#archmage clarence

[just-shushilay]

[WIP] “You have bewitched me, body and soul.”

[little-big-boo-and-a-rat]

May I present you

[kaedekolya]

there's something about a character who can never die due to involuntary healing magic. immortal, yet not immune to pain; undying, yet still succumbs to death.

a character who is dragged back to the realm of the living before they can ever cross the boundary, regardless of whether they want to live or not. their existence is out of their control; it lies in the hands of the magic that repairs them, revives them, preserves them. binds them.

is it salvation, or suffering?

they step up to the front of every battle, throwing themselves in the line of fire without a moment's hesitation. they run headfirst into danger, using themselves as a shield for everyone else. their inability to die affords them the ability to protect, but it also chips away at their humanity, bit by bit until they don't even realise they've started thinking of themselves as a tool. not mortal, and therefore not human.

after all, they are the greatest advantage in any battle, aren't they? the team's trump card, who can be played over and over at no cost. there is no lasting damage, after all. no injuries to bandage, no scars to nurse, no death to mourn.

they do not recognise the crumbling of their psyche, curling in on itself like an animal wounded one too many times. torn apart and stitched back together until the jagged seams outnumber any unscathed space, until it writhes in a deformed agony. they quench its anguished thirst with the poison of responsibility, believing it to be water. this is their duty, bestowed upon them by their ability, and they must see it through.

so they fight. it is easier to believe they were made for this, that they feel nothing save for their loyalty to their cause. their body accustoms itself to pain, until they learn to endure even the worst of wounds, barely wasting time on a scream. trapped within this perpetual cycle, it is all they can do to persevere. they fight and they fight and they fight, flesh fusing back together with every falter and every fall, and when their last breath is finally ripped away—

they will wake up, as always, and they will do it all over again.

[here-for-gilbert]

I AM NOT OKAY

NOPE NOT AT ALL, NONE OF ITWAS OKAY

How am I supposed to live now and go on…? After that??

[judesmoonbeauty]

My wittle Archmage just wanted to build his magic tower, but my wittle kitty couldn’t help but knock it over like all kitty cats do 🥹🥹😭😭

[firephoenix2020]

I couldn't help myself :> he looks so hot in a dress.

[ref image for the dress undercut]

[sparklesfromtheashes]

Memebrush Chronicles

This blog has died for the 10312th time, so I figured I'd share some memes I edited for the LBC fandom!

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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━❰･❉･❱━━━━━━━━━━━━━ EXTRA: Basically Cael in Eden

[chiefcroissantdeanbanana]

archmagemc situation in a hashtag frfr

[airjemsfandump]

When you're an Archmage simp and bae is a you simp. I love, LOVE this so much. Thank youuuu. 😭😭😭

Here's how it looks with flash on. 🥹

Anwwwwwww, love the Archmage, love bae sm, I'm going insane. 🥹

[romance-rambles]

godheim clarence | because it's you

On a seemingly normal day, as he's braiding your hair in the morning, your husband asks you if he should cut his hair. You try to be brave about it.

1.6k, post-clarence epilogue, misunderstandings + fluff, reader is mc, series: none

"SHALL I CUT MY HAIR short too?"

You register your husband's words as a joke at first. Why would you not? It flows so seamlessly from your own, after all—about how he might actually thank you for freeing up his time in the mornings if you chop off your long hair.

You know full well Clarence will not.

It is not enough to prevent you from chasing after your favorite kind of high. The one where he huffs exasperatedly and tells you as much, as a lovely but faint scarlet hue spreads across his cheek. The one that leaves you with the singleminded desire to kiss him, which you waste no time in doing—because you can.

So, expecting to see a hint of mirth in his blue eyes, you roll your eyes and watch him through the vanity's mirror with an unfaltering grin.

There is none.

Instead, the mirror reflects only the almost clumsy seriousness you've come to expect in his endeavors to prove himself worthy of being your husband. It is both flattering and worrying.

And sometimes, it makes you wonder if you were too harsh on him in the early days of your time together in the void, when you demanded apology after apology from him. Then, you remember that he's the same man who catches fishes only to free them in the end—and that this is simply sort of endearing idiot he is.

It helps immensely.

"Would you like to?" you ask carefully, concealing your silent insults with a half-awkward smile.

You would not like him to.

But it is rare for Clarence to express an interest in his appearance outside of what you make of it. His most frequently worn coat is the one you once complimented him, under a brightly-lit street lamp as he wrapped his scarf around you instead. He always buys the same fragrance, and only when it runs out, with a polite explanation of My wife likes this one the most that drives most merchants mad.

The only response he's ever offered when shopping for clothes is: If you like it, I'm fine with wearing it.

Biting back a scowl, you add, "I think you'd look good with short hair."

Of course he would. Even putting aside his hairstyle when he was younger, your husband is handsome enough to pull anything off.

You are, of course, very biased—it's an accusation you've never tried to deny.

"I see." With a pleased hum, Clarence ties off your braid. "Then I'll pick out a date. Would you like to come along?"

He's careful to adjust the hair tie first, concealing any stubborn tufts hair poking through between the gaps before he reaches for your usual red ribbon. Then, with a practiced ease that comes only with years' worth of repetition, he loops it through the hair tie and twists into a proper bow.

Today, you cannot find it in yourself to admire his careful movements through the mirror.

"I'm never going to hear the end of it if I do that," you answer, shuddering a little at the thought. The people at this village are mostly kind, but a few of the louder ones tend to comment on Clarence's tendencies a bit too frequently for your liking. "You remember what happened last time, don't you?"

Your fingers traverse down the full length of your neatly-braided hair to pull it over your shoulder. Their grasp on the end of it lasts for only a second before your hand falls to the edge of your stool. Gulping, you swivel around and soon find yourself properly face to face with your husband.

He smiles faintly. "In a sense, they weren't wrong."

To properly hold onto his face, you have to scoot closer to the edge. Clarence bends down slightly, further easing the burden on your arms. Your eyes narrow fondly at him before you ruin the moment by smushing his cheeks.

"They were insulting you," you correct him, indignation fueling your flat tone. "I'd say they were very wrong."

His expression grows helpless and fond. Wrapping his hands around your own, he settles down onto the hardwood floor. In doing so, he ignores your chiding entirely; instead, he looks at you with a hint of reverence in his gaze.

"Perhaps," Clarence agrees softly. "I've heard worse."

Inhaling sharply, you press your foreheads together. When you next speak up, your tone is softer. "Do you have a cut in mind?"

"The same as it was when I was younger, I suppose," he says, sounding a bit uncertain.

You do your best approximation of a nod. You're not entirely certain what brought this on, but that won't stop you from being the most supportive wife to ever be supportive. As you squeeze his hands gently, you hope he can sense your resolve.

"Alright," you say, a bit forcefully, as you press a kiss to his forehead. "—now get off the floor. It's my turn to do your hair."

IT'S WHEN YOU'RE CAREFULLY UNTANGLING your braid at night that you remember the conversation from that morning.

"Did you decide on a date?" you ask curiously.

Clarence hums. "I didn't get the chance to quite yet."

He's watching you from his side of the bed, both hands occupied by a book he stopped reading the moment you walked in after your nighttime routine. When you shake your hair back to normal and settle under the blankets, he wordlessly turns the lamps off, with only a flick of his hand.

Accepting his answer, you snuggle up against his chest, fully intent on going to sleep—

Except you can't.

Curiosity nags at you, offering you the same question over and over again in the hopes that you'll break. And break you do as you call out your husband's name.

You can't quite make out what his expression is, but you know he isn't asleep. It's only been a few years—just a little over a decade, to be precise—since they've reunited. Adjusting to a life within the bounds of time, you know, takes some time, especially for someone like Clarence who had seemingly outgrown the need to sleep even before he entered the nothingness.

"Clarence," you whisper, "what made you want to cut your hair?"

For a moment, he remains silent. You can hear his beating heart, and that is enough to let you know that he's flustered.

"Clarence?"

"You said I looked very handsome," he says finally. "The other day."

Upon hearing those words, your mind offers you nothing noteworthy. To you, calling your husband handsome is no different making sure your heart's intact. You think you might actually die if you don't tell him, but you haven't tested it before.

Your heart, however, is filled to the brim with affection for this man, the one you've searched nearly your entire life for.

Even if you do want to throttle him a little bit.

"You'll have to be more specific, dear," you tell him, gently touching his cheek. He's warm, you think. You're tempted to turn the lights back on. "I'm sure I say that every day. And why would that make you want to cut your hair?"

Clearing his throat, he adds, "To be more specific, you didn't say it to me necessarily. You were—" Clarence pauses, a hint of uncertainty to his next words. "—talking about my younger self."

Oh.

The gears in your head start to turn. Now, you can faintly recall the memory of you waxing poetically about the man whose image remains in use on one of the most popular and frequently sold-out stamps even now, centuries later. Mostly, you remember smiling through a comment about how carefully you must've chosen your husband—as if she hadn't pressured into picking a man other than your husband to gush about.

You would've chosen the Archmage who seemingly had no relation to your husband regardless, but it would've been nice to know ahead of time.

Because you do have eyes, Eliza. That's how you know there isn't a man alive that's more attractive than Clarence.

Still, there hadn't been any deeper meaning when you chose his younger self specifically. There'd been a stamp nearby and you'd used it as a reference, in the hopes that it would help the other ladies downplay your incredible knowledge of his features.

You're almost certain they think you're deranged.

"Clarence." You giggle, suddenly amused. "Clarence. You look very handsome today."

Clumsily, you press a loving kiss to his forehead. Then, to the mole under his eye, to the tip of his nose, to his other cheek, until finally, you kiss him on the lips. At some point, while you're busy being productive, he goes from laying on his side to laying on his back.

"What brought this on?"

He sounds bewildered. You think it's cute.

After taking a moment to compose yourself, you begin to explain. Throughout, he's mostly silent, save for the occasional acknowledgement. Still, you don't have to worry about whether he's listening or not.

Until the very end, his hands—still wrapped around you—give him away.

"I like your long hair just as much, because—" You give him another peck on the lips. "—I love you. No matter what, you're always the best-looking man in the room."

Clarence wastes no time in answering you, though he very nearly chokes on his words. "And I...you."

"Good." Feeling satisfied, you rest your head against his chest. "Do you still want to cut your hair? ...Clarence?"

"I think," he says, clearing his throat. "It's fine the way it is."

You don't try to point out why.

[shirolian]

Thanks @xyoonx for inspo! Presenting short snippet in honor of our beloved archmage Clayden (and his most wonderful legs that ever graced Godheim (✿◠‿◠) ) Also thank you to Sumida, for providing me valuable feedback on writing emotions!

Atop the Magi Tower, under a glass ceiling, the light from shining stars above illuminated the darkened bars of an ornate cage. Vines of blue roses clinged to the bars like the prisoner inside the cage clung to a maple leaf in her hands. The cage was moved from the imperial palace yesterday and she could vividly recall the freezing cold that surrounded all her senses when archmage Clayden lifted her limp body in his arms and carried her the short way from carriage to inside her new prison. Nothing really changed. Only the feelings of immense despair and powerlessness grew the more she realized that the bitter end was closing in.

Painfully gently, he lowered her on the makeshift bed inside the cage. Her frozen bones eased a bit and she clutched onto his shoulders in a silent plea. Do not go. Do not leave me alone. 

His mind was in such turmoil like never before. Here, in front of him was a woman he longed for so long to meet and know. He cherished his beloved savior, carefully collecting and clinging to every maple leaf she gave to him. It was his beacon of hope, his light, illuminating the dark path he walked upon. It was comforting to know that somewhere in the universe there is a person who cares about him, protects him. For every wrong he did, for another despicable act he committed, he apologized in his mind to his savior. Somehow it was fitting that they were in a cage - a cage of his culminated guilt. When he first met her, he thought she was lunatic. Again and again she proved him wrong, tearing apart his carefully crafted armor around his heart to the point where he questioned his own sanity. Was he the lunatic one? For her, yes. And yet, he had to commit the final, most unforgivable act. Her life for his world. His love for the survival of others.

His eyes were glossy, brows furrowed in conflicting expression as he knelt down, looking straight to her own, equally veiled pools. He opened his mouth, trying to say something. If he did, she didn’t hear him. His slender fingers grazed the back of her hand, neither of them providing warmth to the other. Something was placed in her hand and she gazed down upon the object - a small, dried maple leaf. Was it raining? She asked herself in a daze as the leaf hungrily drank their falling teardrops. Softly, he closed her palm around the leaf, sealing their fate. 

I cannot dream.

I cannot share.

I cannot feel what I feel.

Through her teary eyes she smiled at him. She understood his silent message. The world he was trying to save was above everything. In that moment she truly envied Godheim. To be so selflessly loved, cherished and protected… how nice it would be, if she were the recipient? How utterly selfish of her, to wish for something like this. Yet, she wished. For an ideal reality, where they would be an ordinary man and woman. They would have their own cozy place nestled somewhere near the river with windmills in the background. She could see them sitting on the riverbank, fingers laced together, enjoying the scenery. She would lean her head on his shoulder and her only worry would be the greatest philosophical question of life - what would they have for dinner.

Leaf in her hand, she pressed it to her throbbing heart. Still smiling, half submerged in her domestic fantasy, she took him by his right hand and placed it shakily on her cheek. His palm was freezing but so was her skin. 

“In another life…” Her voice broke down and after a moment of silence, his thumb stroked her cheek gently, encouraging her to continue.  

“I wanted to say, in another life, I would have really liked just having cats and doing taxes with you.”

“I’d love to.”

A soft smile spread on his lips as he imagined them both, happy and safe, surrounded by cats. We may be in a cage, a cage of guilt. But, for this one night, before everything ends, we are allowed to be a little selfish. And I love you, I love you… 

I love you.

[just-shushilay]

Godheim Clarence my beloved 🍁

[little-big-boo-and-a-rat]

¡Spoilers for Clarence's Godheim route!

"You are a beautiful tragedy," Cael whispers, brushing the bangs away from her face, "Ready to unfold."

She stares at him with a mixture of fear and fury. They are alone in a void of white. Nobody can help her, and she doesn't attempt to escape.

His silver hair sways with the wind.

It hurts. His gentle indifference hurts.

His immaculate armor is unstained with the deaths of Godheim, yet she knows their despair is embedded in its gleam.

She thinks she might hate him.

(She thinks she does not.)

The cold is burning her face, shattering any semblance of familiarity in this scene.

She wishes his eyes would show any trace of remorse or pain for his actions. Any guilt at the misery he brought in this land.

Cael pretends he wants to get her back home safely, but she remembers how many times she lost herself in the freezing tundra, meeting her demise at the kisses of the Glacial butterflies.

What a liar.

His deep, infinite abyss eyes look at her shaking form, unwavering.

"I know it is unfair," he continues, as if he could read her mind, "The point of life is to grow through this unjust world. You may accuse and resent me, but you are making your own choices at the end of the day. Free."

"I am choosing my own Hell," she barks bitterly.

Cael shakes his head. His eyes seem to glitter.

"You are leading yourself through Hell to reach Paradise." he corrects.

"And yet you try to stop me."

Something flashes in his gaze.

She recalls thinking Cael is akin to a porcelain doll. Perfect in and out. Never too much, never too less. Emotions locked away to never affect his mission.

But this is somehow wrong, isn't it ? If he doesn't care, then why did he come to her ? Why is he allowing her to live and love and lose and disrupt his plan and always keep watching gently over her ? Why are his eyes, those profound amethysts that never seem to start and never to end, flickering like the moon's reflection on raging waters ?

Perhaps she's as much a liar as he is. Because the man standing before her, never getting mad, ready to accept every inch of her wrath, is anything but indifferent.

"Fate is cruel," she whispers.

Cael smiles. It feels like praise. It feels a little bit like himself.

"This is why humans are the most magnificent beings to dare to defy it with their inextinguishable hearts."

She breathes in deeply. Cael's hand leaves her hair. His armor becomes one with the snow. He looks like a ghost, a fantastical creature from another realm. He takes a step backward, gaze holding hers, yet inexorably disappearing.

"You are a beautiful tragedy," he repeats, "I can only hope your genre changes before it is too late."

She watches him blend with the scenery. He is like rain, she thinks, whenever you believe to reach it it fades in your grasp. She wonders if she will ever understand Cael.

She is rightfully bitter at him.

Somehow, she finds she does not blame him.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

"You are a beautiful tragedy," she whispers, holding Clarence's face in her hands with the gentleness of one carrying a unique treasure, "Who has unfolded all of its pages."

The Archmage blinks slowly, like a cat. Resting against the maple tree, he is barely awake. Even as she kneels, cradling his jaw, his sapphire eyes droop and fight against sleep. She is losing him. She can see the end of their journey coming near.

She refuses it. The stars may have repeatedly told her the truth, she prays until the end. She knows it will never come close to being enough. Thoughts don't change the world. Only actions can.

All they can do is travel the universe to the twilight of their story.

All they can do is bathe in each other's warmth and speak fragments of their beings. She longs for those memories to fill his dreams the day Clarence falls asleep forever.

With another slow blink, he raises his hand. Carefully, he picks a stray maple leaf from her hair. She almost cries at the gesture.

"Know," she continues, voice breaking, "That the stars are testimonies to your epilogue."

Clarence hums. He lets her speak her part. When silence stretches on, he breathes softly.

"I do not care for the stars," he says, putting the leaf on her knee, "I survived because of you. I fought for you. Truly, your gaze upon my story is enough. I do not need more."

And isn't it the worst thing in the world ? For the man she cares for in more ways than one, for whom she unknowingly traveled in time again and again and again and again for until she found him at last. The truth. The cold, soul-wrenching truth.

"You are a beautiful tragedy," she says, tears dripping down her chin, "And those never have happy endings."

His eyes are soft. Understanding. He isn't pleading for hope nor salvation, because he is aware he can never obtain neither. Her fingertips tremble. Her guts hold the guilt of sharing a piece of herself like never before, shaping one of the most precious bond of her existence, with the one she cannot save.

"I'm sorry," she chokes.

"I think," he starts, a small smile on his lips - so wise and so old and so lonely already - "It is time for the fairytale to go home."

And today, tragedy wears blue.

[evelyn-and-art]

[WIP]

another art trade for a close friend of mine, hope to do your boo justice shu 🧡🥺

(ignore my use of t.o.p. from big bang, he has a beautiful facial structure.)

[here-for-gilbert]

i am on chapter 25 of Clarence’s route and oh boi do I see the pain already coming

i am going to sob miseray arent I?

[misto713]

Fic: Return to Sanity

Summary: She was going to get him back, and no such small inconvenience as the rules of reality could stop her

[Warning! Major spoilers for Godheim!Clarence path and true ending!]

Pairing: Clarence the Godheim Archmage/Player Character

Part 6 (last part) of series This Girl Has No Chill

Link:

also @haruichi-mamiya mentioned a clarence withdrawal and/or him being lonely? hope you like this one, then! :)