't know if that’s the best… or if this is the right time for…” Her hands flexed convulsively as she struggled for words. “I mean … does that really matter right now?”

Zevlor sat up, letting the blanket rustle to the floor, and, at last, looked Tav in the face. It was thinner, he noticed in the candlelight, the infernal ridges of her cheekbones more prominent than when they had first met in the grove. Her modest horns, too, were more obvious now her wild hair was plaited down. What had her own road here been like? Had supplies run short in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, or had tendays of battles and the worry she had wasted on him carved those hollows in her cheeks, drawn those new lines along her brow? He wished he could ask. He wished they could have a different conversation — the sort of heart-to-hearts they’d had what felt like a lifetime ago. But Tav’s heart no longer belonged anywhere near his.

And when Zevlor opened his mouth, his words were not for the friend he was soon to lose or the lover he would never have, but the leader he knew would understand:

“Would it matter to you? If it were your companions, the people you were responsible for — would you need to know?”

Tav had no argument for this. She held Zevlor’s gaze a few seconds more, then swallowed hard, nodded once, and began to recite:

“Asharak … Elegis … Kaldani … Ikaron …Okta … Guex…”

She said each name alone, giving every abruptly-ended life the same solemn space and weight. Zevlor set his shoulders and received them all, stoically. Until Tav came to, “Tilses,” when a guttural noise bubbled horribly in his throat and hot tears appeared fully formed and without warning in the corners of his eyes. He covered his face with a hand, motioning Tav on with the other. He could hear the hint of tears in her own voice as she continued, but she did not stop until she finished her list with, “Locke … Komira,” then, after a beat of sober silence, added:

“I went back for the … their bodies after we, well, neutralised the Shadow Curse — that part’s hard to explain and it isn’t important right now. Anyway. Halsin helped me, and we brought them to Last Light and … and buried them properly. So there’s a place to pay respects, if … if that’s important, too.”

Gratitude enveloped Zevlor: a more substantial blanket than the one crumpled at his feet. He had no intentions of insulting the dead by intruding on their resting place, but there seemed little point saying this to Tav; she would understand soon enough.

“Thank you,” was all he croaked into his hand.

Tav did not reply in words, but the shuffle of boots and a groan of wood sliding over smooth stone indicated she had moved her chair closer. Zevlor knew without looking what she was going to do — the same thing she had always done — and also knew how abominable of him it would be to accept her comfort. But his will had been weakened by sorrow and tears, and the memory of Tav’s frantic hands on his face, in his hair, burned bright in his mind — and other parts of him over which he had even less control. He could not move. He could not abstain from the feel of her fingers: warm, soft, and blessedly, in spite of everything, alive. But they had only just brushed the back of his hand when a rap of knuckles on wood and the creak of the door behind him brought Zevlor’s moral dilemma to an end.

He sat up. Tav, too, straightened, and let her outstretched hand fall to her knee as she peered around Zevlor to the door.

“Tav — oh, you found him, then,” came a vaguely familiar voice that sounded almost as dismal and lost as Zevlor felt. “Good for you. But do you know where the Nightsong went?”

“I think she’s still, uh … catching up with Isobel somewhere.” Tav’s eyes flicked to Zevlor’s as she said this, and, for reasons mysterious to him, a blotchy, storm-cloud blush crept across her cheeks. She returned her attention hastily to the visitor. “I know you need to speak with her, I haven’t forgotten. If she’s not back in a bit, we’ll go look for her together. Alright?”

The voice made some murmur of subdued agreement, but Zevlor was no longer listening to it. He pressed his fingers to the inner corners of his eyes to clear them, then rolled his sore shoulders and steadied himself for the debrief he could put off no longer. Tav had her own people to attend to. He had already wasted far too much of her time.

“I owe you an explanation,” Zevlor began hoarsely the moment he heard the creak and snap of the re-fastened door. “You’ve heard some of it already, I’m sure, from the others. That I … froze, or broke, or some other lie, that is kinder than the truth.”

“Cerys said you surrendered,” Tav inserted, expressionless, into Zevlor’s pause for breath.

His eyes squeezed shut of their own accord, but he wrenched them open and fixed his gaze determinedly on Tav — or, at least, a point on the stone wall beyond her left ear.

“We were ambushed by cultists,” he explained: a flat and efficient report. “We had little hope of defeating them in that damned darkness, but then ... then I heard her. The Absolute. Their false god. Whispering promises in my mind. I would be a paladin again. With a god’s purpose, a god’s power. Everything I needed to protect my people. Everything I needed to—” He stopped short. He would not downplay his failures for Tav, but she did not need the sordid details of the Absolute’s temptation, surely. He cleared his throat and resumed, “And all the while, the cult tortured them: the very people I fancied I could save. They fought and ran and died around me, while I imagined myself their saviour. By the time I regained my senses, it was too late.

“So,” he concluded miserably, “Cerys is only partially right. I did not just surrender to the Absolute. For a moment… I welcomed it.”

His final confession echoed off the room’s stark stone walls and high ceiling, then faded slowly away. And still Zevlor sat, awaiting Tav’s verdict, tail flicking in increasing agitation. He could not bring himself to look at her directly. Instead, his mind raced with visions of the form her building outburst would take: her pretty face screwed up in righteous anger … or soured in subtle revulsion … a babble of unrestrained distress spewed between tears … or her voice sharpened to a knife point as she delivered some scathing rebuke...

Zevlor flinched at the justified fury of his imagined Tav, until the one across from him said at last, all quiet, cautious sympathy:

“It sounds like you were being enthralled. You can hardly blame yourself for that.”

And her defence of him was so unexpected, so ludicrous, he laughed. Or almost laughed. The sound crawled from his throat raw and flayed.

“It would be nice to think so,” he said bitterly. “But whatever these monsters twist us into, I believe it begins in us.”

“Alright, but … don’t you think it says more about you that when you were back in your right mind you chose not to join the Absolute, whatever it offered?”

Tav’s voice remained infuriatingly gentle and measured. Her head was cocked very slightly, hands open on her knees, as if approaching a skittish colt, or a small, stubborn child. Zevlor frowned at her. But was saved from attempting any sort of response by the frenzied creaking of the door and a bang as it hit the stone wall.

“Tav, are you in — yes, you are! Ah, and Zevlor too. Glad to see you made it out.” Zevlor gave a very slight nod of acknowledgment at this, but did not turn round. “I do apologise for such an ill-mannered interruption, but, Tav, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. It is essential I speak with you at once.”

“Gale, is this life or death essential, or a really great story essential?”

“Both.”

The word practically vibrated with the wizard’s clear excitement; one which Tav just as clearly did not share. Her mouth worked in poorly-repressed frustration for a moment, then, apparently deciding it would take longer not to humour him, she sighed through her nose and pushed from her chair, bending to murmur, “Two minutes, I promise,” in Zevlor’s ear as she passed.

He did not reply. For once, Zevlor was grateful for Tav’s departure. He waited until he heard the door swing shut and the wizard’s energetic monologue start up behind it, then slumped forward onto the table, and dropped his head into his hands. He closed his eyes: grief-sick and aching, confused and, somehow, more unhappy than if Tav had just hit him.

It had never occurred to Zevlor that Tav might make excuses for his failure. Could her fondness for him stretch so far as to be willing to overlook such heinous crimes? Or was she in denial? He had considered her a pragmatic, highly competent leader, and impolitic loyalty was not a quality such a leader could afford. But, as memories of Tav at the grove played out across his eyelids, the obvious thought struck Zevlor’s admittedly debilitated brain that while Tav was a leader, she was not a military commander, or any sort of soldier at all. She was, he supposed, more than anything else, a bard. A lover of tales, and the people who inspired them. A hero who preferred speeches to swords. A magician who, when outcomes appeared immutable, pulled new possibilities from thin air — or private trunks. A musician who found the hidden notes of good in nearly everyone she met — violent gith, hot-headed apprentice wizards, archdruids seduced by shadows — and plucked them to the forefront of their individual songs.

That's what she was doing now, with him, Zevlor realised: spinning his failures, the truth of his baser nature, into a story with which he could live. And he loved her for it. Affection and admiration for Tav swelled, warm and invigorating as a bonfire, in his chest…

…and was extinguished the next second by a cold, dark wave of guilt and grief.

The metallic scent of blood. The bodies at his feet. Their last living sights their own leader, unmoved by their pitiful screams—

Zevlor's head shot up from the table. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but the scene was seared across his mind, not his eyes. He knew he would never escape it, nor should he. His peoples' deaths would weigh forever on his conscience, their blood permanently stain his hands. Nothing even Tav said could absolve him of that.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice made Zevlor jump; her words, press his hand to his mouth, worried he might have been speaking his thoughts out loud. If he had, Tav did not acknowledge them further, only transferred her short sword from the bench to the table, then took its previous place. Beside Zevlor. She perched on the edge of the bench, one leg curled underneath her.

“I suppose this means you don’t want to go Last Light, then? Find the others and lead them on to Baldur’s Gate?”

Her sudden brisk tone, and the now multiple voices issuing from under the firmly closed door, led Zevlor to guess Tav expected additional interruptions at any time. He eased his sore body around on the bench to face her.

“Would any of them trust me to?”

It was a rhetorical question. Even Tav could not argue in its favour. Which did not stop her trying.

“Of course they would. I mean, they will. When they understand what really happened. When you explain—”

“No,” and Zevlor himself was surprised at the steel in his voice. “I won’t make excuses. I cannot make amends. It would be foolishness for any of them to trust me again, when I’ve let them down so many times.”

“Alright,” Tav conceded unexpectedly. “I still think many of those points are debatable, but if it’s too much for you now, I understand. So… will you come with me, then? With us?” It bore all the trappings of a casual, throwaway question, but Zevlor did not think he was mistaking the nervous excitement that whispered underneath. “I can't pretend it won't be dangerous. Even with Ketheric dead, we've got more enemies than ever, not to speak of the Absolute itself which is what we’re truly after, but … I could use another blade for what's ahead.”

“Only if you can trust it won’t be buried in your back,” retorted Zevlor grimly. “If it comes to a fight with the Absolute, I would be less than useless to you. Its already swayed me once before.”

“Well, actually,” said Tav, with the air of a Three-Dragon Ante player revealing their winning hand, “we've got a sort of protection against that. It's hard to explain. Gods, everything is now, when did it all get so complicated? But anyway, if that's what you're worried about, you'll definitely be safer with us.”

Tav's mouth curled, anticipating its own smile, so sure she would hear the answer she wanted; the answer Zevlor wanted to give. It would be so easy to say yes … to accept Tav's amnesty, her forgiveness … to join her cause: his new purpose the Absolute’s destruction, his new place at her side.

Everything the Absolute had tempted him with in the first place.

Zevlor closed his eyes again, and, this time, sought that wretched memory out. He forced himself to watch the bodies fall, bodies he could now name. Asharak. Okta. Guex. Tilses. He had entertained temptation before, and it was they who had paid the price. He had failed them. He could not let himself fail Tav.

“No,” said Zevlor, loud enough for the word to bounce off the stone walls; a hundred refusals in his voice. “I can't risk it. I won’t risk it happening again.”

An odd hush made the room seem larger and emptier than before. Zevlor realised the voices outside had fallen silent. As had Tav. He could not even hear her breathing. His eyes found her face without his permission, and she could not have looked more surprised or devastated if he had spat in it. Her tail drooped to the floor.

“Zevlor.” Her voice was delicate and trembling as the fingers she reached out and rested tentatively along the edge of his jaw. “I trust you.”

It took every ounce of Zevlor's self-control, and more he did not know he possessed, to turn his head, dislodging Tav's hand.

“I wish I shared your faith.”

For seconds that recalled the timelessness of his prison, the two of them sat in the dissonant wake of this exchange; together, but, it felt to Zevlor at least, wholly separate, disconnected, for the first time since they had met. Then another importunate rap at the door knocked a groan from Tav. There was a pain in it Zevlor thought too visceral to stem from the interruption alone.

“Yes, alright, I'm coming,” she called, and her words, too, contained a disproportionate grief. She uncurled slowly from the bench, then stood for a moment, as if unable to tear herself away. From the corner of his eye, Zevlor could see her face flit around the room, searching for something: a new angle or untried manoeuvre, perhaps. “Look,” she said at last, “you’ve been through something unspeakably awful. Months worth of awful, in fact. You need to sleep, really sleep, and … we can talk more about what to do when you've had some rest.”

Zevlor knew it was useless to argue. Nor did he have the energy left. To deny Tav — to deny himself of Tav — had drained the last of his strength. He could barely lift his arm to grip the hilt of the short sword and slide it along the table towards her.

“Here,” he said simply, then, “Thank you,” when Tav's slight wince made his heart ache.

“Keep it,” she said just as baldly. “You left your sword at the grove. I’ve got to go deal with … everything. But if I don’t see you before, I’ll come find you in the morning.”

Two abrupt and equally bemusing questions furrowed Zevlor’s brow. But Tav had already walked away. He had time to call out only one of them after her:

“Is there a morning in this place?”

Her hand on the doorknob, Tav turned as she wrenched it open, and offered Zevlor one last smile.

“There will be.”

“And there was, of course,” Zevlor finishes. “I saw it from the ruins of the town beyond Moonrise. I waited until most in the tower had settled to sleep, then slipped out around the side. I stayed there until - until I saw Tav and the others leave.”

He stares into his tankard, light-headed and slightly nauseous: from its contents, or the memory of watching Tav and her companions trek across the ruined road. He had recognised the pale elf lifting his arms to embrace the newborn sunlight, and Karlach's boisterous laugh, and Tav, walking alone, slightly ahead of the rest of her party; and though he could not make out details of her face, he had thought her aspect unusually sober.

“If I'd only followed her then,” Zevlor laments, “or listened to her before, perhaps things would have been ... well...” He sighs heavily. “It doesn't matter now. I thought I was finally doing the right thing. I didn't understand I was really doing what I'd always done: running from my shame ... indulging my own pride.”

“But you do … you do understand now, don't you?” Alfira ventures tentatively. “I mean, that none of it — what happened to us — was your fault?”

Zevlor shakes his head. Which isn't an answer.

“Some strategies work in theory,” he muses after a minute's contemplation, “but fail when enacted in actual battle.”

Which is hardly more of one.

“Yes, well,” interjects Lakrissa's voice as the privacy curtain suddenly parts, “strategies and battle plans are all well and good, but you can't win a fight without food. Armies marching on their stomachs, and that,” and she pushes a bowl in front of Zevlor. “Roveer's closing up the kitchen for the night, but he had a bit of pudding left over.”

Zevlor stares into the bowl. It's filled to the brim with generous slices of some sweet-smelling loaf soaked in syrup and dusted with sliced almonds, almost too decorous-looking to eat. Nonplussed, he catches Alfira's eye. By her blank expression, she's every bit as bewildered as he. Zevlor lifts his gaze at last to Lakrissa. But all she says by way of explanation is:

“Alan's ale on an empty stomach's enough to make anyone sick. And, I reckon you've suffered enough.”

[celestiall0tus]

Court of Miracles - Chapter 16 - Talk to Me

Beginning || Previous || Next

            Sass stepped off the teleportation pad in the greenhouse. He carried Juleka through the gardens to a new room in the back nestled in a forest glade. He set her down on the bed and covered her as he heard footsteps behind him. He stood as Plagg and Tikki stood in the doorway with Gimmi beside them.

            “Well, well, been a while, Sass. You know, it does fall on the kwami to punish their own heirs, not for the other kwamis to punish them,” Plagg mewed.

            “That’s rich, coming from you. There’s only one instance of you punishing your heirs when there were countless other times you should have,” Sass hissed.

            “Really? I didn’t think they did anything wrong.”

            “Of course, you didn’t. However, if you intend to tell me to heal your heir, I won’t.”

            “Oh, that? Please, I know better. You and Longg are the most stubborn of all of us. There is no convincing either of you once your mind is set.”

            “Then why are you all here?”

            Gimmi stepped forward. “Sass, we’re no fools. You’re plotting something. What is your aim?”

            “You should know better than anyone, Gimmi,” Sass hissed.

            “Do you truly intend to bring back the court to what it was?”

            Sass laughed. “I don’t have such power, but I will remind them. I will remind them all how far they’ve fallen. You saw tonight. You saw them. They are the embodiments of us! Where everyone sees a monster, we see ourselves. We see what we lost. But also what we could have again. Is it wrong that I want more of that? Is it wrong that I don’t want Juleka to be the last? Is it wrong that I’m sick of the waves of Elders futile efforts to fix the court? No one is going to fix it except ourselves!”

            “I agree,” Gimmi said.

            “You… what?”

            “Yeah! Even the Highborns amongst mine are dwindling fast. Marinette is one of a few Highborn I have left. I’m scared to lose them and be stuck with those Midborns, and worst, the Lowborns. I want my connection with my clan. I want my own shifter too!” Tikki complained.

            “As would I,” Plagg added.

            “I would like to not see my clan’s blessing vanish. You know once mine is gone, you all will lose yours too,” Gimmi warned.

            Sass tensed up. “What do you propose then?”

            “We are gathering tonight while the heirs are disoriented from Juleka’s outburst. We aim to build a case as a plea to Velze. We’re not ready to move on, so we must take action. However, we have dangerous aims standing against Father. Tikki and Plagg stand with me, but I need another. I need someone like you, Sass. I need a kwami with a shifter heir.”

            “There’s Ziggy,” Sass countered.

            “Do you honestly think I would trust Ziggy with this type of thing?” Gimmi shot back.

            Sass grimaced but didn’t answer.

            “I didn’t think so. Listen, I know I ask a lot, but this cannot continue this way. You and Juleka made us aware at the Solstice. You made Velze aware too. Please, we need your help in making our case.”

            “I… I don’t know.”

            “Then let me help you. If we sit aside forever, all the blessings will break, and these mortals will become mundane. Once they are mundane again, we move on. As Velze would decree, we would, but many are not ready to move on. They want to stay with these mortals longer. We can prolong our stay, but we need you. Please, will you help?”

            Sass sighed. “You know this is a fool’s endeavor doomed to fail, right?”

            “Maybe, but so long as there is one fool left to fight, no cause is doomed. We are those fools. Will you join us?”

            Gimmi held out a hand for Sass. Sass looked at it, sighed, and took it.

            “Thank you,” Gimmi said.

            “What’s the plan?”

            “We build our case, then we’ll converge at moon high to have our council with Father.”

            “That doesn’t give us much time.”

            “Then we better get started.”

~~

            Luka sat at the edge of the council room while the other heirs bickered and fought over what to do about Juleka. Annoyance and frustration tore through him as he listened to their muddled declarations that Juleka was dangerous and a problem to be dealt with. He attempted to block them out and focus on other things in the room.

            Luka looked around and eyed Felix and Marinette. Felix had passed out from blood loss, but his wounds clotted soon after. Marinette, Socqueline, and Bridgette worked on bandaging Felix to keep the wounds from reopening. Aside from them, he eyed Marc sitting at the table with his brows knotted and eyes on the table, deep in thought.

            Luka moved to speak with Marc when a hand pulled him back. He turned to see Ziggy. Her hazel eyes a deep, crimson red. He opened his mouth, but she pressed her finger against his lips.

            “Luka, calm down. You’re making things worse for yourself. Let us at least get you some food,” Ziggy said.

            “What are you talking about?” Luka demanded.

            “Right. Remember earlier when food didn’t fill you up?”

            “I mean, I guess. I assumed it just hit later after I had, er, spent the afternoon with Adrienne.”

            “Oh, sweet summer child, no. That apple had nothing to do with it. Especially considering Adrienne is likely still back at her place, passed the fuck out after an exhausting, but blissful afternoon.”

            Luka blushed and looked away.

            “That’s what I thought. Luka, honey, you don’t feed like normal heirs. You’re a goat shifter, so your needs are… different.”

            “Different how?”

            “Well, let’s just say that you don’t need food or sleep anymore. The way you get your energy is through positive, nourishing vibes. You know, like the ones at a party or when you’re with Adrienne. You’re happy then, right? Surrounded by positive energy?”

            “It felt like that, and it was nice.”

            “And when Juleka crashed the party?”

            Luka hesitated. “It felt… draining being around her. I felt the hunger clawing at me again.”

            “As you would. See, those negative energies will exhaust you and starve you. It’s the same if you give off bad energy yourself.”

            “Really? So, what? Am I supposed to be happy all the time?”

            “Well, no, but just don’t let your negative emotions get too extreme like Juleka does. So long as you continue to manage your emotions in a healthy way, you won’t starve yourself. Speaking of bad energy, we should do something, shouldn’t we?”

            “What do you mean?”

            Ziggy held up a finger as she approached the council table. “Hey! Everyone! C’mon, let’s lighten up the mood, yeah?”

            “Ziggy, with all due respect, now is not the time for a party. We need to figure out what to do about that beast,” Wayhem declared.

            “She’s not a beast, Wayhem. She’s a shifter. The first anyone has been in a thousand years. We need to be approaching her more cautiously,” Max protested.

            “Yeah! You all should have seen her poor soul. It’s broken. Being intoxicated didn’t help her mental state either and you all want to punish her. We should be helping her, not punishing her!” Ondine added.

            “Her emotions ran wild. You could tell she was running purely on them,” Alya said.

            “Her emotions or her anger?” Aurore challenged.

            “Can’t you see the anger is a mask? She’s hurting, but of course you wouldn’t understand that now, would you?” Alya shot back.

            “I get it! Juleka needs help, but you’ll have two unstable shifters to deal with if you all keep this up,” Ziggy warned.

            “Oh, great! What’s wrong with the man whore?” Wayhem demanded.

            “Deep throat a cactus, Wayhem. Anyway, Luka doesn’t sustain himself like you all anymore. To survive, he needs to feed off positive energy.”

            Marc raised a brow. “What kind of positive energy are we talking about?”

            “Oh, just positive energy, really. I’ve found that parties are typically the best since everyone is usually indulging in sins like gluttony, lust, and sloth that everything is nice and laid back. It’s once the negative energy crops up that it drains him and makes him hungry. Like the whole fight earlier.”

            “And that whole incident has left him drained?” Max asked while taking notes.

            “Oh, yes. He was completely full before the party, but that whole spat completely starved him,” Ziggy answered.

            “Uh, Ziggy? I don’t-,” Luka started.

            “How could you tell he was full?” Max interrupted.

            “His eyes. If they’re bright and lively, he’s full. However, if they darken, he’s getting hungry. And trust me, you don’t want a goat shifter’s eyes to turn black. Oh boy!” Ziggy added.

            “Fascinating. Luka, what were you doing earlier that worked so effectively to fill you?” Max questioned.

            “I, er, was with Adrienne,” Luka admitted.

            “Just being with Adrienne was enough? Interesting.”

            “Oh, Luka, you modest boy. I see how you are. The kiss and don’t tell type,” Ziggy blurted.

            “Ziggy,” Luka hissed.

            “What? You’re revelry, baby! Take pride in the fact you rode the bitch hard and true for hours.”

            Luka blushed while Wayhem snorted.

            “Please. You don’t honestly expect us to believe that, do you?”

            “Believe what you will, but there’s a reason that even Jagged had people coming back for seconds and more.”

            Ziggy opened her mouth to continue, but she stopped. Her eyes shifted from deep red to dark blue. Luka pursed his lips as a wave of longing and temptation crashed into him. He paled as he painfully recognized the carnal desire that followed it.

            Aurore stepped up leaned over, propping herself up with her arm. “You know, I never really hated you.”

            Luka cringed and forced a smile as he stepped back. “Right, well, that’s nice to know, but-.”

            “Uh, Luka?” Zoe asked sheepishly.

            Luka dropped the smile and stared down at Zoe.

            “We, uh, we could hang out, if you’d like. No pressure, but-,” Zoe attempted.

            Chloe walked up and pushed Zoe away. “Out of here, half-pint.”

            “No fair, Chloe! You always said-!” Zoe started.

            Chloe wrapped her arms around Luka. “Don’t mind her. She’s just a little jealous is all. Who wouldn’t be when you could have someone as bountiful as me.”

            “Right, right. Uh, very flattering, but I-,” Luka started.

            Kim grabbed Luka’s horns and pulled him away from Chloe. Luka bleated in shock as Kim manhandled him into a headlock. Ondine lightly slapped Kim’s chest, then smiled at Luka.

            “You know, you’re always welcome in the swan district. We always have plenty of good vibes, and eats, too. Don’t forget the eats. Absolutely divine, if you want to partake, of course,” Ondine said.

            Kim grinned as he messed with Luka’s horns. “I would love to test how good these are as handlebars.”

            Luka flushed as he squirmed uneasily. He opened his mouth when he was teleported away next to Alix. She grinned and put an arm around him.

            “Say, Luka. From one party bitch to another, we’re going to get real familiar with each other’s bodies, so how about we start now?” Alix offered.

            Luka’s blush deepened, his eyes widened, and he pursed his lips. Alix opened her mouth to speak again when she was pushed aside by Alya and Fei Wu. Luka opened his mouth as Alya pressed her face against his, Fei leaned against his left side, and Mylene took his arm and wrapped it around her.

            “Ignore the bear cub, sweetness. You’ve better options than a filthy bear. What you need is a strong woman that knows no fear,” Fei Wu propositioned.

            “Oy! The fuck did you say about me, bitch!” Alix roared.

            “Don’t start fights you can’t finish, cub,” Fei Wu warned.

            “Oh yeah? Watch me! Bring it bitch!”

            Alix tackled Fei Wu as they rolled around on the floor. Luka grimaced at the pair when Alya moved where Fei Wu stood.

            “Such barbarians, aren’t they? I think you’d benefit more from the company of someone far more in tune and in control of their emotions,” Alya suggested.

            “But just enough wild to send you soaring into the skies,” Mylene added.

            “Alright, enough!” Luka yelled.

            Mylene and Alya jumped back as Luka turned to face everyone.

            “What makes any of you think I’m going to sleep with any of you?” Luka demanded.

            “Oh, what’s the matter, fuckboy? Too scared to embrace your concept just as your whore father did? Or are you afraid that all of Ziggy’s praise is nothing but lies and you’re just a disappointment of a lover and goat just as you were as a snake?” Wayhem challenged.

            Luka’s nostrils flared. “Fuck you, Wayhem. Fuck all of you! I’m not Jagged. I’m not just going to abandon how you all treated me in the past. Me and Adrienne alike. Now you sit here, discussing my fucking sister and treating her like she’s not even human. What makes you think I’d want any of you?”

            Alix stopped wrestling Fei Wu and teleported onto the table. “Oy! The fuck you mean all of us? News flash, goat boy, not all of us cared about you and Adrienne. Some of us don’t even care about your sexy sister. Well, we do, but not in the ways you think. Don’t lump us all in the same pile, but don’t mistake this as being all about you either!”

            Marc moved around the table to Luka. “Alix is right. I’m not touching on the subject of your relationship with Adrienne. It’s not my place. However, Juleka did overstep a line. She needs help, a lot of help. I don’t think punishing her is the right call, but we need-.”

            “Oh, we’re not punishing her after she killed both Luka and Felix?” Wayhem challenged.

            “What? No, of course not! We need-!” Marc attempted.

            “Oh, I see what’s going on. You think you finally have a chance at indulging your sick fantasies, don’t you, Marc? What better than the newest fuckboy.”

            “What? No. No! This has nothing to do about Luka. You all can fight over him, but don’t drag me into this. I’m just-!”

            “Just shooting your shot like everyone else here? Yeah, we can tell. Don’t think you’re fooling anyone here, Marc. We all know better. You’ve wanted nothing more than to fulfill your sick perversions. At least the rest of us have the decency to still like the opposite sex. What’s your excuse?”

            Marc’s jaw dropped as he stared out at everyone. He fought for words as tears burned his eyes. Rage tore through Luka at Wayhem’s words. He summoned his weapon, a pitchfork, and threw it at Wayhem. Wayhem screamed out as the pitchfork impaled his right shoulder. He snorted, scooped up Marc, and headed out.

            “U-uhm, Luka? Where are we going? Are we-?”

            “No. I’m taking you back to the Cicada District. I think we’ve both had enough for tonight.”

            “R-right. Um, could we though?”

            “Pardon?”

            Marc paled. “I mean, obviously we don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just… I mean… I wouldn’t mind. I would like to… you know, experience that at least once.”

            “Marc?”

            “I… I know it’s silly. Sitting here in your arms begging to be, you know. I just… I get curious, but also envious. I see the lot of the court members happily and openly be with people they love or just find attractive. I’ve tried to reach out. I’ve tried to be with other men, but whenever I try to make that first move, I feel all this weight fall on me. I’m one of the last cicadas with powers. I am one of the last with Gimmi’s blessing. I should be with a woman, but I… I.”

            Marc sighed as he trailed off. He laid his head on Luka’s shoulder and stared out.

            “I need to continue my bloodline. I need to offer my clan an heir with powers, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t be with a woman. I can only find comfort with men. And it sucks. I just… I want to be able to know what it’s like, even if just once. Oh, who am I kidding, I know better. It would only ever be once with how much they belittle me for it. I just wish I knew what was wrong with me.”

            “Nothing is wrong with you, Marc. It’s Wayhem and people like him that are the problem. You’re allowed to love who you want.”

            “Easy for you to say, Luka. No offense, but you’re a goat. You’re at the very bottom. It’s not… it’s not like me.”

            “You’re right, it’s not, but that doesn’t change the truth of it. You should be allowed to love who you want. Damn what everyone else thinks.”

            “If only.”

            Luka frowned, then smiled. “I have an idea. Let’s enjoy the night away from everyone. Perhaps things could lead back to your place later. How’s that sound.”

            Marc’s face turned bright red. “That’s more than perfect. Wonderful. Amazing. No complaints. Nope. None at all.”

            “Good. Let’s enjoy the night, just you and I.”

~~

            Luka stepped off the teleportation pad to the greenhouse. He curled his lip at the humidity even in the early morning sun. He took a step when his path was blocked by Sass.

            “Why are you here?” Sass demanded.

            “I came to speak with Juleka,” Luka said.

            Sass looked Luka up and down. “Are you sure you should be talking to her in your condition? You look ravenous. Didn’t find a good meal last night?”

            “I… no.”

            Sass hummed. “Shame. From what I hear from Longg and Gimmi, Marc has never been happier.”

            “Yeah, well, his guilt and shame runs deep thanks to the court. It made things… less than ideal.”

            “Such is life. Now go.”

            “No. I’m not leaving until I speak with Juleka.”

            “Do you honestly think it’s a good idea to speak with her when she’s going to have a hangover from hell and you’re starved?”

            “You can medicate her hangover, can’t you?”

            “Perhaps, but that doesn’t help that you’re starved.”

            “Well, no, but after last night, things aren’t exactly good. And I don’t want to completely drain Adrienne especially since she doesn’t even know yet. So, what can I even fucking do?”

            “I’m available,” Mylene said.

            Luka jumped back as Mylene landed between him and Sass.

            “Morning, Mylene,” Sass muttered.

            “Morning, Sass. So, what do you say, Luka? I know a nice nearby creek with a lovely deep hole. Oh, and the lovely babbles of it with all the little dragonlings. And we don’t have to worry about being interrupted or negative energy. It’d just be you and me. What do you say?”

            Luka scratched the back of his head as he considered. “I suppose it could be refreshing to wash in, uh, the creek water. Uh, lead the way?”

            Mylene grinned and led Luka away. Sass watched the pair vanish before he turned around.

            “You walk with death, Juleka.”

            A moment passed before Juleka stepped out into the archway with her head down.

            “Morning, Juleka.”

            Silence.

            Sass furrowed his brows. He approached Juleka and lifted her chin. His eyes widened as he saw her red puffy eyes and tear and makeup-stained face.

            “Juleka?” Sass asked.

            “I… I thought she liked me. I… I thought we could… we could be more. Why does everyone like Luka more than me? Why does no one love me?”

            “Juleka, easy. It’s not-.”

            Juleka broke down into sobbing fits. Sass watched her run off and disappear. He sighed, looked away, then back in the direction she ran off in.

            “This will be a long day.”

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[passions-and-pupils]

Nezha’s afterlife (a short story)

Nezha’s life was over, ended by his own hands. They may have been held tightly by the strings of the king of the East Sea, but they were his hands nonetheless.

It was his choice. 

A twisted choice where he had to choose between his own life or his village's safety but it was his choice nonetheless.

He didn’t spend much time alive. The exact number of years was hazy, but it couldn’t have been more than ten. He missed his time alive dearly. 

He missed being held by his mother as she sang sweet songs to the boy she had worked three years to bring into the world 

He missed when his father would come home, sweating in his uniform from a hard day's work but still finding the energy to make sure Nezha hadn’t caused any trouble while he was away.

He missed training with his wise master to use the power and weapons he had been blessed with from birth.

Weapons he used carelessly day-to-day.

Power that would lead to his downfall.

He missed his brothers who treated him no differently than they would anyone else despite the way his power burnt holes in all the other relationships he clung onto.

Yet more than anything he missed the little things.

The feeling of hot sand burning his feet.

The joy of Laughing so hard his breath struggled to correct itself.

Even the way his joints would ache after a long day of training seemed a blessing in comparison to the apathetic nature of his current existence.

But that was all far behind him now.

His ability to experience stayed behind with his body.

Now the only thing he had left was raw emotion, memories, and thought.

Nezha knew very well it was time for him to move on to the next life, yet he still found himself hanging around the mortal realm 

Trying to wipe his mother's tears as she sobbed against his mangled corpse, trying to quell the repressed anger his father carried like a bag of bricks, trying to comfort his friends who were too young to understand the boy they knew had left them and was never coming back.

In the end, he failed, doomed to be a passive observer in the grief of those he once held dear. 

One night he got into his parents' bed, slipping above the covers that refused to move over him.

He pretended he was cuddled up next to them.

They would’ve never let him do that while he was alive. They would’ve told him that he had his own room for a reason and he needed to learn to be more independent.

Now that there was no way for him to depend on them, or even ask them for permission in the first place, he somehow doubted they would mind.

After a while of lying there, he decided to slip into his mother's dream.

He saw a flash of whatever she was doing before he arrived but it faded before he could comprehend it, leaving him and his mother alone in a sea of nothing.

His mother stared at him with wide eyes. 

Not through him or at his lifeless body,

Right at him.

He hesitantly moved forward.

his mother stepped back, her hands trembling and her heart beating just loud enough for Nezha to hear clearly

That was when he finally noticed.

that wasn’t love or joy in her tear-filled eyes.

It was terror.

His own mother was afraid of him.

If he couldn’t even bring comfort to the ones he held most dear, then he truly had no more purpose in this life.

Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to move on without doing something, anything, to ease her pain.

So he asked her to do one more thing for him,

To build a temple

That way maybe she could find peace in the divine, and that way maybe his soul could finally rest

His mother told no one of her dream, instead opting to create the temple in private.

She planned the architecture with the same love and attention she once gave her son and placed every brick like it would bring her one step closer to him. 

Often she’d break down, falling to her knees in front of her project unaware of her son's arms wrapped around her in a futile attempt of comfort. 

Nezha knew she was reminded of his untimely demise every time she returned to the scene.

He admired the way she pushed through her grief, putting her energy towards something bigger than herself. 

He wished he could thank her.

Maybe he would, 

Maybe in a dream before he left her side for the last time.

Would that finally bring her closure?

Would that bring him closer to moving on?

He watched as the final shingle was placed with a delighted smile, the first joy he had felt since leaving his body behind.

Finally, after all this time being a wandering spirit, unable to affect the world he so desperately clung to 

he had finally accomplished something wonderful. He felt had left the village better than he found it. He was ready to move on now and start a new life.

Maybe this time he would be born into a regular family and live a wonderful and normal existence.

One where he wasn’t born special but became so on his own accord.

Making his own choice to live the life Nezha had been thrown into feet first.

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

But the world was not so kind,

And neither was his father.

“What is this?” He asked looking at the temple with disdain 

Nezha didn’t understand the question.

Obviously, it was a work of art. Love leaked from even the smallest cracks in the brick, but somehow that wasn’t what his father saw,

Because if it was he wouldn’t look so angry at its creator.

“It’s a temple, for our son,” the mother explained, looking towards the ground in shame.

Nezha’s mother was ashamed of him.

“Why would you make a temple for someone who almost destroyed the village single-handedly?”

Every word he spoke made him seem less and less like the father Nezha missed so dearly, and more like a demon he once trained to fight.

“He didn’t mean for that to happen! he was just a child-“

“He should have known better than to pick a fight with dragons!” The general snapped.

His mother was silent for a moment. her eyes quiet waterfalls of once repressed.

Nezha stepped forward to help her out of instinct but found himself just as heartbroken as she.

All this time he thought his father was angry at the Dragon King.

After all, if Ao Guang hadn’t sent his son to kill him-

No.

If Ao Guang hadn’t sent Li Gen to kill those children in the first place, Nezha would still be alive and his hands wouldn’t be stained with divine blood.

“What was he supposed to do? Let his friend die?” His mother's words were fierce but her voice betrayed her, coming out wobbly and weak as her struggling knees “You always taught him to protect the ones he cared about didn’t you?”

“I taught him to respect the gods,”

But Nezha did respect them! The dragon attacked first! In the heat of battle the instinct to live overpowers any social customs. His father of all people should have known that well.

He wiped his eyes, trying desperately to see his mother's face through a blur of sorrow.

He couldn’t see much but what he did see was the way her features scrunched up in desperate anger

“So what? You’d rather him let his friend be eaten? You’d rather him let Ao Bing drown him and bring his corpse to his father like a trophy?”

Nezha covered his ears, a silent scream clawing its way up his throat as images of that cursed day flashed in his mind.

Despite not being able to feel physical sensation his hands were still wet, dripping with beautiful, horrible golden blood.

He could still smell the death on his clothes, under his fingernails, in places impossible to wash out.

He didn’t want to hear his fathers answer. He didn’t want to see his mother's response. He just wanted to disappear.

Luckily for him, a loud silence spread over them Like a blanket of flame, eating up the grass and burning hotter the longer it lay uninterrupted 

Eventually, his mother stormed out,  unknowingly leaving her husband and son alone together.

Nezha wept on the grass, unable to be heard nor seen though he almost wanted to know what would happen if his father saw him now.

Would he even care to comfort him 

or would he give him the same look he gave the temple?

He wondered if he even deserved to be comforted. After all, he had brought dishonor to his family,

and all because he wanted to save his friend from a demon in the sea

His father left and Nezha wandered inside the temple.

It was almost finished, only needing a few finishing touches, yet Nezha felt farther from moving on than he had ever been and he doubted his mother felt any less burdened by grief.

He leaned against the wall and wondered how it would feel to living visitors.

Would the wall be cold? Rough? 

Would it be comforting or overwhelming if he could feel it rub against his back?

He closed his eyes tight and imagined he was in his parent's bed again, except this time it was warm and he was snuggled under the covers. His parents knew he was there but they didn’t mind, both sleeping peacefully beside him without burden,

but that was not reality, as much as he longed for it to be.

He opted to open his eyes and face the world head-on, but he did not see the other wall like he expected.

Instead, he saw fire.

Red hot flames eating away at the temple’s infrastructure, embers dancing wildly as if they were entitled to the very air around them. Nezha watched as the beauty sculpted out by his mother’s own two hands melted away around him.

Nezha ran for the exit but he couldn’t get out before the roof collapsed. The ruble fell right through him and yet he felt the same pain emotionally that he would’ve physically if it had suffocated him.

Still he picked himself up, form shaking as he moved.

Looking around he couldn’t see much but red. Still, he knew exactly what happened.

His fear and anguish were evaporated by the heat of the fire as anger ignited inside him.

He ran outside the building, the cracks and snaps of the fire deafening behind him as his animosity grew.

Just as he thought his father stood just outside, his face was Lax though his eyes reflected the flames like a dark mirror. 

Nezha never thought he’d see his father cry.

He was always the type of guy who saw emotions and weakness as one and the same. He had scolded Nezha while he sobbed, telling him that his enemies would have no pity on him no matter how loud he screamed.

The tears dotting the general's bottom lashes were the closest Nezha had ever seen him to breaking down.

Still, he couldn’t find it in his soul to have sympathy for him.

No.

His sympathy and love for his father burnt down with the temple his mother had so lovingly built.

Now all Nezha had left for that man

Was rage

Nezha’s master sewed up a body of lotus made perfectly for him.

He hoped Nezha could use his strength to help people. This was the perfect second chance to use his powers right this time, 

and yet he had one more thing he needed to do before that.

He thanked his master, Picked up his new spear, and stepped on his new wheels, fire immediately lighting on the gilded golden gifts. It felt as if everything he touched burned but these weapons would never tarnish under his heat. They were too strong for that. 

Nezha traveled back to his hometown not even a day after he was revived

He wouldn’t stay long, he had but one thing to attend to.

After all, his father always told him that if he disrespected immortals he would pay tenfold.

Nezha always was a firm believer that what went around came around, and as he approached the house that used to be his home,

He truly believed that he was his father’s karma.

[blood-starved-beast]

hi hello just came here to say that i *really* enjoyed your musings on lady maria, you just analyse her in such a realistic scrupulous way it's very delectable♡

Thanks! I'll admit my interpretations are a bit atypical to what the fandom usually sees of her ( I mean, I have discussions on other platforms about this). But I just, as someone who has worked in Research involving animals that ultimately have to be put down for science, how the narrative presents Maria is very damning.

We first learn of Maria from the patients at the Research Hall, not having known of her beforehand other than vaguely alluded to via the Doll and the Hunter's Bone. The patients who are medically/scientifically tortured, dissected/vivisected, are living in abject squalor, are being turned into giant heads and are literally losing their minds, and their bodies dumped to rot as fertilizer in the gardens (for the flowers Maria loves I might add) once they no longer serve their purpose. And yet, they love her. These people tortured and denied any form of humanity cling to her like she were a Saint, like the Virgin Mary even, despite her not actually doing anything to improve or prevent the situation.

That is a very powerful first impression - that Maria cared enough about these subjects to give them kindness enough that they automatically cling to her yet lacks the absolute empathy to actually, you know, not experiment on them. That mentality is necessary when working with research animals, but these are people. And that initial impression is not something I can easily overlook regardless of what her actual aim was with the laboratory. This impression is heighten if you take the popular fan interpretation that Maria had some affection for Saint Adeline. Like, oh boy.

What that leaves me to interpret then, is that Maria at best someone of compromised morals, at worst someone who is somewhat two-faced. To assail her failing morals, her kindness is meant to be more self-gratifying, to "prove" to herself that she is a better person than she actually is. It is, in part, a performance cause at the very least it is not reality. There is delusion there but unlike some male Bloodborne simps on reddit it's cause she's deluding herself at the very least, or at most she is doing enough to give the impression she is helping somewhat. You know, like those rich fucks who hand out water bottles during a crisis and then go "that's enough philanthropy for one day :)" while being in a position of power to do actual meaningful change and doing nothing. Or that even if she is an awful person, there are people who are worst than her out there. And maybe that's enough.

I do think she gets to a point that she realizes it though. How fucked up she is/what she's done. That in part of is ultimately what kills her, that and the ultimate futility of her actions, how she slowly chipped and chipped away whatever person she was when she started to ultimately become the monster of her own creation. No better than the Vileblood family she rejected at first (if not worse than them in some respects). But instead of doing anything more meaningful about that Heel Realization she kills herself, dooming herself to being constantly minded that amongst all the Living Failures, she herself reigns Supreme.

[starcanwrecked-confessions]

r.e "curtwen being doomed to fail lessens the tragedy" anon, i think its just a matter of taste tbh. like for me, i find characters being doomed from the beginning to be more tragic because of the futility of it all. watching characters Try to succeed, try to be happy, try to work, but fail because they were never meant to do anything else really gets me. i dont think it lessens the tragedy for them to be doomed, but i do think it does depend on your taste in stories. i realise this is like barely anything to do with starcanwrecked so ill throw in a confession right at the end uhhh everyone should watch starship right now

~~~

[cowboyskeletons]

something about how willscam didn't know hermie's name when he was made. so he doesn't know anything about hermie or the past or anything. but he talks about how he's basically hermie. "where it counts" or whatever.

something about how he has two names and neither is his. the one he knows is discarded. the one he doesn't is deemed true enough. not correct (he is not deserving of the title), but the closest he has; for he has nothing else suitable, tasteful enough. calling him his real name would be too confusing.

but "hermie" is a name with a weight, one with a history. to take it on would be to burden others, really-- force them to take that relationship again, revert to an old save state, throw away progress. all for a temporary measure.

it's not worth it. he's not worth it. not worth the brief confusion of willy, not worth the anti-catharsis of hermie. hermie two it is, they suppose. a constant reminder of who he's supposed to be, who he's not allowed to be. the person he sees reflected in their eyes. he's just a copy, just the inferior replacement that can't even be that. the easiest way of rejection.

maybe he recognizes that. maybe that's why he clings to "hermie". hermie is a role he was made with, something nameless that guided his creation. it's the garish makeup and playful behavior and manifested interests. it's an easy solace. it's what everyone wants, what gets him attention. (and attention is something he sorely lacks, even when fresh and new and just minutes after being made a spectacle.)

something about how he gets forgotten anyway. he's the new thing, the shiny new gimmick. he's the second coming and a hot topic of debate. he's an old friend, old flame. fans are raving about him!

but he still fades.

it's not even their efforts that do it-- the protests (against his creation, against acknowledging his personhood, against comparing him to that boy left under the sunrise) only give him more of a spotlight, even if they leave out his voice. (his voice doesn't matter, anyway-- it's a sacrifice he's willing to make by playing the roles he must.) it's just a matter of his existence.

something about how both willscam and hermie are doomed to be forgotten, but willscam doesn't know this. he knows that he is-- he was made for one job, and once it's over, he will be as well. but he knows that hermie is a name people can't take out their mouths, can't drag their minds from. he was made because of hermie's lasting impact. how could hermie not be permanent? how could he be forgotten? it's impossible. the proof is in the pudding is in the creation is in willscam.

but genuine or not, he was always doomed to fail.

maybe it was better for him not to know this. sure he was fighting a futile battle-- striving for recognition as someone he was made to emulate but would never be allowed to be, kicking and screaming through best efforts that pale in comparison to the original goods, clinging to the shadow of someone he doesn't have the importance to know-- but maybe it's better that he had something to fight for? maybe it's better than being made of nothing from nothing for nothing, past-less and future-less and less-than and always forgotten, in the end. maybe it was better for him to cling to their fleeting attention because what else did he have to cling to?

all he has is the name.

[ikarosxflight]

"Boy, it's not that complicated You should stay in my good graces"

Pit had been stirring in his sleep for what felt like an eternity, his restless movements a desperate battle against an unseen force. The weight of guilt, a burden he could not shake, held him captive, denying him rest. It was as if he was ensnared by a foreign parasitic trait, a flaw in his design that only he could feel, a burden unknown to most divine beings but all too familiar to him. Humanity.

The memory of the Royal ball at Hyrule Castle, where he had spent a wonderful time with the Champions, lingered in his subconscious. Pit had jokingly referred to it as a royal distraction, but it had been a rare moment of respite. As he slept, he unconsciously clutched the birthday present Zelda gave him – a hand-woven light blue cloth, a symbol of their bond and alliance for a better future. This tangible reminder of their unity only served to amplify his feelings of unworthiness.

He longed for the days when he had been indifferent towards the Champions, and his sole focus had been completing his mission to return to Skyworld. Now, the futility of that endeavor weighed heavily on him, adding to the torment that kept him from finding peace in slumber.

Caribbean blues awaken to a familiar scene: the azure sky stretches endlessly over majestic floating islands adorned with ancient temples and the imposing statue of Palutena, the Goddess of Light, towering over them. Skyworld, with its ethereal beauty and tranquil aura, never fails to captivate Captain Pit. His gaze travels upward, meeting the unyielding eyes of the stone statue, which seem to exude an uncanny sense of life and purpose. Despite his best efforts, Captain Pit can't shake off the disquieting feeling they evoke.

Just as he ponders the statue's enigmatic nature, a melodious yet menacing voice breaks the silence. Startled, he turns away from the statue, only to be met with the awe-inspiring presence of the Goddess of Light herself. Her elegance and grace are unmatched, even as she delivers a veiled threat with a disarming smile and eyes that seem alluring and deadly. Captain Pit's heart flutters with fear and fascination in the face of such beauty and danger.

"L-Lady Palutena!"

He bows before her, the setting sun casting a warm glow on her face. In that moment, her mesmerizing words, filled with unwavering "determination and love", intertwine with her mere presence, reinforcing his steadfast drive to return to her, where his heart feels most at home. No matter the trials and tribulations that may lie ahead, his connection to this place is unwavering. It was so intoxicating.

Only someone as insane as himself could love Palutena with a fierce, consuming passion, even if his existence was on the line. No matter how hard he tried, he could not help how his heart raced uncontrollably whenever she was near. It was as if every fiber of his being was drawn to her, utterly unable to resist her magnetic pull.

He knows what he must do. He raises his head to her, his dog collar and chain tightened. She still rules over his heart, his soul, his entire being.

"Thy Goddess, I swear I will not fail you. I will do whatever it takes for the glory to be yours. I'd do anything to stay in your good graces... Anything."

Pit woke up refreshed that morning, all his self-doubts resolved, and his humanity kept at bay. Another day was ahead of him, another day to lead them all to their doom. Glory to Palutena, and may Hylia smile upon your demise.

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

((contents: kidnapping, captivity, buried alive, isolation, hallucinations, left to die))

Promptspiration: This week's post result fic, from the "When Caretaker finally finds Whumpee..." poll, and the result "having given up / despairing". combined with @whumpers-monthly prompt this month: "locked in a coffin".

Whumpee: Draco Whumper: randos Caretaker: Lucius Fic type: post-Hogwarts

Draco is buried alive by some of Lucius' unsavoury associates.

((words: ~2200))

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

Another bout of unpleasant side-along Apparition, and then Draco was shoved into another man's hands and yanked around. The wizards around him were speaking an Eastern European language, Romanian or Belarusan or something, and they manhandled him around physically instead of trying to instruct him. None of them had answered of his questions or demands with anything but blows, and he had gotten the message quickly and shut up. 

Pairs of hands seized both of his arms, holding him between at least two of them. Someone ripped the dark hood off his head, and he winced away from the glaring white light of a wand that was in his eyes. 

"The Malfoy boy," a heavily accented voice said, the first English he had heard since he was grabbed, and he squinted into the light to see an unfamiliar wizard with heavy eyes. "Your father is Lucius Malfoy, yes?" 

He wasn't a 'boy', he was nineteen, but it seemed he was doomed to be seen that way by his father's associates forever. "It looks like you already know the answer." He jerked against the hands of the wizards holding him. They didn't even come close to letting go. "What do you want?"

"From you?" The speaker shrugged. "Nothing. But your father, he owes us a service he has failed to deliver. Perhaps he can use an incentive, no?" He stepped back, turning away, and gestured with the wand. 

Now that the light was further from his face, Draco could see something of the empty field they were standing in, and the huge amount of dirt piled up beside a dark, hard-edged gash in the ground. There was a rough wooden box leaning against the pile of dirt, a six foot long box standing open, and for a long moment his mind refused to see it for what it was. 

The men holding his arms started pushing him toward the hole, and he resisted just out of instinct, forcing them to drag him along. And then, when he recognised that they were pulling him toward the box, and that it wasn't a box, it was a coffin, he started struggling wildly. "No!" He pulled against their arms, digging his heels into the thick grass. "Don't! He'll do it! He'll do whatever you want, just don't—!"

One of them grabbed him by the back of the neck in a painful grip that forced his shoulders to hunch, and they yanked his arms up so that he could only twist wildly and futilely against them. His flailing kicks made contact with one of their legs and they lifted him up off his feet, and slammed him into the coffin. His face slammed into the rough wood of the back of it, and he shoved back, twisting around to make a last desperate bid for freedom. He managed to face front, but they shoved him back and closed the lid on him while he screamed for them to let him out and slammed his hands against it. 

There was more discourse in their language outside. He threw himself forward, trying to break out. The coffin wasn't well-constructed and slivers of white wandlight fell between the planks, enough to see his hands, enough to see how tight the space was. Rough boards pressed against him on all sides, inches from his shoulders, inches from his face. "Let me free!" he screamed again desperately.

The coffin moved, jostling him with sharp, careless movements, and he slammed against the sides and front of the box with cries of pain and shock. Then there was a loud thud as the box landed hard, and he landed hard inside it, on his back, thrown up so the top of his head hit the top wall of the coffin. 

There was a loose thump on top of the coffin, and he shoved against the lid, yelling for them to let him out. Dirt sifted into the coffin through the gaps between the boards, falling on his face and making him sputter and frantically wipe his eyes and mouth clean, his knuckles and the edges of his hands bumping up against the inside of the lid. The thumps slowly covered the lid of the box with dirt, blocking out the thin shafts of light that were all there was left of the outside as he screamed.

The darkness was absolute. Darker than night, darker than the dungeons, as dark as being blind. 

He had to stop screaming because he was running out of breath and it was making him panic; one solid bout of pounding and kicking at the coffin sent a curtain of dirt falling in on his face, and he was briefly terrified that it was going to keep coming and suffocate him. He covered his head with his hands, arms pressed up against the lid of the coffin.

It stopped in a minute, and he cleaned off his face as much as possible, coughing, and made himself hold still. His muscles were trembling. He had to take stock of his situation. He had to calm down.

Testing the space by stretching out his toes, he touched the bottom, and accidentally shoved his head against the top again. It was only maybe two inches longer than he was tall. There was barely space for him to move his hands, four or five inches, maybe, between his chest and the wood above him. Moving his elbows, he hit the wood on both sides within inches. He was lucky he was not large in any dimension but height; he would not have been able to move at all if he were muscular or even remotely fat. As it was, he could barely draw up a leg to push against the lid with his knee, unable to get any purchase with his feet, and his hands could either rest on his chest or at his sides, nothing else. Only his head could move freely. 

He tried breathing deeply, focusing on control, on separating himself from his emotions. But fear was always the emotion he couldn't compartmentalise away, since he was a child. Fear always won. He couldn't let it now. 

He couldn't think about it. He couldn't not think about it, but he couldn't allow himself to think about it, because there was no path forward for him, and that was terrifying. Nothing he could do, there was nothing he could do to help himself, he was trapped…

He thought about it, and it won. He was trapped. His breath hitched, his control slipped, and then he was screaming again, screaming for help, for his captors to come back, for someone to save him. He beat his hands and knees against the coffin lid until they hurt and dirt was sifting down on him again, and when his throat was too raw to continue screaming, he sobbed. 

Exhaustion was his only respite from the terror; nothing changed except that he was tired and sore along with being trapped, and he held his hands on his chest, trying to get warm, trying to catch his breath, trying to stop crying. 

He had no way of knowing how long it had been, or how long it would be. Maybe it was almost over. Maybe his father would be here soon…

—-

His father didn't come.

He didn't know if time passed, or if it was drawing out forever. Maybe it had only been an hour. Maybe no time had passed at all…

Maybe this would be like this forever.

He screamed. He cried. He tried to calm down. He failed in his control and panicked, beat and clawed at the coffin until he smelled blood and his hands were in agony and he was just sobbing helplessly, knowing he was going to die if someone didn't help him, and no one was there. 

—-

He drifted. He didn't know if he was awake or asleep, the darkness was the same. Everything hurt, but at a numb remove. He thought he called out, but he didn't know if he did or if it was in his mind. Once he heard Voldemort's cold voice mocking him in the darkness and it made him scream and hit his head hard against the inside of the coffin lid.

Occasionally, he thought he heard something else, the thumping of digging above him or the call of a voice far away, beyond the dirt. Every time, it turned out to be a dream or his imagination or a hallucination.

And still, every time, he tore at the coffin and yelled for their help, and every time when he was worn out he stopped and held his breath, waiting for it to come again, and it never did. 

There was only the nothingness.

—-

"Mother… Mother, make him let me out… Mother, please…" Tears trickled over his temples, into his ears. "Mother…"

—-

'Why did you let them take you?' his father demanded. 

"I'm sorry…"

'All you had to do was kill them. I suppose it was expecting a bit much with Dumbledore, but it's not even someone you knew this time — you can't even kill a few petty gangsters? How did you get so weak?' 

"I'm sorry…"

'Do you even care how much trouble you're causing me?'

"I'm sorry… please…"

'And now you're expecting me to fix it for you. Like always. I'm not sure it's worth the trouble.'

"Please come get me…" he whispered. 

—-

No one was coming. 

If his father were coming, he would have already been there. If it were possible for him to do what they demanded to free him, it would already have been done. He had failed, been killed or arrested. Or not tried… 

…Or they had never intended to let him go, even if his father complied. The grave they had dug, it wasn't just a hole, it was so deep. Deep enough to ensure his body was never found. They had always meant to leave him to die, he realised, no matter what his father did. A strangled sob rose in his swollen throat, and he hit the side of his agonised hand against the lid of the coffin a final time. 

"I don't want to die," he whispered, a broken sound that fell flat and faded away in the darkness like it had never existed.

Because he didn't have a choice. 

He had never had a choice. 

All the fighting, the struggling, the pleading, the trying, it had never been any use. No one would ever know and it was going to end the same. An unnamed body in an unmarked grave in an unknown countryside.

He was never going to see home again. The phantom images of white peacocks and the sound of fountains and the smell of flowers flickered so easily across his starving mind, and they wrenched another sob from his parched throat. He just wanted it more than anything, and all he was going to have for the rest of his life was the cold hard darkness.

He was never going to see his mother again…

His hands settled painfully on his chest, and he cried quietly in the dark, thinking of her and trying to find a way to let her go. 

He knew he had to die, he just wished he had been able to say goodbye… 

—----

Lucius ripped the lid from the coffin with the urgency of barely-controlled panic. "Draco…" The word came out in a quiet breath, not a yell. His heart had jumped into his throat and blocked it. 

Draco was lying in the coffin, limp, grey-skinned, smeared with blood and caked with the dirt of the grave, cut through with clean tear-tracks that wound down into his hair. His lips were pale and cracked. The blood-stained rips on the knees of his trousers, the misshapen bruises of a fractured hand under bloody scrapes, the broken and missing fingernails, the splinters embedded in the tips of his raw fingers — all stood in mute testament to his desperate fight to survive. 

And it didn't look like he was breathing. He was sick with himself. Draco had tried so hard, and he had failed him. He was too late. 

"Draco…" There was ice in the pit of his stomach, but he had to know. He set his hand on Draco's cheek and turned his head on a limp neck, trying to get him to acknowledge him. Trying to will him to be alive. "Draco, I'm here." 

And then, incredibly, Draco's eyes did open, a vague gaze that took a long second to focus on him, but alive. After all that, alive. 

"You came…" he whispered, a barely audible cracked breath. He tried to move his hand, to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real, but he couldn't; more than the damage to his hands, it clearly pained him to move at all, from the locked muscles and the pressure blisters of his thin frame forced into one position for three days. 

"I  did." Lucius gently lifted him to sit up and held him against his shoulder, cradling the back of his head. "Of course I did."