#at least middle earth is flat Only For Elves | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

asweetprologue · 3 years

Text

me lámh le do lámh - Part IV

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They spent a few days in Oxenfurt, mostly for Jaskier’s benefit. The bard hadn’t been lying when he’d said he wasn’t prepared to head out. There was packing to be done, his rooms to see to, appointments to cancel with the university. Geralt was happy enough to wait. It wasn’t strictly a hardship to spend some time lounging in Jaskier’s rooms and wandering the university gardens during the day before following Jaskier to whatever tavern or hall he was to play at for the evening. Jaskier was away for the better part of most days, but Geralt moved his things to Jaskier’s rooms after the first night at the inn. Waking well before Jaskier in the same bed, he was greeted each morning to Jaskier’s arm slung across his chest, warm and comfortable in the predawn silence. His cheeks would be ruddy with sleep and their shared heat under the blankets, his hair flattened awkwardly to his skull where it had been pressed to the pillow.

He’d missed this. After months without Jaskier’s presence, it felt like he was drowning in it, shocked by the strength of his own reaction. With the golden light of the morning sun shining through Jaskier’s one window to fall softly across his brow and pick out the silver strands in his hair, Geralt wondered at how he could have ever misplaced this feeling in his chest. He loved him. He wanted to preserve each moment in fine amber, never to fade.

But finally Jaskier was finished making his arrangements, and they were able to set out from Oxenfurt towards their first destination. It would take them several weeks to collect the components that Ida had mentioned—weeks that Geralt would have to spend dancing around the subject of the ritual and its origins, as well as his traitorous heart. As he caught Jaskier’s bright smile from up ahead as they crossed the Oxenfurt bridge, he hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

“So where, exactly, are these mysterious elven ruins?”

Geralt grunted, both in answer and in exertion as he swung his sword through another clump of heavy brush, clearing the path. Roach waited patiently behind him, and Jaskier less so. He turned to look back at them both, finding Jaskier giving him an unimpressed look. Geralt forced down the urge to grumble again. “They’re close,” he said, taking Roach’s reins to lead her through the cleared bushes. The path that they were following was barely a deer trail in places, clearly unused for decades. There had been no sign thus far that the area had once been populated aside from the occasional flash of white brickwork that told Geralt they were on the right track.

“Oh, really,” said Jaskier, who had likely not noticed the brickwork, based on Geralt’s past experience with his observation skills. “You know what I think, Geralt? I think we’re lost in the woods in the middle of nowhere, a day away from the nearest hamlet, and we’re just as likely to find a wyvern den as an elven temple out here.”

“Wyverns don’t populate the lowlands,” Geralt said automatically, kicking a large branch out of Roach’s path.

Jaskier made a strangled sound behind him that Geralt might call a growl if it had come from anyone else. “I know that, I was being hyperbolic, you ass. You’re avoiding the issue.”

“We’re on the right path.” Another glint of white stone caught his eye, this time the edge of an arch wrapped nearly over in vines and moss. Only fragments remained, large chunks blending in with the forest floor.

“As if you would admit it if you were lost,” Jaskier griped, shoving a branch out of his own way. “Remember that time near Spikeroog? We were lost in a boat for three days because you wouldn’t just admit that we went west for six hours—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and pushed aside the last of the foliage.

Jaskier fell silent, and they both looked beyond the treeline into the clearing Geralt had revealed. Before them rose a silent, crumbling stone structure, pale as a ghost against the dark lines of the trees in the afternoon light. Much of its surface had been reclaimed already by the forest, but enough of it poked through to give a general sense of scale. It towered at least two stories above them, though the edges were uneven in a way that suggested it once may have been higher. The front facade rose in a flat wall before them, pierced by a line of arches, their edges decorated in fading but intricate reliefs. Here and there along the line of what had once been the path leading to the central arch, the occasional protrusion of a column could be seen. The path beyond the central arch was shadowed, too dark for even Geralt to see past after so long in the daylight.

Jaskier stepped forward into the narrow clearing, and Geralt followed. Wordlessly, Jaskier raised a hand to trail along the remnants of a low, circular stone wall, perhaps the remnants of an ancient well. When he looked up at Geralt, his eyes shone, two pieces of midday sky in the murky shade of the forest. “I stand corrected,” he said, offering Geralt a giddy grin.

Geralt shook his head with a small smile, drawing Roach further into the clearing. “Let’s set up camp here. You can explore when we have someplace to sleep.”

Jaskier agreed eagerly and they both launched into the process of setting up camp. They fell easily back into old patterns, Jaskier slotting seamlessly into Geralt’s routine. It was always easier to set up and break down camp when the bard was around, though Geralt thought it had very little to do with splitting the work halfway.

Within half an hour they had created a comfortable camp in the clearing and Geralt had Roach tended to, and they both stood before the dark archway into the ruins.

Jaskier hesitated over the threshold, his excitement over the history of the place apparently conceding to nerves. “Well, ah. After you, witcher,” he said, holding out an arm as if holding an imaginary door for Geralt to walk through.

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped into the small hall beyond the archway, blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. “Come on, bard,” he called over his shoulder, amusement and affection swelling in his chest as he heard Jaskier mutter and quick footsteps follow after him.

The hall ended in a flight of stairs leading down, and they had to pause to light a torch when Jaskier ran directly into Geralt’s back and nearly knocked them both down it. A quick burst of igni had firelight dancing across the smooth white stones as they descended into the ruins.

Elves, Geralt had found, rarely built up. Though their cities had towered in ages past, their true magnificence had always lain below ground. The complex that they made their way down into was labyrinthian, huge open hallways with dozens of rooms and offshoots, archways that looked in on underground courtyards with pierced ceilings that let in the daylight, huge caverns expertly carved into cathedrals. Jaskier quickly brought out a bit of charcoal he often used for taking notes or sketching and began to mark their way with arrows pointing back the way they’d come, so they might not be hopelessly lost in the ruins. Geralt led them mostly by smell, at first; Triss had mentioned that any ritual chambers would likely be on the lower levels, as they were considered private and upper floors were generally public. He followed the cool, chalky scent of wet stone deeper into the ruins, down ramps and stairways until they were all but buried in the earth.

“I never knew the true breadth of them,” Jaskier breathed at one point, as they made their way down a winding spiral staircase that curved along what seemed like a natural cave shaft. “I’ve read, of course, about the scale of the old elven kingdoms, but it’s different to see it all. We’ve been walking for hours already and I feel as if there’s still miles to be seen.”

“Maybe not miles,” Geralt said, keeping one ear out for potential movement and one on Jaskier’s footsteps on the slick stone steps. “One’s I’ve been to before are usually somewhere around five and fifteen levels. We’re getting close to the bottom.”

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment. “You could take an entire lifetime to study this place. Why hasn’t anyone surveyed it? How do you know the thing you're after for this ritual hasn’t already been taken?”

At that moment Geralt heard a gentle click, and he reached up just in time to pluck the arrow from the air as it hissed past his ear and towards Jaskier’s head. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, finding Jaskier wide eyed behind him. Looking meaningfully down at Jaskier’s foot, he jerked his chin up.

Jaskier lifted up his foot, and the click of a pressure plate resetting filled the narrow space.

“That’s how,” Geralt said, tossing the arrow to the side.

“Of course,” Jaskier said weakly. “Of course the place is booby trapped.”

“And haunted probably,” Geralt agreed, continuing down the stairs. “Stay close. Wouldn’t want you to die before I can make you immortal.” The words were said as much in jest as he could make them, but he felt a brief strum of anxiety all the same.

Jaskier huffed in annoyance, but Geralt could feel him press even closer. He ignored the way that the air between them seemed to heat, the soothing warmth of Jaskier’s presence pressing back the dark more efficiently than any torch.

“Look,” Jaskier’s voice came from behind him. Geralt turned around to see Jaskier rubbing at a patch of the wall in the hall they were currently trekking through, the ancient slabs of stone crumbling a bit at his touch. “There’s writing here.”

Geralt stepped up next to him, feeling Jaskier’s warmth radiating along his side. Forcing himself to ignore the proximity, he leaned in to peer at the wall. “Elder, looks like. Can’t make it out.”

“It looks like one of the early northern dialects, closer to Laith aen Undod.” Jaskier scrambled in his small pack and pulled out his bit of charcoal and his notebook, handing the torch off to Geralt. Accepting the light, Geralt frowned at Jaskier as he made a few quick lines on the paper, referring back to the wall a few times. His tongue poked just barely out between his lips, as it always did when he was concentrating. After a moment he stood up straight, leaning towards the light to examine his own markings.

“Can you read that?” Geralt asked, genuinely surprised. He was fairly well versed in Elder, but his knowledge was more practical, learned from his interactions with the Scoia’tael and learning the Signs. The One Speech was well beyond his understanding, not to mention the various ancient dialects of Elder.

“Mm, I’m better at reading Elder than I am at speaking it, I’m afraid. Academic knowledge. Have to be able to translate the old poems and stories, after all.” He flashed Geralt a grin, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torch, turning the blue silver-gold. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

When Geralt didn’t respond quickly enough, Jaskier turned back to the notes he’d made on the paper. He muttered a few things to himself in Elder, the words sounding oddly musical—as if he’d learned to pronounce the language through song, which he probably had. Finally he scribbled a few notes in Common. “I think it’s a road sign, of sorts,” Jaskier said slowly. His tone took on the particular quality that Geralt had come to recognize as his “professor voice” over the years. He’d always found it rather amusing. “This complex must have been big enough to necessitate passage markers. See the sideways arrowhead under the top line? It says—well, I’m not sure, but I know the root has to do with the evening meal, so I’d guess it’s pointing to some kind of tavern or dining hall. And this one just says ‘sanctuary,’ I think. That’s a weird one, that symbol in more modern Elder just means ‘place’ but there’s a prefix here that adds a sort of defensive quality to it. Maybe ‘protected place’?” Jaskier frowned down at his own work. Already he had somehow managed to smudge charcoal across his cheek.

“Might be right,” Geralt grunted, impressed. “Triss said it would be in a safe place. ‘Ionad chosanta.’”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Could be as good a translation as any.”

“Better than wandering around,” Geralt shrugged, and turned towards the hall the arrow pointed towards. Before stepping into the darkness, he paused, looking back at Jaskier. Without letting himself think too hard about it, he reached up and rubbed away the charcoal on Jaskier’s cheekbone. The sweep of his thumb pushed back the soot and revealed the pale skin underneath, still so soft even after so many years spent traveling out in the elements. That skin care regiment Jaskier was always going on about must be worth something, he thought faintly.

Jaskier was silent, staring at him with an expression that reminded Geralt of a hare staring down the point of an arrow. Clearing his throat briefly, Geralt let his hand fall and said, “Thanks. For the… You did good.”

Even in the dim light, Geralt could see the flush that lit up Jaskier’s face at that, spilling prettily over his cheekbones. He gaped at Geralt for a moment before his mouth snapped closed with a near audible clack. Geralt expected a witty rejoinder of some kind, perhaps a jab at his historical inability to offer praise. He knew he deserved it, even if Jaskier meant it in anger rather than jest. Raising Ciri had taught him the value of voicing his appreciation and affection for others, even if he still struggled for the right words to do so. Yennefer had painstakingly beat it into his head. Ciri hadn’t known that he cared unless he said so, and so he had no other alternatives. Looking at Jaskier gaping at him, he wondered how many times Jaskier had assumed that Geralt cared little for him for lack of a kind word. His chest hurt at the thought.

After long enough that the silence had grown heavy and awkward, Jaskier coughed lightly, ducking to hide his expression. The ribbing Geralt had prepared himself for did not come. “Not a problem,” was all Jaskier said, brushing past him. “Let’s get a move on, yes? Don’t want the torch to run low.”

Geralt stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and following.

The shrine, when they found it, was hidden behind a thick patch of rubble that Geralt had to blast out of the way with a few precise applications of aard. He slipped inside first, sliding through the small opening in the stone and landing lightly on the other side. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, to his surprise, and he realized that there were several glowing crystals embedded in the walls around him at even intervals. There came the sound of cascading stones and a low curse from behind him, and he turned in time to catch Jaskier’s elbow before the bard fell flat on his face.

“Ah, thank you, dear witcher,” Jaskier huffed, reaching up to fruitlessly brush the dust from his jacket. Looking up, he halted in his motions, taking in the room around them in its soft, ethereal light. “Oh,” he breathed.

It was indeed beautiful, even in its decaying state. Like everything in the tunnels, the structures were unmistakably elven, but even so they appeared alien to Geralt’s eyes. The walls were covered in delicate mosaic work, in patterns that danced in the flickering light of their torch and that of the crystals. The center of the room was dominated by a blank circle of unmarked stone, with Elder runes engraved along the edge that Geralt could not even begin to decipher. The circle was framed by a delicate canopy of carved white stone, supported on four pillars of the same material. The carvings were so minute that for a moment Geralt thought the entire structure might be built not of stone, but of some sort of webbing or silk. It was delicate enough to be blown glass, but when he set his hand against one of the pillars it was as unforgiving as a mountainside.

Jaskier ran his fingers along one of the walls, tracing a twist in the tiny shards of colored glass. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice pitched low.

“Triss said these places were sacred to the Aes Sidhe. They mark where the elves first arrived,” Geralt said. He found his own gaze drawn back to the center of the unmarked circle beneath the canopy. “Here.”

Set into the very center of the stone circle was a small depression, no larger than Geralt’s palm. He stepped into the circle and knelt down, peering at it. Within the shallow bowl formed by the carved out floor sat an oval stone, maybe three inches long at its widest point. Drawing out his trophy knife, Geralt set the edge of it against the lip of the facet and twisted it. It popped out surprisingly easily, as if it was meant to be removed by design.

Jaskier hovered behind him as Geralt picked up the gaes carraigh. It was cool against his fingers, made of a translucent white stone that became more opaque at the edges. The center was nearly see-through, and when Geralt held it up the light played oddly in its depths. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest, warning him of the presence of magic. “Is that it?” Jaskier asked, resting one of his hands on Geralt’s shoulder to lean in closer.

“Think so,” Geralt replied, trying to ignore the weight of Jaskier pressed against him.

“What exactly does it do?” Jaskier reached out his free hand to press a finger against the center of the stone, curious as always. Geralt allowed it, and forced himself not to flinch when their fingers brushed incidentally. He could feel his ears warm regardless.

“It… binds the words of the ritual, or something. I didn’t ask.”

“Gaes carraigh… promise rock?” Jaskier tried, dropping to lean his full elbow on Geralt’s shoulder, casually slotting their forms together. His fingers barely brushed against Geralt’s collarbone, and he took a slow breath to maintain control over his heartbeat. Suddenly the proximity was overwhelming. Here they were, in a sacred space where possibly dozens of couples had made their vows to each other, fingers both lingering over the stone that would bind their oaths. In another life, perhaps they could have had something like this—Jaskier resplendent in the light of the blue crystals, eyes shining, looking at Geralt with adoration as they made their promises to each other. He would want to dress up, like he always did for a big event, but this time it would be only for himself and Geralt. Would he dress in blue? Or perhaps black, a witcher’s color, his pale skin like moonlight against the night sky. Would he wear a crown of periwinkle and sage, as was the northern custom? He would lean in close, like he was now, and murmur his vows to Geralt in words that flowed as smooth as a song.

He hadn’t known it was possible to want something so badly it was like a physical ache. Geralt was a witcher; he did not allow himself to think on things he couldn’t have. But here in this place, with Jaskier so close and yet so far away, the force of his desire felt oppressive. Jaskier didn’t know what any of this meant, and Geralt had no right to it, no right to want it. It was just a ritual. The context didn’t mean anything, because Jaskier would never feel that way about him.

After all, Geralt thought, looking down at the oathstone in his palm, who would want to marry a witcher?

Jaskier was still talking, and Geralt wrenched himself out of his thoughts when the arm on his shoulder pulled back and Jaskier patted the empty space once, as if in parting. “—probably get going, don’t you think? I do not relish the idea of being stuck here overnight. Not that I am not entirely confident in your abilities, darling, but I feel it’s best not to tempt fate when it comes to ghosts of ancient elven sages. Do you think they would count this as stealing? Probably. Anyways, I don’t want to find out what angry centuries old spirits do to trespassers.”

Geralt grunted, still gathering himself. He felt sluggish under the weight of his own emotions, pushing himself to his feet laboriously. The oathstone was heavy in his hand, and he slipped it into his potions pouch in the hope that it would feel less burdensome there. Without a word, he stood and exited the chamber the way they’d come, Jaskier fumbling after him.

#geraskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #witcher #fic #fanfic #writing #my work #me lamh #multichapter #big bang #geraskierbigbang

85 notes · View notes

fandomblr · 4 years

Text

Let’s talk about racism in Tolkien’s Legendarium

Trigger warnings: racism, (obviously) anti-blackness, possible anti-black caricatures, racism towards Asian people.

I feel like something that I don’t see addressed in the Tolkien fandom are instances of racism in his work. Now, Tolkien himself was allegedly pretty anti-racist during both war and peacetime, BUT ultimately he was still a British white man that lived in the 1920’s and his writing does show some (although very possibly unintended) racism towards Black and brown people. Note that I am a pale Latino and thus I cannot speak for BIPOC, however, I will be using my readings from HoME (The Lays of Beleriand and The Shaping of Middle-Earth) to show very valid instances of where Tolkien’s racism has been argued for, and I’ll link some research about these criticisms. I strongly encourage BIPOC to add on or correct me on this post, since I do have have a lot of white privilege from being light-skinned.

The first instance of racism in Tolkien legendarium are the race of orcs. And before I go any further, let me show a passage from the Lay of Leithian (taken from The Lays of Beleriand) in which Beren, Finrod and his men are disguising themselves as orcs in order to pass through Angband:

“They smeared their hands and faces fair with pigment black,” which shows us first of all that the color of the orcs skin is ultimately dark/black, at least of the orcs here in Angband during the first age. This also implies Blackface being done by Beren, Finrod and his men here, and while it was used as a survival tactic to pass through Angband without being killed/enthralled/tortured, it’s still pretty darn racist. Black people have also spoken about how orcs have been written (intentionally or unintentionally, we probably will never know) as anti-black caricatures, and this is one article discussing this by a Black person that I found eye-opening.

Another instance of the orcs being racist caricatures is in that in a private letter Tolkien describes them as “squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types." Obviously, this is clearly racism towards Asian people, and journalists have even written about how orcs look like the worst depictions of the Japanese drawn by American and British illustrators during WW2. The same article above also speaks about the Haradrim and Easterlings in the LOTR movies clearly having inspiration from Eastern and non-Western cultures.

Next, another probably more well-known racist issue in The Silmarillion fandom is Maeglin, (Meglin here in HoME’s The Shaping of Middle Earth) who is described as ‘swart,’ aka meaning dark-skinned, and so was his father, Eöl:

Obviously this is racist because Maeglin is CLEARLY a villain of color in this scenario, (he is the cause of the fall of Gondolin plus he basically tries to rape his cousin Idril and kill her child) in a world where other “good” characters are either described as white or whose race is simply not stated. If there were more EXPLICITLY elves of color in the Silm this wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but Maeglin here is one of the few elves (besides his father, who was clearly also a villain) whose skin color we know about, and what color is that? Swart, aka brown. What’s even worse is the fact that Eöl pretty much coerced Aredhel (who we can assume to be white since she’s known as the “White lady of the Noldor” and her skin was described as pale) into marrying him and having his child, which just perpetuates the racist stereotype of men of color being dangerous to white women. Tolkien, sweetie, this definitely reeks of racism.

Next are the men of the East of Beleriand, of who we get a pretty clear description of in The Annals of Beleriand from HoME The Shaping of Middle-Earth:

Here these men aredescribed as having lots of body and facial hair (which is a trait that can be seen in people of color) and their skins are “sallow or dark.” This is probably the least incriminating piece of evidence on this post because as you can tell, not all the men of the East were evil. Bor and his sons specifically were not, and they were loyal to the Sons of Fëanor. However, Ulfang (Ulfand in HoME) betrays the Fëanorians and ultimately is responsible for the tragedy of the Nirnaeth. And even worse, Bor and his sons are even slain by him (although Ulfang did pay his treachery with his life) here in this version. And as a whole, the Easterlings are described as more being on Morgoth’s side than on the elves, and like I said earlier, they draw a lot of non-western inspiration that can identify them as people of color, especially from the cinematic trilogy. Although these men are ultimately supposed to earn redemption during the Dagor Dagorath (aka the end of time when Melkor comes back from the void and the last battle is fought) this doesn’t erase the fact that Tolkien chose to villanize an entire group of Eastern people who we can assume to be people of color. The fact that they are called men from the ‘East’ while Aman/Valinor/the Gray Havens are considered the ‘West’ just shows you how eurocentric Tolkien’s works are by themselves, but that’s another topic for a different post. At the end of the day, lots (if not most of) these men were men of color that were portrayed as treacherous, unfaithful and even “accursed” in the case of Uldor, Ulfang’s son. All traits which demonize people of color in Tolkien’s legendarium.

Now here is the question that’s worth all three silmarils: was Tolkien aware of his racism as he should have been as an allegedly “anti-racist” that was born in South Africa? I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that, and as a person with white privilege I don’t think I’d be qualified to answer this question regardless. This is why again, I’m encouraging BIPOC Tolkien fans to come forward (as long as they want to and are comfortable of course, since this is a triggering topic) and share their criticisms on Tolkien and how he portrays race in his legendarium, add on to what I found and correct me if they think I added something wrong. The thing is, even if Tolkien was intentionally racist, the man died in 1973, and sadly Christopher passed away last January. So it’s up to us as the Tolkien fandom to not only recognize but also address and challenge these racist concepts in his work, and make sure we are creating an environment that’s safe for fans of color and marginalized ethnic groups like myself. One of the things I love about our fandom is the diversity in fanart, since I’ve seen lots of elves drawn as POC and I really want to keep seeing this, but we also have to take into consideration how racism plays into LOTR and all of Tolkien’s works so we can be mindful consumers of it.

248 notes · View notes

quixoticanarchy · 3 years

Text

Cartographic Practices in Arda: Elves

[overthinking fantasy cartography series: Elves, Orcs, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Men]

o To what extent do Elves need maps? Can their extensive memories, which serve as archives for much knowledge, also hold spatial records? Do they construct elaborate mental maps of whole regions?

Even if so, they would still need extensive firsthand knowledge to draw on, or at least some reference maps to commit to memory. Local wayfinding and habitual travel could be done using memory, if they recalled precisely what paths they’d taken previously, for instance; but traveling somewhere new or planning large-scale geographic movements (of armies, for instance) would benefit from maps

o Therefore: maps for planning and exploration, not necessarily for navigation (at least after the first time)

Also, maps as art form and aesthetic – it’s too easy with GIS etc. to think of maps as precise and correct instruments, but they’re also subjective, storytelling art pieces. I think Elves could get behind that

Especially if you think beyond maps as an technical representation of a landscape, per se, there’s a lot of leeway for creative depiction, symbolization, and extremely cultural-convention-dependent meaning transmission

Which could mean Elvish maps might be rather incomprehensible to anyone not familiar with their spatial and symbolic conventions

o From LOTR we get the sense that although Elrond has a collection of maps and “books of lore” in Rivendell, much of the knowledge therein may be quite old and out of date – the map he has of Mordor was made before Sauron returned there (which is also fascinating – who mapped it? Were they on an official cartographic expedition? Was it a landform map? A political map? A war planning map? Was it commissioned by a king (of Gondor? An Elven-king?)? Did the Elves and Men share maps? During the Last Alliance one can assume they did, but whose?)

A problem with these old reference maps (not just for Elves, either) is that even if it’s stored perfectly in your memory, the world isn’t static. Updates and re-memorization would be necessary

(also, by the late Second Age, the world would have ceased being flat and necessitated a revolution in cartographic practices as they suddenly contend with the idea of map projections... who spearheaded this? who drew the new maps? are there still old Elven maps kicking around that are no longer accurately scaled or proportioned?)

(there’s a lot more so it’s below the cut)

o I think that it’s fair to say that Elven governments might have employed cartography much as early Western states did, as critical tools of statecraft for managing a) war and b) populations. Given how much attention has to go toward war, it would make sense that Elven cartography, at least according to conventions in Beleriand, would be oriented toward visualizing and managing militarized spaces. Maps are probably a tool for kings, their counselors, and their military leaders. Everyday Elves would probably rely on spatial memory but wouldn’t have access to physical maps, per se

o Significant differences between Beleriand and Middle-earth maps – political boundaries in Beleriand are essentially drawn by and between Elven realms, whereas by the Third Age in Middle-earth they’ve got a sustained presence only in Imladris, Mirkwood, Lothlórien, and the Havens at a stretch

Beleriand maps would also differ greatly based on who made them, given the hidden kingdoms – would Gondolin and Nargothrond even make maps that gave their location? The map in the Silmarillion would almost certainly not have existed (unless made retrospectively?), because it puts together all sorts of information that shouldn’t have been known openly

Having maps of the continent in general would be a good idea even for the hidden kingdoms, in case they ever needed to venture out, but then again, they didn’t really plan on doing that

o Mapping practices among the Elves (this could be its own essay)

like Dwarves, the Noldor might favor maps of mineral deposits, physical features, resources for craftsmanship, trade routes. I think they’d appreciate intricately aesthetic maps too, or encoded symbol maps that are incomprehensible unless you know how to decipher them

the Teleri would have coastal maps and nautical maps. What about weather maps? Would they map wind patterns and storm tracks? Tides?

Nothing to say about the Vanyar. I don’t know...

Laiquendi - focus on forested lands, the territories deemed peripheral to other realms, the “blank spaces” on others’ maps

We know very little about the Avari and any cartography they might have had – did they have writing, without contact with Fëanor or Daeron? Did they have unlabeled symbol maps? Did they not need them? Maybe if they weren’t planning any extensive travel, casing the area for resources, planning any territorial expansion or war, or ruling kingdoms and exacting tribute, they wouldn’t have needed conventional maps. Their spatial practices could be focused around their daily lives and navigating the proximate world, relying on memory and experience

In mixed regions, like Mirkwood and Lothlórien, whose spatial practices take precedence? Likely the establishment of formal domains, and their need for defense, mapped borders, awareness of other territorial claims and threats, has become more prominent than it would’ve been for First Age Avari, say, and by the Third Age cartographic practices would probably reflect a war footing similar to First Age Beleriand (and Second Age everywhere, but I feel like the whole flat-earth-becomes-a-planet issue might have derailed a lot of their cartographic efforts for a time)

#sorry this is incredibly long #this is what i write about instead of my thesis #the entire essay is like 3.5k words....#so i'm splitting it up by race #and im not doing the valar etc bc i don't have insightful analysis for spatial practices that consist of 'gonna shove around more mountains'#i mean i say that. watch me analyze it anyway down the road #silmarillion #tolkien #lord of the rings #tolkien meta #geography things #arda cartography #elves #skravler

63 notes · View notes

elliemarchetti · 3 years

Text

Clear As Silver Drops

It’s my birthday and I post what I want to! *sing this as Necessary Evil by Motionless in White*

To be totally honest, this is inspired by @my-darling-haldir who was asking for Haldir fic recs for her bday and I said myself why not? Why not indulge in your love for elves and mixed ocs? So here we are, with something in which Legolas isn’t with the Fellowship and in his place we have Elva, the only woman in a group otherwise made up of men only. Enjoy!

Words: 3132

"I'm afraid we can't stay here any longer," Aragorn said, turning his gaze to the mountains, raising his sword as if he wanted to curse Gandalf for his recklessness.

“What hope do we have without him, now?” asked Frodo under his breath, talking mainly to himself.

“We’ll have to do without hope,” replied Elva, talking to the whole Fellowship. “It may be that one day at least he’ll be avenged, but for now, let’s have courage and stop mourning: we have a long way to go and a lot of things to do.”

At her words they all stood up to look around, making her weigh for the umpteenth time what her role really was in their mission. She should’ve asked Gandalf when she still had time, but now he had taken that secret to the grave and she could do nothing but find it herself. A skilled archer and an excellent diplomat, Elva felt more like she was there to act as a glue between cultures, and thus prevent those men, all with different histories and upbringing, to go one to the North, dominated by three sparkling white peaks, Celebdil, Fanuidhol and Caradhras, one to the East, where the forward-projected arms of the mountains steepened abruptly, with distant lands extending beyond, and one to the South, where the Misty Mountains stretched endlessly.

Less than a mile away, slightly lower, as they were located at a high point on the eastern flank of the valley, they saw a lake: it was long and oval, looking like the tip of a spear stuck deep in the basin to the north, with the southern waters out of the shadows, bathed in sunlight but still dark, the deep blue of a clear night sky seen from a lighted room. The surface was calm, and all around the bare banks were covered in soft grass. The Fellowship walked the uneven and bumpy road that descended from the Gates of Moria, just a winding path among heather and twigs, sprouted between the broken stones; it still could be seen that it once meandered from the Dwarf Kingdom’s lowlands, but the broad paved street was now reduced to a ghost of itself, just like Durin’s stone.

“I can’t go on without deviating for a moment to see the wonder of the valley!” exclaimed Gimli.

“Be quick, then!” said Aragorn, checking the gates behind them. “The sun sets early, and even if the Orcs won’t come out, perhaps, sooner than dusk, we must already be very far away at sunset; it’s almost new moon, so the night will be dark.”

Elva almost cursed under her breath: if the lightless night was approaching, even her monthly blood was coming. Of all the advantages of being a half-elf, unfortunately she hadn't inherited the one of not suffering like mortal women.

“Come with me, Elva!” cried the dwarf, distracting her from her thoughts. “I don’t want you to go away without first seeing Kheled-zaram.”

For some strange reason, despite her elven half, the dwarf liked her company, and quite a lot too. Together they descended the long green slope swiftly, followed slowly by the hobbits. A brief glance into the dark waters, and back again to the road, now turning south, going down quite steep from two offshoots that embraced the basin. A little lower than the lake, they encountered a deep well of crystal clear water, from which a steam rose, flowing right after down a rocky groove.

“Thirsty as you may be, don’t drink this water,” Gimli warned. “It’s cold as ice.”

“Over there, are the woods of Lothlorien,” said Elva, pointing at a golden haze in the flat lands. “It’s the most beautiful among all the homes of my people. There are no trees like those of that land: in autumn, their leaves don’t fall but turn to gold, replaced only in spring by the new buds covering the branches with yellow flowers. Then, the soil is gold as the ceiling and the smooth and grey bark of the trees make them look like silver columns, as our songs in Mirkwood still tell. My heart would be so happy if I were among the branches of that wood and the spring smiled!”

“My heart will be happy even if it’s winter,” Aragorn said. “But many miles separate us, let’s hurry!”

For a time, Frodo and Sam managed to keep up, but the warriors advanced swiftly and soon they were left behind. When Elva noticed, she immediately told Aragorn, who, seeing them so far away, ran back on his own steps, calling Boromir to follow him. He apologized, full of disquiet.

“So many things happened today, and we’re such in a hurry that I forgot you were injured. You should’ve said something, because in silence nothing has been done to alleviate your pain. A little further on there’s a place where we can rest for a moment. Come, Boromir, let’s carry them!”

They soon encountered another stream flowing down the western slopes, confusing its gurgling waters with the swirling ones of the Silverlode, diving together from an overhand of green coloured stone and foaming down in a hollow surrounded by fir trees, low and curved, with steeps sides covered with rapeseed and blueberry bushes. They stopped at the bottom, where was a flat area crossed by the bed of shiny pebbles in which the creek flowed noisy. It was nearly three in the afternoon, and they had travelled just a few miles from the Gates. The sun was already turning to west, painting a grave expression on Aragorn’s face as he cared for Frodo and Sam’s injuries.

“Lucky you” he exclaimed, to lighten up the gardener’s mood. “Many have received a worse reward for killing their first Orc. The cut isn’t poisoned, as is unfortunately the case for most wounds inflicted by their blades, so it’ll heal well.”

He then opened his saddlebag and took out some withered athelas. While fresh were more effective, the leaves would still do their work in cleaning the wound. When Frodo’s turn came, he was quite reluctant, saying he was fine and just needed some food and rest, but Aragorn persisted, and took off his old tunic and worn shirt, giving an exclamation of astonishment, which soon turned into laughter: the hobbit wore a silver coat that sparkled before their eyes like light on a choppy sea, the gems bright like stars and the tinkling of the rings producing the same sound as the first raindrops falling into a pond. If word got out that a hobbit had such a wonder, all the hunters of Middle Earth would’ve galloped towards the Shire, but all their arrows would’ve been vain before a mithril armour. Still, there was a dark blackened bruise on Frodo’s right side and one of the rings had passed through his soft leather jacket, penetrating into the flesh. While the others prepared the meal, Aragorn made more athelas water, filling the basin with its acrid fragrance. After the late lunch, the Fellowship put out the fire, erasing all traces of it, and climbed out the hollow, resuming the road. They hadn’t come far when the sun disappeared behind the western heights and great shadows crept along the sides of the mountains. Twilight veiled their feet, and a light mist glided in the depression, while far to the east, the evening lit up with its pale glow lands, plains and distant forests. Sam and Frodo managed to walk briskly and Aragorn led the Fellowship for another three hours with a single, shot break, after which the late nigh imposed her dark reign. There were several stars, but the moon waning would appear much later.

“Lothlorien!” Elva cried. “We have reached the edge of the Golden Wood!”

The trees stood imposing, arching over the road and the river that swept suddenly under their leafy branches, trunks gray in the pale starlight and leaves quivered with a touch of fallow yellow.

“We’re still too little far from the Gates, but we can’t go further. Let’s hope that the Elves virtue will protect us from the danger pursuing,” said Aragorn.

“Assuming the Elves still live here, in this darkening world,” Gimli said, joining them.

“It’s been a long time since some of my folks came back to see the land we abandoned centuries ago,” replied Elva, “but we know that Lorien is still not deserted and a secret force repels evil far from this district. Nevertheless, its inhabitants rarely show up, and perhaps now they live deep in the woods and far from the northern borders.”

Aragorn confirmed with a sigh, as if some memory in him had been awakened. “We must suffice to ourselves, for tonight. We’ll still walk a short distance, until the trees are thick around us, then we’ll leave the path to look for a place to rest.”

“There’s no other way?” asked Boromir, irresolute.

“What better way would you want?” asked Aragorn.

“A simple path, albeit flanked by a hedge of swords,” Boromir replied. “Our Fellowship has been conducted in strange ways, and all of them so far with an inauspicious outcome. Against my will we passed under the shadows of Moria, towards our perdition, and now we have to go into the Golden Woods, even if we have heard of that perilous district in Gondor, where it’s said that few of those who set foot there come out, and of these, non has been released unharmed.”

“Don’t say unharmed, but unchanged, and then your words will be truthful,” Aragon retorted. “Wisdom has certainly diminished in the city of those who were once wise if now they speak ill of Lothlorien. You may not believe me, but there’s no other way for us, unless you want to go back to the Gates or climb the mountains or swim alone along the Great River.”

“Then guide us!” agreed Boromir. “But it’s dangerous.” “Very,” Aragorn confirmed. “Beautiful and dangerous, but only the evil has to fear here.”

They walked a little over a mile into the forest when they encountered a third stream flowing rapidly from the tree-lined slopes, climbing west towards the mountains. They could hear it roar in a cascade hidden by the shadows, before the dark water crossed the path ahead of them, joining the Silverlode in a whirlwind of ponds hidden by tree roots. It was the Nimrodel, the river on which a long time ago the Silvan elves composed many song. She grew up singing them in the North, mindful of the rainbow over the waterfalls and the golden flowers floating on its foam. Everything was dark, now, and the Bridge over it collapsed, but its waters were still able to wash away any sign of fatigue, so she proposed to wade it to find on the other side a place to rest.

“The sound of falling water will perhaps bring us sleep and forgetfulness from sorrows.”

One after another, the men followed her and when they were all on the other bank, they sat down, rested and refreshed. Elva told the stores of Lothlorien, the ones the Mirkwood elves still treasured in their hearts, stories of the sun and stars on meadows along the Great River, from a time before the world turned gray. When finally silence fell, they heard the music of the waterfall that flowed smoothly in the shadows.

“Do you hear Nimrodel’s voice?” she asked. “I’ll sing you the story of a girl who was called like the river next to which she lived a long time ago. It’s a lovely song in Sylvan, but I’ll sing it in Westron for you.”

Then, with a sweet voice so faint it almost disappeared in the rustle of the leaves, she intoned the ballad of the elf with a white mantle edged with gold; she had long hair and white skin, the free girl with a voice clear like silver drops. It was evident that some of her companions thought this creature lost in the dewy mountains could’ve been her, so she sang about her lover, an elven king of trees and clearings, went away on a ship swept by the north wind.

From helm to sea they saw him leap, As arrow from the string, And dive into the water deep, As mew upon the wing. The wind was in his flowing hair, The foam about him shone; Afar they saw him strong and fair Go riding like a swan. But from the West has come no word, And on the Hither Shore No tidings Elven-folk have heard Of Amroth evermore.

When Elva's voice trembled, the song ended. She said she couldn't continue because she didn't remember how it went on, but it was a lie: long and sad was the story about the doom befallen on Lothlorien when the dwarves roused evil in the mountains. She glances sideways at Gimli, who looked somewhat grateful, and quickly changed subject, proposing to camp on the trees for the night. The Fellowship left the path, entering the shadows of the forest further dense, headed west along the mountains steam and far away from the river, until they found a small group of trees with big trunks.

“I’m at home in roots and branches, but this species is unknown to me; I need to climb to see what their shape and way of growing is,” said Elva.

“Whatever they are,” replied Pippin, “they would really be wonderful if they offer a possible night’s rest to others than birds: I don’t know how to sleep perched on a hanger!”

“Then dig a ditch in the ground, if that’s more to the habits of you race,” Elva retorted, impatiently. “But you have to dig fast and in depth, if you wish to hide from the Orcs.”

Before she could do anything else, however, an authoritative voice spoke from the shadows. In amazement, she crouched frightened against the trunk.

“Stay still,” she whispered to the others. “Don’t move and don’t speak!”

A soft laugh was heard in the foliage, and another clear voice spoke in an elven language. Elva looked up and answered in the same idiom, different from the ones the western elves used.

"Who are they, and what do they say?" asked Merry.

"They're Elves," Sam replied. "Don't you hear their voices?"

"And they say you breathe so hard they could pierce your heart despite the darkness,” Elva hissed, silencing the hobbits. To be honest, there was no reason to be afraid: the elves said they’ve been long aware of their presence but they didn’t hinder the Fellowship in crossing the river since they heard her voice beyond the Nimrodel and recognized she belonged to their Nordic lineage.

“They’re begging me to go up with Frodo. It seems they’ve received news about our journey but they ask the others to be patient for a moment and guard the feet of the tree, waiting for them to decide what to do.”

At those words, a ladder was lowered from the shadows: it was made of a silver-gray sparkling cord and despite its frail appearance, it proved itself strong enough to withstand the weight of several people. Elva went up fast, while Frodo tried to persuade Sam to stay with the others. It would’ve been a wise choice, it was easy to offend her people, but the gardener was immovable and in the end they entered the flet, talan in elvish, through the circular hole open in the centre. The elf holding the ladder, the eldest, invited her to sit with his companions, two younger guards, both fully dressed in silver gray fabric, a valid help to hide among the stumps and then greeted the hobbits in a slow Common Tongue.

“It’s rare for us not to use our mother tongue, since now we live in the heart of the forest and don’t like to deal with other people. Even our own relatives in the North are divided from us, but some still go in foreign lands to gather news and watch over enemies, and therefore they speak different languages like me. My brothers Rumil and Orophin understand little of what you say, but we heard of your coming from Lord Elrond’s messengers when they passed by Lorien on their way home. From many years we no longer knew anything about your race and we didn’t think there were still any hobbit in Middle Earth. You don’t seem bad natured and since you come with an elf of our lineage, it’s with pleasure that we’ll help you, as Elrond asked us to, although is not out habit to lead strangers across our land, but you’ll have to spend the night here. How many are you?”

"Eight: me, four of them,” said Elva, alluding to the hobbits, “and two men, one being Aragorn, an elf-friend of the Westernesse folk.”

“The name of Aragorn son of Arathorn is known in Lorien, and he has the benevolence of the Lady. So, everything is fine,” said Haldir. “But you have so far only named seven.”

“The eight is a dwarf,” admitted the girl, never lowering her eyes, no trace of shame in her voice. She knew that Haldir must’ve understood by now that not only elven blood ran in her veins, but he didn’t seem to care.

“This is not good: we haven’t dealt with them since the Dark Days and they’re not allowed into our country. I cannot let him pass.”

“He’s of the Lonely Mountain, one of Dain’s trusted people and friend of Lord Elrond, who has personally chosen him to be part of our Fellowship,” she explained. At her words, the three elves exchanged a long, knowing look.

“Is he perhaps your companion, milady?” Haldir asked.

“Would it make any difference on his courage and loyalty?” she asked, heedless of what some strangers might think. If she had cared about the opinion of all the souls she had met in her long life, her heart would’ve already burst with pain.

"Very well," said Rumil at last, displeased. Ignoring the fact that the hobbits didn’t understand him, he told her in Sindarin that if she and Aragorn had watched and answered for Gimli, he could’ve passed, but only blindfolded.

“Now, we mustn’t waste any more time,” Haldir resumed. “Your companions have been on the ground too long and soon in the morning you’ll have to continue your march. The hobbits will stay here with us, while you’ll remain in the other talan with the rest of the Fellowship.”

“Call if something is wrong!” he added in the end, as a farewell. Elva was halfway down the ladder when she heard one of his brothers mutter something about such a beautiful voice wasted in a terribly vulgar way, but she couldn’t understand his reply.

#lotr #haldir #aragorn #gimli #boromir #gandalf #rumil #orophin #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #pippin took #haldir x oc #the fellowship of the ring

19 notes · View notes

odium-amare · 4 years

Text

Romance and Redemption for Fëanor

(Disclaimer: This does not and should not apply to real life. No one can change anyone. Only they can change themselves. This is purely for fun and for my own imagination to run rampant.

Also, If you’re a fan of Fëanor x Nerdanel pairing, skip this.)

This little guilty pleasure analysis is a little foreshadowing for something I am going to publish on Silmarillion AO3 and Fanfiction soon.

Fëanor is a character I have not often talked about but often think about when it comes to Tolkien’s work. He’s a fascinating character in that he defies all of the traditional Elven stereotypes in Tolkien’s universe. But everyone knows that. He’s charismatic, magnetic, tumultuous, unpredictable, easily changeable, impatient, possessive, direct, virile and most of all, he’s extremely human.

He’s the most beautiful and greatest elf (according to Tolkien but Finrod can battle this) and yet wed to Nerdanel; someone not considered beautiful by Elven standards because like most elves, he loves beauty but in the unconventional sense. Which again, defies Elven standards.

He sees Nerdanel’s beauty that others cannot and he values her character and talents as an artist and craftswoman.

Fëanor gives me the impression of one who puts so much emphasis and rage into unfairness and justice whether it be rebelling towards the Valar because of power imbalance or feeling that it is his right to take back his Silmarils which he created. But at the same time, he’s unbelievably unfair and cruel to people who do not do anything evil to him with intention (Indis, his half-brothers and it’s safe to assume he neglects his nephews and nieces as well.) That is his paradox. Fëanor is changeable and a hypocrite. Only he can abide by his own double standards and no one else’s. But that is probably one of the reasons why the Tolkien fandom loves him so much. He’s so flawed that it’s part of what makes him fun to write about and makes him utterly fascinating.

He’s sexy to put it straight.

He loves with all his heart (his father, birth mother, Nerdanel and children) and he hates with all his heart. There is no mediocrity or middle ground for Fëanor. You either have all of him or none of him.

And this extremity of his character is what causes so many tragedies, the dreadful oath that leads to all of his sons’ demise. The connections with all of the events that occur throughout Middle Earth’s history.

Having said that, as a huge romantic and idealist whilst also a pragmatist, I will be one of the first to say I am not a huge fan of Fëanor/Nerdanel as a couple. And this is not just because of my bias for not caring about Elf x Elf pairings.

On a purely superficial level, I like the angst of Fëanor x Nerdanel’s conflict and separation towards the events of the Oath and journey to Middle Earth. I like that she grows a spine and rebels Tolkien’s LACE of elves never separating and to willingly separate with Fëanor because he’s beyond saving. I like the fact that it’s a rare case of the “hot” guy wants the “plain/ugly” girl and not the other way around which have been bombarded by media created by mediocre/ugly men living their fantasies of ending up with the hottest women entitlement. I like the fact that Fëanor loves her for her accomplishments as her own individual artisan.

But what we hear about Fëanor x Nerdanel’s personal life before everything from Tolkien is extremely vague. The one that stands out to me is:

“... she was able to influence and restrain her prideful husband.”

Hm, in what way exactly? Fëanor x Nerdanel’s relationship may be vague in its descriptions, but there is much we can assume and deduct. While this line may sound nice to other romanticists that’s a fan of this pairing and like that Nerdanel is the only one “wise” and “kind” enough to calm Fëanor down, this line to me just sounds like another one of those kind/ sweet good girl tames the bad boy.

It’s old and we all know, is a one way ticket towards a toxic and dysfunctional relationship. Nerdanel plays the role of the patient wife restraining her unpredictable husband and even towards the end of her leaving Fëanor, she could only beg him one last time to leave one of her youngest twin sons with her. There’s not much more to the dynamic or at least is written about. While she’s an accomplished artisan in her own right, she lets herself play the role of the patient and motherly figure of 7 sons. She acts as the female homebody to a charismatic but problematic husband and failed to the very end when the two are estranged.

She is lost in the shadow of Fëanor and there is nothing about Nerdanel that stands out to me. Even Haleth, a mortal woman, can stand to be equal to Fëanor to be inspiring.

I like to reread “Another Man’s Cage” by Dawn Felagund which gives us a glimpse into the life of the Fëanorians. While it is a fanfic and should not be read as canon, everything written there is pretty damn close to my own interpretations of each individual Fëanorians. The dynamic of Fëanor/Nerdanel in this fic pretty much confirms all of my beliefs about this couple and exemplifies exactly why I dislike it and why I don’t care for Nerdanel as a female character. If we don’t have canon, we might as well have this so I’m going to play off of this fanfic.

Fëanor x Nerdanel are a tumultuous couple and not in a sexy way. To sum it up short, Fëanor is someone who willfully acts on his own whims, does and says whatever he wants. Nerdanel is always the one to make concessions and appeal to him for the sake of her love for him, harmony and the children. She consistently plays the role of the doormat, matronly figure. Every time they fight, she will be the one to apologize first and accept “make up” sex when she shouldn’t. And it’s definitely not making up. It’s communication avoidance. Other than being a matron role that takes care of the children, blindingly loving Fëanor and his mistreatments with a dash of artisan here and there (to remind us that she’s her own person I suppose,) she does not have much of an inspiring personality. She accepts the fact that Fëanor will always burn bright for all to see and she will be the one languishing in spirit. She’s incredibly muted as a person.

So this, frankly, leaves me wondering. What is it about Nerdanel that Fëanor falls for exactly? Being a talented sculptor is not much of a reason to sustain love and a marriage. It is said that they were friends before they married. But why are they friends? She’s said to be able to stand up to her husband, but her version of “standing up” to him is more about barely scratching personal boundaries and common sense rather than actually talking sense into his extremities. Then he fell for her because she’s the “wise” and patient woman who reigns in her terrible husband?

What a flat and cliche trope of a patriarchal marriage.

Which brings me to my last point and theory. His wife can’t do it. His sons can’t do it. His half brothers most definitely cannot do it. No matter how they show it, no matter the defiance - Most of the most important First Age figures in Tolkien lives on the whims of Fëanor and his pursuit.

So who could redeem Fëanor? By the time of Dagor Dagorath and Arda remade, who could heal him while also being able to put him in his place so that he doesn’t scorch a burn with his fire to the point that it overwhelms?

A human woman.

Thank you. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

#feanor #my post #feanorian #my fics #my fic #tolkien #romance #writing

13 notes · View notes

legolas-is-a-himbo · 4 years

Text

so i’ve never read the silmarillion (i mean, i will read it. soon. hopefully. as i write this, my copy of it is staring me down from my bookshelf) but i’ve picked up a fair bit of random information from tumblr, ao3, the wiki, things i’ve come across while studying Sindarin, and of course stuff that is referenced in lotr and the hobbit.

i have pieced together a variety of things about it, most of which i have no idea to what degree of truth they are. so just for fun, y’all can enjoy my idea of what the silmarillion is all about. mostly writing this so when i do read it i can come back and see just how false this is currently~

so there’s a dude named fëanor who is an elf and he makes three silmarils which are magic light gem things but the dark lord steals them for his crown

fëanor also has a whole lot of children with a lot of different people and they are all referred to as the ‘fëanorians’. all of them including fëanor fight various dark lords and try to take back the silmarils

anyone whose name starts with m is evil

this includes sauron whose original name is either maglor or melkor or something like that and who is maybe(??) in love with someone named maedhros and who is also canonically extremely attractive. he also likes to trick people into doing evil things

there are at least three kinslayings and i’m not entirely sure what that means but i gather that warring groups of elves try to kill each other off?

everyone commits war crimes

in one of the kinslayings there is an elf named oropher who is somehow exiled or has to run away or something so he establishes himself as king of the greenwood and is more powerful than everyone else in it because they are all silvan and he is sindarin. this creates weird power dynamics. he is also the father of thranduil.

the númenorians are rewarded with the island of númenor because they have fought well in many battles. but they get corrupt and this might have something to do with sauron, and they keep trying to cheat death. they try to invade valinor and because of this númenor sinks and also the earth becomes un-flat for everyone except the elves so now only elven ships can get to valinor. this i am 99% sure is true because i specifically looked it up on the wiki.

luthien tinúviel (not sure if i got the accents/spelling right sorry) is like arwen but more powerful and she can kill people by singing. she is also extremely beautiful. she is an elf and she and a mortal named beren fall in love and they die but her singing is so heartbreaking that the gods give them both a second chance at life except she’s mortal now.

why is everyone’s fucking name start with celeb. celeborn, celebrimbor, celebrian. do they just have a lot of silver everywhere or?

celebrimbor might be in love with someone named narvi? or at least they do a lot of stuff together

someone slayed a lot of balrogs. might have been luthien and beren?

the sindar elves and the noldor elves Really Dont Like Each Other for some reason and they fight a lot

elrond is half elf and he got to choose to be an elf but his brother chose to be a mortal man

lothlórien keeps trying to take land from the greenwood? or it’s the other way around? not sure.

there are a lot of gods and they keep experimenting with yes divine intervention vs no divine intervention. no matter what they do it goes wrong.

there is someone named ecthelion and i thought this was denethor’s father but either i am totally wrong or he is also an elf but that doesn’t make any sense or there is a second person named ecthelion who is an elf

elves in the greenwood are like middle earth hillbillies?

some elves go to the sea but some do not. wood elves generally are less likely to. but once most elves hear the calling of the gulls they gotta go to valinor. there are also a variety of other types of elves, some which never go to the sea (actually i read some of the appendices in the silmarillion and i think i found this in there)

if an elf is Really In Love but their lover dies or it’s unrequited or they are separated, they can ‘fade’ and then die

there are different dialects of sindarin depending on region. people in gondor pronounce things weirdly, and again greenwood elves talk like hillbillies

there used to be a lot of dragons and people had to fight them all the time

lots of bad dangerous things come from in the north

there was ‘the last alliance’ and this involved elves and men and dwarves and they fought maybe sauron together but a lot of them died

people should know magical items are Very Dangerous And Risky but for some reason they keep trying to fuck with them and the same things keep happening

i’ll end it with that. this is probably going to make a lot of people very mad and could probably instantly kill jrrt. i apologize. i will most likely look back on this later on and become very upset.

thanks. sorry. have a good day.

#i’m a fucking idiot #it’s me i said something #(the stuff i said was really stupid)#oops #shitposting #the silmarillion #tolkien

17 notes · View notes

ereborskingarchive2 · 4 years

Text

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 , 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 , 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 ( 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝟷𝟺𝟹 ) ❝ how far do you think it is ? ❞ asked thorin , for by now they knew bilbo had the sharpest eyes among them . ❝ not at all far . i shouldn’t think above twelve yards , ❞ said bilbo . ❝ twelve yards ! ❞ exclaimed thorin . ❝ i should have thought it was thirty at least , but my eyes don’t see as they used a hundred years ago . ❞

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 , 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 , 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 ( 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝟷𝟺𝟹 ) ❝ [ . . . ] but fíli is the youngest and still has the best sight , ❞ said thorin . ❝ come here , fíli , and see if you can see the boat mister baggins is talking about . ❞

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 , 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ( 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 ) [ . . . ] a young dwarf prince facing down the pale orc . his armor rent , wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield . blow after blow the orc delivered upon this branch , ‘til one such powerful swing drove it back into the prince’s head , sending him down to the ground . . .

dwarrows , with their preference to remain underground in the darkness¹ of their mountains where , in such subterranean conditions , little light reaches the eye , are more short - sighted than any other race in middle earth . whereas elves can look across great distances , dwarrows can see very fine details when anything is brought close to their eyes , an ability that lends itself to the unmatched workmanship that they are able to achieve with their craft . the short - sightedness of dwarrows does not hinder them much² , and while it becomes less easy to see far away with age , they are otherwise unaffected and unaware of any difficulties . their architecture and ornamentation , comprised of straight lines , large , prominent statues , stamped patterns , deeply embedded runes , and embossed beads are aspects that reflect this small lacking in their sight and ensure that the dwarrows do not need perfect vision to navigate through their realm ( flat decorations are rarely seen , if made at all ) nor would they need eyesight by itself to be able to relate to their adornments that are as physically representative ( able to be perceived through contact ) ( i.e. the rune - stone received by kíli from dís is meant to be felt as much as to be looked at ) as they are visually³ .

rare is it that a blow comes down hard enough to cause a dwarf any lasting harm , but when fighting azog the defile during the battle of azanulbizar ( 2799 of the third age ) before the gates of khazad - dûm ( moria ) , a swing of azog’s spiked mace causes the oaken branch that thorin wielded to strike backwards into his head . he falls to the ground , having received a severe enough hit to permanently deteriorate his eyesight further than what is common for a dwarf . his sword cutting off azog’s arm instead of his head is a result of this , because he could no longer see clearly enough to translate the abruptly indistinct appearance of his foe , nor was he able to see azog carried into khazad - dûm alive .

the initial adaptation was difficult the more it deteriorated , but additional practice and training , along with heightened hearing ( he has become particularly adept at hearing and recognizing sounds and when certain people are speaking ) , has him able to participate in battle with as much skill as any other warrior ( instead of direct assaults , thorin tends to twirl with his weapon or use broad upward strokes as a means to make sure that he strikes his enemy and does not fall short because he could not strike as precisely ) ( i.e. this form can be seen most notably during the escape from the goblin tunnels )⁴ . his eyesight is not so far gone that he cannot recognize shapes and surroundings , albeit distorted or faint depending on the distance between him and what he is looking at . around one meter ( sometimes a little farther , sometimes less ) is as far as he can see without having any problems , but this depends on how well - rested he is , and the distance is oftentimes less than that . thorin can see up close as crystal - clearly as his fellow dwarrows . seasons passed , and he adjusted to being able to take in less than others , not thinking much on it save for when journeying required someone with sharper eyes than his ( the distortion is not so great that he cannot commonly make these journeys by himself , which he usually does ) . his instincts serve him well and make up for what he lacks in his eyesight . save for a few strange instances that may cause the dwarrows that do not know of his disability to scratch their heads⁵ , balin , dwalin , dís , fíli , and kíli are aware and do their best to support him without tramping upon his position as leader .

amidst the mourning for the losses sustained during the battle of azanulbizar , which claimed the lives of thrór , thorin’s grandfather , frerin , thorin’s younger brother , and resulted in the disappearance of thráin , thorin’s father , his eyesight was not forefront on his mind , and was not so for awhile . indeed , it took nearly a year before he realized the change , though others around him , namely his training partner , dwalin , and vili , fíli and kíli’s father , noticed earlier , and kept a close guard around thorin . he moved on without taking a moment to grieve his eyesight , working himself nearly to the end of his fortitude to regain the skills that had left him in the wake of this impairment . he neither cursed it , nor cared so little about it that it did not make him brood , nearer and nearer to thinking himself so much lesser than his forefathers . it was a weight set atop so many others , another strain upon the dimming of his mind’s wellbeing , but one that he had no choice but to bear , even if it snuffed him out .

thorin fumbles now and then , frequently enduring humbling mishaps and pushing on regardless without letting himself or the other dwarrows take much notice . he is determined to still perform his role to the greatest of his abilities , and does not slow simply because he cannot see the path as clearly . he knows it is there , and that is enough . he will make it enough . he carries spectacles in one of his packs , but only wears them privately .

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 , 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ( 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 ) ONE he arrived late to bag end because he could not see the mark that gandalf had left upon bilbo baggins’ door , which resulted in him becoming rather off - track . he walked up and down bagshot row twice before , on the third attempt , he drew close enough to see the mark . TWO instructing balin to lead the way when they journeyed out of rivendell was partly because balin knew it , and partly because it was unfamiliar enough that thorin did not trust himself to lead the company with his impairment and the steep fall on one side⁶ . THREE in the misty mountains , during the battle of the stone giants , thorin’s eyesight was shortened considerably with the heavy rain - fall , and he could not see whether it was fíli or kíli beside him when they were separated from half of the company . as indicated by the film’s subtitles , he does accidentally call for kíli , mistaking fíli for his brother . FOUR thorin does not realize that bilbo is not with him when they make it out of the goblin tunnels because he simply could not see well enough to notice he was not there ( one of two such accidental occurrences , and not because he disvalued bilbo’s safety ) . FIVE it cannot be . thorin says this in the tree because , until azog the defiler speaks , he cannot see that far away to ascertain whether or not it was truly him and not a different orc . SIX azog the defiler’s warg bringing thorin to the ground may look like bad form on thorin’s part , but when the warg leapt in the air , thorin could no longer tell for sure how close it was in front of him , and by the time it was close enough for him to see it , it was too late , and he had charged too near .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 ONE the ending scene with thorin looking out at erebor in the distance . he could see enough to know the shape of it against the sky , though tragically not as much as the others in the company .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 , 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ( 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚞𝚐 ) ONE the hardness of the stone path in mirkwood aided thorin in being able to lead the company for most of the way , but , as seen in the film , there are several instances that dwalin has to find the path for him if it was coated with enough greenery . TWO the longer he remained in mirkwood , the more his eyesight slacked under its enchantment , til nearly all of his surroundings were a blur , and his abrupt command for the company to follow him and stray from the path was because he could not see and felt cornered into an unwise and impulsive action . THREE thorin does not realize bilbo is missing when battling the spiders because he still could not see well enough ( the second occurrence , still as much an accident as the first , and still not because he disvalued bilbo’s safety ) . FOUR his boot stepping on the cord tied to the key before it fell down the mountainside was completely unintentional , which is why he gives bilbo the look he does before he stoops to pick it up .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 ONE the white stag . archery is thorin’s least mastered skill because of his eyesight , but that does not mean that he does not attempt it every now and then , saving it for when he is certain he would not accidentally strike others . what he sees may be distorted , but having grown accustomed to it , he is better at discerning blurry shapes and concluding where their edges are . TWO the incident with the barrels had him relying quite a lot on his instincts , but was also attributed to the culmination of his tireless training to ensure that others , including himself , would not die because of his eyesight . THREE running from smaug in erebor and the several rather treacherous leaps . most of his confidant running around can be attributed to stone sense ( explained in summary in the footnotes ) , and the several leaps he makes were ones of faith rather than knowing for certain something was there to grab .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 , 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ( 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜 ) ONE he could not see and be sure that bard held the arkenstone until kíli’s exclamation , when thorin’s face darkens with realization and his suspicions of the glowing colors that he could distinguish are validated . TWO the tragedy is that he could not see fíli’s final moments , not truly . azog and fíli were at such a distance that while he knew who was standing there and what was happening , the details , such as the last emotions on his nephew’s face before he perished , were lost to him .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 ONE throwing the ruby . it was mostly the assumption that the shapes of either fíli or kíli would catch it if he aimed it enough in their direction . he has remarkable aim that he worked diligently on throughout the decades . TWO the warning shot let loose at thranduil . a miss . he had been aiming to wound thranduil’s ride with gold - sick intent .

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 .

¹ dwarrows can see incredibly well in darkness , and despite his short - sightedness , this includes thorin .

² this is because of stone - sense , something that all dwarrows have . stone sense , in a summarized definition , is the dwarven ability to be able to sense the stone around them , noting where it is safe and where it is not , and using it to make their way through mountains both in general and with mining . thorin’s short - sightedness is completely unnoticeable to anyone watching him in the mountain because of how his stone - sense guides him , resonating a little more loudly than most due to his disability .

³ information was drawn in part from this post .

⁴ in regards to archery , thorin learned how to use a bow during his erebor years before his injury , and while he can only use it to a certain extent depending on the situation , he is still capable of shooting from one . that is not to say he is very good at it , however .

⁵ thorin is practiced at hiding it , and while your character and others may figure it out eventually , it is not outright apparent that he is so very short - sighted . your character and others would most likely not catch on til they are explained to by thorin , or are in a situation that reveals it because he made a blunder . he will mostly ignore the question when asked .

⁶ this is not to say that he does not lead the company over treacherous paths , which he does , only that he merely hands over his position in the front when he thinks it is necessary ( and he is not always right about when it is not ) .

#interpretation .#the legends of the mountain - son .#moved this over here immediately #because this is important to my portrayal .

6 notes · View notes

arda-tourism-board · 4 years

Text

My writing (part 1)

I know nobody wants to hear about it, but I've been writing the same stories but slightly to the left each time since 2013 so I may as well share them. I haven't published anything, but i’m hoping to one day.

Also every time i do “quotes” it’s not a quote it’s just words to that effect.

Lillith (part 1)

Lillith (More/many) and Lucian (either enchantment or indebted) (the names were a joke about chosen ones that got out of hand), twin descendants of Arwen and Aragorn, recieve a Silmaril in their parent's will and they now have to hide it. An accident throws them back to the year 2000, before they've even been born, and they suddenly have to navigate the year in a new country, discovering the truth behind their long lost heritage while dodging the unawakened reborn Fëanorions and their "father", Kane Fey.

They start this by almost being run over by Nimrodel, who takes them in for some reason without question.

They don’t recognise them at first in the slightest, and Lucian (now Lukas) strikes up a friendship with “Tyler” before Nimrodel strikes it down.

They manage to befriend them, but things get more complicated when the eldest, "Russell," begins to remember who he was, and seems to recognise Lillith and her real name.

Without the binding of the oath, the Fëanorions are friendlier, less rageful, but their past life haunts them.

Lillith is apparently almost identical to someone they knew in Aman, who had a long affair and children with Caranthir, and disappeared with them around three years before the death of Finwë.

Lillith, who remembers nothing of this, and is most definitely human, is confused to say the least, but they just chalk it down to coincidence.

She and Caranthir - Matt - get closer anyway, but it doesn't work out because she feels he's trying to replace her with her apparent double.

Lucian gets involved with Idrillien - explain later - and begins getting involved with rediscovering their heritage even more. Lillith avoids them due to the political issues surrounding the Silmaril, opting to hide it instead.

Cut to 2020. Lillith has the Silmaril, and an accident occurs where she, her younger self, and her brother, are thrown back in time. This completes the 2020-2000 loop, and starts an 80,000 year loop.

Lillith (part 2) girl falls into middle earth is like, my brand.

Lillith is under a land with only starlight, the desert surrounding her and the only thing in her possession being the Silmaril.

In a fit of madness she eats it (yes I know the plot point is weird but stick with me). This connects her to the two trees, and gives her youth.

She eventually finds her way out of the desert and reaches the path of Eldar heading to Aman.

She joins them, learning the language with them and realising that she's in Arda. This is confirmed when they encounter Oromë, and he points at her and goes "wtf you're not an elf."

She ends up living in Alqualondë, but when she meets a young Morifinwë, she realises that the person she'd been jealous of and thought he was trying to replace her with was herself.

They have three children. Lillith refuses marriage. Marriage would bind her to stay by his side, and she knows what's coming next.

She steals her daughters away to Ennor, and spend the rest of her days in Rhûn, avoiding watching the inevitable.

In the end she falls in love with a Lindi (Nandorin) elleth, Ovranen (abound). Together they travel the world, visiting the most Eastern and Southern continents, eventually returning to Arda and Lillith finally meets Arwen and Aragorn, and finds out the fate of her daughters.

The first, named Helleneth (Sky Maiden), went to Doriath, and met and married Thranduil, a Sindarin Lord. She met her fate to grief from the loss of her fourth child, stolen from the crib (plot point for later on). At this, she confessed her heritage and was banished from Eryn Lasgalen, but an incident meant that everyone thought she was dead. She travelled to the Grey Havens under a new name, Lalyanon (traveller), and sailed home.

The second, named Kemeninya (Earth maiden), stayed in the North, living in Gondolin for a time, but when it fell, ran Northwards, eventually joining with the rangers of the North.

The third, named Rúnanen (freer), eventually rejoined with her father, and joined the Ñoldorin cause. She met the same fate as her father, run through with a sword, but instead dying at the gates of Sirion.

Lillith visits Kemeninya, now going by Dolenath (hidden), and they reconnect.

Lillith and Ovranen then recount their travels for archive, and then continue to travel, never settling down.

80,000 years old, Lillith calls on Nimrodel, and asks her for a favour. Take care of her brother.

Lost

I know crossovers are literally the worst thing in the world but I don't care so you can pry this one from my cold, dead, hands. There’s some romance in this one, but it doesn’t come until much, much, later.

Haruka, a Jedi master, on the run from the Empire, discovers a backwater world where she can disguise herself perfectly. Almost too perfectly. The customs throw her at first but she’s trained to adapt to anything.

She clips a translator to her ear, and she gets a job as a servant in Imladris.

Everyone thinks she's really young, and they're right. She's 32, and elves aren't fully matured until they're 50, but nobody told her that. She wasn't even aware she shared a species with them. Or anyone.

She's more concerned about the fact she needs to hide her left leg because it's made of metal and could rat her out to one of the very criminal merchants that could know about the Empire’s very large bounty on her head.

She does manage to evade the merchants, but when she leaves her leg on her bed at some point she has to explain that,,, maybe she isn’t local.

A diplomatic visit from Eryn Lasgalen in the form of the Crown Prince does change things though. Celeberyn points straight at Haruka and goes “you look exactly like my little brother. That’s weird.”

She’s panicking now because she actually has no idea where she came from, and just nods, and goes, “cool.”

Internally she’s freaking out because he mentioned that said brother had a missing identical twin (yes, you heard me, identical) and now she’s trying to figure out if she’s ok to exist here, cause she’s come across a lot of cultures and there isn’t a 100% track record with that.

After a long day of asking people random questions, she figures out that she’s fine here.

Her translator chip finally breaks (one of the twins stepped on it) and she just doesn’t talk to anyone for a month straight.

She turns 50, and offhandedly mentions it to someone because she’s kinda surprised she hasn’t aged yet and they just go what

Turns out she’s meant to go to school and stuff. And learn to write. That isn’t a class thing here, so they’re super concerned because this is a baby and she only has one leg and can’t write who did this to her

Turns out going “oh yeah I was a general in this war” when prompted to explain the situation has so many questions raised.

Everything is pieced together between her and Lisbeth, the youngest after her, in a clearing.

Turns out Haruka is the long lost twin “prince” of Eryn Lasgalen, stolen by someone looking to make a quick buck by selling her to the Jedi because of her hypersensitivity to the force. (elves are born very far and few between)

She swears Lisbeth to secrecy, but it all comes out when Legolas visits Imladris and demands to speak to her.

Turns out they’re linked, even across galaxies, and whenever she went through great physical or emotional trauma, he felt it, but Haruka learned to block out her emotions a long time ago, so never felt any of his. (Turns out that’s why her phantom pains are so realistic, because she was feeling the sensations on his leg to compensate.)

She is unable to deny the fact of her identity now, but she (rightly) refuses to go by her birth name, mainly because Haruka has been her name from the start anyway (it’s gender neutral).

She decides instead of facing her family, she’ll go back into space (because flat earth arda for elves is a mindset and she’s never even heard of it).

She manages (somehow) to find a merchant, and doesn’t realise she’s been followed by Elrohir until she’s dropped off on Lothal and he taps her on the shoulder like “hey where are we and what are all these creatures i’m scared”

She drags him with her to meet with the new Republic, and she gets a new translator chip, leg, and dyes her hair for fun (this is stressful she deserves the dark blue hair).

They eat lunch at a street café, and have a long conversation about Haruka’s torrid backstory. They don’t bond, but they do become friends.

Before, their dynamic was “random servant number 5″ and “lord” but now it’s “jedi master” and her “friend who only knows three words.”

She offers to take him home, but he declines on the basis that home will be there a lot longer than this will.

They start working together at the new republic. Turns out Elrohir makes an excellent fake body guard (he can fight but that’s not the point), and Haruka helps bring some of the old Jedi practices into the new order.

When the new jedi order falls, Haruka steals as many of the students away and takes them and Elrohir back to Arda.

They chill out in Imladris, hiding out for a few years before Haruka remembers that she left because she was avoiding the whole family situation, and has to confront the fact that she is royalty, and finally meets her dad (her mother’s fate is discussed above).

It goes a lot better than expected. The first thing he asks about is why she’s a woman, and it’s awkward, but they eventually fall into a good conversation.

Haruka thinks, “hey, maybe I can exist here in a family.”

But at the same time she’s got her found family in Imladris (cause you know she basically got adopted the minute she, a child, mentioned that she’d been in a war) (have i read too many salvage fics? yes. will i now compare elrond to hakoda? yes. you saw it here first folks only in this story she’s adopted by the entire serving staff.)

Haruka doesn’t venture to the stars for another for hundred years. For now, she’s just content on Arda. She takes to the stars again sometime after the end of the third age, now bored and eager to explore again. Elrohir comes with her. Together they build a new found family and crew, exploring the galaxy.

Part 2 coming soon

#my writing

16 notes · View notes

starryocean · 4 years

Text

Finished So I’m a Spider volume 10. I have...mixed feelings about this one. Under the cut, and no spoilers in comments, as always.

First off: what I liked. I liked the stuff with Kyouya, but that’s a given. His armor-piercing question to Ms. Oka was pretty great. Even if, in a way, when considering his history it comes off as a bit hypocritical, at the same time, it makes complete sense for him as a character. He feels a lot of regret over his violence, and he’s always had a complicated relationship with it, both on Earth and here. For him to see someone treading a similarly complicated, bloody path--of course he’d get angry about it, even if only out of a desire to not inflict that on anyone else.

Also, his reactions to not reacting gave me feels. Oh Kyouya, you’re so traumatized! ;-; Poor kid.

I swear this series is just trauma central for everyone. Kyouya, Mera, Ariel, Oka, Shun, Yuri, Hyrince, now Asaka and Kunihiko, and even Kumoko/Wakaba at several points! And more people besides that! They’re all traumatized! I swear the only person who isn’t having serious issues with trauma is probably Sophia, and that’s mainly because of Envy fucking with her head. And even with that, her clingy jealous nature is probably at least in part due to her trauma. I can at least see it, anyway.

No, scratch that, the only one who isn’t traumatized is D. Speaking of, I think we got hints that she might literally be the devil? Like, in the chapter where she gets found out and dragged off by that maid. There was a mention of “several circles of hell,” and with her initial and her proclamations of being an evil god, the devil certainly fits. Interesting personality, though. I wouldn’t normally think the devil as having a non-interference policy, but at the same time it kind of makes sense? In the way that it lets people go wild, at least.

Okay, other things I liked...the banter between Wakaba and Ariel was really good, same with Wakaba and D in that chapter I mentioned. I liked that callback to how Oka saved the nameless spider’s life back on Earth--of course her soul would want to care for Oka because of that. Um, that scene between Bloe and Balto was pretty tragic, especially when considering that Bloe is canonically doomed to fail already. Like, we hear that he dies early on in the Demon Lord’s Aide Interludes. Poor Balto, he tried so hard to protect his little brother for it all to be for naught ;-;

Finally, the best part. ENBY DRAGON. They’re consistently referred to with they pronouns and the narration doesn’t designate them as one gender or the other, nor does the character ever clarify, so I’m calling it that they’re an enby. I mean, they purposely chose an androgynous appearance when shifting to a human form. No cis person could ever. I know that this nonbinary pal only showed up for like 2 seconds at the very end, but I would die for them. We stan. I hope we get to see more of them.

Now, stuff I disliked, and why I’m mixed on this book: first, the pacing in the beginning dragged on too much with the exposition. Maybe it was because I kept getting distracted by my family watching the Mandalorian, but I remember feeling the same way even after they stopped and I was able to concentrate more thoroughly. Ususally, there’s a good mix of exposition and action going on, rather than it being all tell, but in the beginning there was a LOT of tell going on with the spy network Wakaba set up and stuff. And there was a little bit in the middle, too, I think. Didn’t like that.

Then, the main thing I don’t like: The implications of Wakaba’s plan. In a way, breaking the system in such a manner would result in what seems to be planetary genocide. She herself comments that it’s a massive amount of death, even if she also implies it wouldn’t be explicitly everyone who dies, but I’m still not super comfortable with that. Also, killing all the elves save Oka. If Potimas is the main big bad, and the reason why the elves are considered a threat, why do they need to kill all of them?

Yes, you can argue he can just latch onto another elf as a new body, but it’s only certain elves, right? I’m willing to bet none of the out-of-the-loop elves fulfill those conditions. Or, at least a majority don’t. They don’t need to die. They can be told the truth and even help oppose Potimas if need be. Those elves only want to help save the world as they understand it--that’s not wrong. That’s not even a crime! They’re just being manipulated like Oka is.

So why do they have to die, too? Furthermore, with the cyborg elves/any other compatible elf, they can have those “feelers” removed. Magically, physically, or whatever. Or even just put Potimas into a position where he can’t latch onto a new body. Like, there must be a range limit, right? I don’t remember if it said there was, but I can double check later. Or, hell, even use his own barrier against him by modifying it somehow. I’m willing to bet those “feeler” things are related in some way to something that could either resemble a skill or exist outside the system. If conjuring exists outside the system, at least with certain things, then you can theoretically conjure a way to force Potimas to be trapped within his own body when he dies.

It’s magic. Wakaba has already shown that you can basically do whatever the fuck you want as long as you have the energy/runes to do it. So just do something like that instead of committing elf genocide.

I mean, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the author before, in terms of how she’s (?) handled tropes. Okina Baba might betray my expectations and end up writing something other than literally killing every last elf save Oka and/or planetary genocide. She handled the goblin concept/design super well, and she’s handled the demon stuff petty well. It didn’t read as antisemitic, and there’s been a consistent pattern of Not Always Chaotic Evil throughout the work.

It would be severely disappointing if this is where her writing fell flat, considering how well she’s handled all the other stuff so far, and I’m honestly not sure if it would ruin the series for me. Probably not completely, as there’s a large amount of material that;s legitimately good and fun, but I would definitely be disappointed.

That’s my feelings on it, at least.

#phoenix says boring stuff #kumo desu ga nani ka #kumo desu ga #kumo desu ga spoilers #kumo desu ga nani ka spoilers #so im a spider #so im a spider so what #so im a spider spoilers #so im a spider so what spoilers #kumoko #kumoko spoilers #reading tag

7 notes · View notes

senlinyu · 5 years

Note

If you're still taking prompts: Dramione, "Tabula rasa"

Warning: sad.

Tabula rasa. Those are the terms.

Get out of Azkaban, work at her insipid house-elf charity for a year, and pretend they’ve never met before.

It’s weird but anything is better than sitting in Azkaban for a second year.

It’s like a fresh start.

The concept is tantalising.

He refrains from rolling his eyes as he agrees to the terms. “I’d love to act like I’ve never seen her before.”

“The terms will be magically binding. Violate them and you will return to fill the additional year of your sentence,” the weevil-faced lawyer says.

Draco glances at his mother who sits eagerly beside him and is nodding encouragingly.

“Fine. I’m legally bound act like I don’t know her. Sounds ideal. Where do I sign?”

He doesn’t know why the clause even exists in the agreement. Three weeks on the job and he hasn’t even laid eyes on her.

The day he arrived, he’s shuffled off into a cramped office in the basement and, after they try giving him a variety of different tasks, he ends up being assigned to write thank you letters.

It’s his entire job.

Excellent penmanship is apparently the only usable skill that he possesses.

He assumes at first that it will be easy. He’ll come in late, leave early, and spend a matter of minutes charming a couple dozen notes tops.

“Dear Bootlicker, Thank you terribly much for your generous donation if 500 galleons. I’m thrilled there was literally nothing else you could conceive of to do with your money. It will assuredly be used by yours truly to improve the lives of the sentient abominations called house-elves. Sincerely, love and kisses, the Wizarding world’s favourite buck-toothed harridan, Hermione Granger.”

No. It’s not easy. Granger has elaborate requirements for all the thank you letters that she doesn’t even bother to personally write.

He has to go through the society papers and Granger’s detailed personal calendar to make references to the donor’s last meeting with her. He’s expected to ask about children and grandchildren by name, and discuss the inner-workings of the charity as well as to relate anecdotes about all the sad little elves the donor’s money saves.

Within a few weeks he’s maintaining a full-fledged correspondence between the most bizarre assortment of Wizarding folk, a centaur, two vampires, and an alleged forest troll. A correspondence that he is maintaining as Granger, whom he hasn’t laid eyes on in years.

Supposedly she looks over all his letters before signing them and sending them off, but Draco doubts it. After weeks there, he still hasn’t so much as caught sight of her bushy head.

He torn between a sense of outrage and admiration over what a slick ship she runs. He doesn’t think she even shows up in her office most days. If she does, she never slips so much as a toe past the fourth floor, certainly not to any floors Draco’s allowed on.

Granger has a matronly personal assistant the size of a mountain named Charlotte. The woman is like the female version of Crabbe and Goyle simultaneously. Draco is convinced she must be at least a quarter troll. She glares at Draco whenever “passing on messages” and makes clear to Draco that she’d gladly snap his spine if Granger ever gave her the go-ahead.

Draco accepts his “job” with his head down. He just has to endure it a year and then he’s free. Maybe once he’s not at risk of returning to Azkaban, he can expose what a fraud Granger is.

He finally sees her after two months.

She’s walking by with her assistant when he’s standing in the hallway, taking a break from his cramped office’s inadequate air flow.

Granger catches sight of him all the way down the hallway and without hesitating, bolts up to him.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. You’ve been here for over a month and I haven’t said hi.” She’s beaming at him as she takes hold of his hand and shakes enthusiastically. Her assistant comes thundering down the hall after her. “I’ve been admiring your penmanship for weeks. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stared at her blankly while she pumps his hand up and down.

Tabula rasa.

Everyone at the charity knows who he is, even though they make a show of not. There are loud comments about the kinds of people who would become Death Eaters. The receptionist pretends to be unable to recall his name or that he has a job there. Draco is obliged to go through the full sign-in process every morning as though he’s a visitor.

However, Granger has no idea who he is. It’s not an act. There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she grins up at him.

He’s imagined their fake “meeting” a dozen different ways but this iteration isn’t one that occurred to him.

“Granger,” he says as she continues wringing his hand. Charlotte is ten feet away, her footsteps shaking the hall, and her eyes are threatening a slow and painful death. “It’s been a—pleasure.”

“Miss Granger, you have a meeting with Gibbling to review charity finances in five minutes,” Charlotte says as she reaches Granger, trying to tear her away from Draco.

“I do?” Granger’s hand slips out of Draco’s and she looks chastened, as though she’s been slapped. “I didn’t remember—“

“I apologise, ma’am,” the assistant says smoothly, inserting herself between Granger and Draco. “It slipped my mind, I only just remembered he sent a note this morning. I’m sure it will only take a few minutes.”

Granger is craning her neck to look back at Draco as she’s being herded away. She side-steps her assistant and cuts back.

“It was nice meeting you, Draco. I’m having a little party at my flat this Saturday with some of my friends. Would you want to come by? It’s the least I can do after being so rude.”

“I…” Draco glances back and forth between Granger’s hopeful face and the venomous expression of Charlotte behind her, who is shaking her head warningly. “—don’t think I can make it.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Draco watches Granger trot off with her assistant in tow feeling incredibly confused about what’s going on.

He feels like if anyone were going to tell him, they would have already done so. He’s legally bound to play along with whatever this ridiculous farce is.

His mother has to know, but her lips are apparently sealed on the matter.

“You’re out of Azkaban, darling. Focus on that and never mind anyone else.”

He wants to, but he can’t help but try to figure it out. Why doesn’t Granger remember him? It feels like he’s been personally and exclusively excised from her life and he hasn’t the foggiest idea why he was the only one singled out.

Granger clearly knows his mother. She’s an active participant post-war rebuilding and gives speeches from time to time about things like the Battle of Hogwarts.

Granger isn’t the type to fuck with her memory based on anything and everything Draco knows about her. If she were, he doesn’t know why she’d choose to forget him. And if she did choose to forget him, he doesn’t know why her weird melange of employees and friends would let her hire him.

It feels personal and he can’t bring himself to leave it alone. Is there anything else she doesn’t remember?

When he isn’t ghost-writing her correspondence, he starts going through the newspapers and her old calendars trying to pinpoint exactly when Granger may have forgotten his existence.

He thinks it happened about six months after he was imprisoned in Azkaban following the war. Granger’s exhaustively detailed calendars start immediately after that and her public appearances were sporadic and odd up until then.

He starts hanging around in hallways when he thinks he might run into her. Her assistant is always a few steps behind her, glaring at Draco as though she knows why he’s there and inventing meetings and events in order to get Granger away from him.

He’s been there four months and has barely spoken to her for more than ten minutes in the entire time.

He’s in the middle of writing a sarcastically cordial letter to Romanian vampire when his office door cracks open and Granger sneaks into his office.

He looks at her as she drops into the chair across from his desk and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

Draco eyes the door, waiting for Charlotte to burst in like a raging erumpant.

Granger notices where his gaze is directed. “Don’t worry. I sent Lotte on an errand. We have at least fifteen minutes before she comes looking for me.”

Draco looks back to Granger. He doesn’t know what to make of her.

This version of Granger is weirdly cheerful, like all her prickly defensiveness has been smoothed away. She still looks frightful, as though she suffers a phobia of hair potion, she’s still bizarre and obsessed with things like saving house-elves and everything else in the world. But he feels like she’s an entirely different person around him.

Maybe he’d just never known her without her claws out.

Granger shifts and looks slightly uncomfortable. “She’s very protective of me. I—I lose track of things sometimes.”

Draco just nods, not really sure how anyone who keeps records of their daily activities as exhaustively as Granger does could possibly be accused to losing track of things.

She glances around his office. “Why on earth did they put you in here? This room looks like a storage closet.”

Draco refrains from telling her that it literally is a storage closet and the absolute farthest room from her office. He measured one day, just to confirm it to himself.

“I’m not picky,” he lies. “It’s more comfortable than Azkaban.”

Her mouth purses. “That’s hardly a commendation. I’ll have you moved upstairs. I’m sure we still have a few extra offices. Somewhere with a window and plants! My friend, Neville, is a genius with plants, once we’ve moved you, I can get a few.”

She pokes around in his office for a few more minutes, interrogating him about how he likes his job and how his “co-workers” are treating him. Draco lies his way through her questioning until she stands up looking at him thoughtfully.

The next day, Charlotte appears looking enraged while he’s at the front desk filling out the visitor sheet for the hundredth time.

“Miss Granger wants your office moved to the fourth floor,” she says, looking as though someone has force-fed her a lemon.

Draco’s new office is two doors down from Granger’s. He has an entire wall of windows.

Granger pops in relentlessly, bringing him plants and a knitted tea-cosy, and “Lotte” looks more and more as though she wants to throttle him.

Granger takes to sneaking into his office whenever Lotte is out running errands. Which seems to occur suspiciously often.

Draco is certain that Granger’s aware that there is something odd going on. Her eyes are sly and calculating. She knows she’s being “handled” and that it involves endless attempts by all her employees to keep her as far away from Draco as possible, which makes her obstinately seek him out all the more.

At first Draco tries to ignore her, but she is his boss. He feels obligated to talk to her whenever she shows up.

Eventually they talk about all the letters he’s writing on her behalf. She looks down at her lap and spends several seconds straightening her skirt.

“You must think it’s odd that I don’t keep up with the donors personally,” she says looking up at him.

“Not at all,” he lies. “I’m sure it’s common for charities of this size. I’m happy my handwriting can be of some use.”

“I used to—“ she says, her voice somewhat halting. “But—“ her head jerks slightly, “my—my memory can be rather—that’s why I keep so many notes in my calendars, to keep track.”

Her expression is visibly strained, her beaming effusiveness gone.

“You’re a very busy person,” he says, eyeing her carefully.

She gives a stiff little nod and her eyebrows furrow. “I think—I used to remember things better. Now, if I don’t have someone to remind me about things”—her head jerks—“I forget details.”

“It’s probably just stress.”

“Maybe,” she sounds unconvinced.

She has all the traditional symptoms of someone who’s been extensively and powerfully obliviated. Absent-mindedness. She’s chronically forgetful, Draco realises over time.

Charlotte does invent excuses to get Granger away from Draco, but many reminders are for real events that Hermione forgets she’s headed to. On several occasions Draco finds her standing alone in the hallway, trying to remember which door is her office.

She’s still smart. Still blisteringly smart, but it’s like watching a bird with its pinions clipped. It’s clear she’s intended to be airborne, but someone has hobbled her.

It’s painful to witness, and it’s made worse by the fact that she’s clearly aware of it.

The memory loss somehow seems to centre around Draco, which he cannot understand. If someone malicious were to go and wipe something from her memory, her best friend’s school rival is not the person Draco would pick.

Obliviation is self-protective. The mind will not consider the idea of tampering or let her realise her memories are incomplete. Whenever a conversation strays anywhere near their shared past, her attention abruptly, almost violently pivots to a different topic.

However, despite how obstinately her memory keeps her from suspecting any past acquaintance with Draco, she can’t seem to stay away from him. As though she can instinctively tell he’s a missing piece.

One day she tells him about a potion idea she has, and it’s almost brilliant except she’s clearly forgotten a brewing idiosyncrasy of a key ingredient. She realises she’s missed something and just comes to a rambling halt in the middle of her explanation, a drawn, embarrassed expression sweeping across her face.

“Never mind. I think—I should...maybe it will work out if I write it down—“ she looks down and her cheeks are stained scarlet.

“Sting slime needs to simmer for six hours uncovered,” he says. “Unless you want the potion to result in weightlessness.”

She stares at him for a moment and then her face breaks into a beaming smile. “Yes! Six hours of simmering. That’s when you leave it under the full moon and gather fresh asphodel.” She sighs with relief and presses a hand against her head. “That’s what I was missing. I thought—thank you, Draco. I thought—I thought maybe I’d gotten it all wrong again.”

Her exuberance causes Draco’s entire body to grow warm and a weird bubbling sensation in his stomach.

He avoids her eyes. “I haven’t brewed much since leaving prison, but everything else sounded correct. If you want to send it on to a potions journal, I can look it over if you ever write it all out.”

Her eyes are shining and she grins at him. “That would be so helpful. My friends didn’t really care much for potions class. I’m so glad I found you.”

She skips slightly as she leaves his office, which causes his entire face to twitch repeatedly as he witnesses it.

Granger spends increasing amounts of time in his office and Draco doesn’t—well, he doesn’t exactly mind.

She’s infinitely better company than dementors, he tells himself.

She incredibly interested in him, in a way that he has no idea how to handle. She wants to know what he’ll do once his contract with the charity is over, and he finds himself trying to come up with ideas to share with her that don’t don’t merely involve him indolently frittering away his time on his family’s properties.

It isn’t as though he’s not allowed to be friends with her. The terms of his contract simply require him to give no indication of any prior acquaintance with her.

They can be friends, he tells himself when she invites herself into his office to have lunch with him.

Good friends even, he reasons, when she invites him to her flat for dinner one evening.

Or more than friends...

Hermione is perched on the arm of his desk chair.

Their faces are getting slowly closer and closer until he can feel her nervous breathing. She has the most beautiful eyes. Her hair falls forward as his nose brushes against hers.

His hand ventures up until his fingertips trace along her cheek.

She smiles. Her smiles always start in her eyes and the corner of her mouth curves faintly up as she dips her head lower.

Their lips are almost touching when the door bursts open and Charlotte storms across the room.

“Miss Granger is supposed to be at a board meeting,” she says as she rushes Hermione away.

Draco has barely gotten his heart rate back down to a steady pace when Charlotte returns in a state of seething rage. She grips him by the robes and physically drags him from the building.

“You’re contagiously ill. Bed-ridden. I don’t want to see you set foot in this building for a month,” she says, glowering at him. “Stay away from her, you Death Eater bastard.”

Draco goes home sulkily. His mother is in France visiting a cousin and he has nothing to do but lie about indolently drinking.

The attempted separation goes as well as Draco expects. Charlotte may be obsessively loyal to Hermione, but she clearly didn’t think through what sending Draco home sick would result in.

Hermione shows up at Malfoy Manor through the floo after three days. Draco has to bolt through the manor and dives into bed mere seconds before she comes trotting into his bedroom, carrying a basket packed with soup and potions.

She fusses over him for several minutes while he lies and pretends to be languishing. Finally she sits down, looking endearingly awkward and starts updating him on the various going ons at the charity.

As the minutes tick by, Draco can’t help but develop a sense of unease. There’s something off about her.

Her eyes begin darting around. She speaks faster and faster. Her hand rises up and touches her throat before twitching up to her temple. Her head jerks.

It finally dawns on Draco why she doesn’t remember him.

She breaks off mid-sentence, her eyes darting around wildly.

“Draco—have I—have I—been here before?”

Draco sits up instantly and reaches for her, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hermione. Hermione, look at me. Focus on me. You were telling me about the elves that came to you yesterday. Don’t look around. Focus on the elves. Let's get you back to the office. I’m feeling better. Let’s get out of here.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him.

She glances up and catches sight of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A whimpering gasp escapes her and she falls backwards off her chair.

Draco lunges but she stumbles to her feet and skitters away from him.

Her head starts jerking violently.

“We didn’t! We didn’t—“

Her voice breaks off with a sob.

Her face is turning white and her eyes lock on his. Her voice drops into a ragged, pleading whisper that pulls up memories that Draco has tried to bury in depths of his mind. “Please… Malfoy... Malfoy…please—”

Her head jerks. “We didn’t! We found it—”

She starts screaming at the top of her lungs.

It’s one endless scream that vibrates and tears the air apart. Draco doesn’t know what to do. Hermione keeps screaming until her whole body starts shaking violently.

Her voice abruptly cuts off and she drops to the ground.

Draco has to leap to catch her.

He’s shaking with panic and seething with rage as he carries her downstairs and through the floo to St Mungo’s.

He nearly decks Potter when he and Weasley come bolting down the hallway into the Janus Thickey Ward.

Draco wants to murder them both. “You couldn’t have bothered to explain that the reason she doesn’t remember me is because you obliviated her entire memory of Malfoy Manor?”

They just shove him out of the way as they rush into her room and leave him waiting outside.

Potter is the first one to re-emerge, more than an hour later. He stands staring at Draco for a minute. “She’ll—she should be fine,” he says in a dull voice. “The mind-healers will just have to reseal the memories.”

Draco glares at him. He’s still shaking. He doesn’t think he’s stopped shaking the entire time. “Why didn’t anyone just tell me why she didn’t remember me? And why the fuck did you obliviate her at all? Do know what you’ve done to her mind?”

Potter’s expression turns deadly. “Do I know what I’ve done to her? Why do you think it happened, Malfoy? Did it never cross your mind that there might be long term consequences for telling your insane aunt that Hermione was Muggle-Born.”

Potter’s face starts turning white with rage. “If you want to know whose fault this is—try looking in a fucking mirror.”

Draco stares at Potter in blank horror.

“Did you think people just get over torture? Since the war, St Mungo’s has discovered there’s an entire spectrum of brain damage that the cruciatus can cause, prior to reaching the point of insanity. Your aunt didn’t torture Hermione to insanity, but just—barely. We thought she was fine. The first couple months afterward—she seemed fine. She started having neurological issues a few months after the war. When she got them checked here at St Mungo’s, they found out the cruciatus had fried parts of her brain. That’s—apparently that’s how it works.”

Potter pulls off his glasses and wipes them. He refuses to look at Draco. “The only way they could contain it was by walling off the damage with magic, by using targeted obliviation. So—that’s what we did. It was just coincidental that she forgot entirely about you. I guess, for her, you were just as much a part of it as your Aunt.”

Draco stares at Potter and doesn’t know what emotions he’s experiencing. A lot. An entire maelstrom. More emotions than he knew he had. More than he ever wanted to feel.

“Why—Why did you let her hire me?” he finally forces himself to ask.

Potter’s face hardens. “That—was your mom’s meddling. Your release was conditional on your ability to secure a job. To the surprise of no one, nobody wanted to hire you.” He scoffs and looks down, his voice becomes mocking. “She’ll do anything to protect her son. She’d heard Hermione didn’t remember you, so she went to her with a whole sob story about her poor son who’d been forced to take the Dark Mark before he was an adult and now he was rotting in Azkaban because no one would give him a chance.”

Potter stares bitterly at him. “Hermione can never say no to a lost cause.” He gives an empty laugh. “We couldn’t explain to her why she shouldn’t without endangering her. We thought if you and your mother were both magically gagged, and Hermione was kept away from you, that it would be doable. But of course she noticed how lonely you were, and decided to take you under her wing.”

Potter exhales slowly and swallows. “Stay away from her, Malfoy.” His voice wobbles slightly. “The healers say you and your house are her main triggers. If you hang around her, she will inevitably relapse again. Every time they have to re-obliviate her it’s going to carve away a little more of her mind and memories. If there’s even a shred of anything decent about you, stay away from her.”

Draco manages to nod once before turning and walking unsteadily away.

When he’s home, he floo-calls his mother and yells at her until his throat gives out.

He packs a bag and gets a cheap room in Diagon Alley. It smells and there’s noise from the bar below, but it’s not screaming. There are no chandeliers.

He returns to “work” after a month and is informed that his office has been moved back into the basement. He doesn’t even blink at the news.

He resumes corresponding with Hermione’s growing donor list.

He doesn’t see her again.

Charlotte no longer bothers with passing on messages personally in order to communicate her utter loathing of him. She doesn’t ever leave Hermione’s side.

Draco only has to work at the charity for two more months. He puts up a calendar and X’s off each day.

He’s walking back from his lunch break two weeks later when he catches sight of Hermione’s bushy hair all the way down the hall. He ducks quickly into a nearby closet and waits until he’s certain she’s gone.

He nearly crashes into her as he steps back out.

Her eyes are bright and she’s slightly breathless from running. Charlotte is thundering down the hall after her.

Hermione beams up at him as she sticks out her hand. “Hi! Hi, I’m so so sorry. You’ve been here for months and I haven’t even said hello. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stares down at her.

There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she smiles up at him.

His throat’s so tight it’s as though he’s being strangled to death as he stands looking down at her.

A second year in Azkaban would have been infinitely less painful than this.

He sneers down at the proffered hand. “If you don’t mind, I just washed my hands. I don’t want filth like you sliming them up.”

#dramione #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #senlinyuwrites #asks #prompts #anthology collection

267 notes · View notes

literary-masochism · 4 years

Text

Midnight Sun: Chapter 2 - Bella is an Eldritch Abomination

So... I managed to finish the first chapter with only a day break in the middle of it instead of the year or so break I had to take with Twilight. I was hoping that, since this chapter starts off in a completely original place that it'll be... I don't know... less painful? Easier?

That was a lot to hope for, wasn't it?

Instead, it took a bit over two weeks to get through this chapter. It'd take me an hour to get through a page because of all the bad.

But hey! I got it done and now I can enjoy a nice slice of red velvet cake.

Chapter Two: Open Book

Edward, unable to control his 'monster', has fled to Alaska where he can mope while blending into the snowy scenery like the lump of ice he is. He's slumped down in a snow bank, describing it as 'velvet under his skin'. Not sure how because he's definitely heavy enough to crush snow into slush but I guess Meyerpires are Tolkien Elves as well.

Also, Meyerpires see stars as if they were pained by Van Gogh

The sky above me was clear, brilliant with stars, glowing blue in some places, yellow in others. The stars created majestic, swirling shapes against the black backdrop of the empty universe—an awesome sight. Exquisitely beautiful. Or rather, it should have been exquisite. Would have been, if I’d been able to really see it.

But, of course, Edward has to ruin it by doing this:

When I stared up at the jeweled sky, it was as if there were an obstruction between my eyes and its beauty. The obstruction was a face, just an unremarkable human face, but I couldn’t quite seem to banish it from my mind.

Another vampire by the name of Tanya (further proof that Meyer subconsciously hates someone (me) that she's never met – Tanya's my given name) is sneaking/not sneaking up on Edward's mope party and... there's a line I'm a bit confused by...

I think Edward's calling Tanya 'exquisite'. I guess Edward just learned that word from his word-a-day calendar because he's used it 3 times already and it's been a bit more than half a page.

She mentally calls out 'Cannonball' and does a flying jump into the snowbank and, in an astounding turn of events, she doesn't land lightly on top of the loose snow, leaving no trace of her dive but instead actually sends up a spray of snow over Edward because fuck that guy.

Sorry, not snow but 'feathery ice crystals'.

Edward sighs and accepts his fate of being mildly snowed upon as the face of the Void haunts his every thought. Or something.

Tanya, concerned that Edward was becoming one with winter and would soon be lost to them all, digs him out of the snow and apologizes, saying 'it was a joke'.

He assures her it was funny (it wasn't) then continues to cry into his metaphorical pint of ice cream.

They have a short conversation about how Tanya thinks she's annoying Edward by coming onto him nonstop and Edward admits to being uncomfortable by it. Tanya isn't used to rejection and mentally gives Edward a slideshow of all the sex she's had over the years.

Gross. And also sexual harassment.

Edward mopes about how much of a coward he is and how, no matter where he goes, he'll just be running away from Forks. Tanya tells him to grow a pair and just go back to Folks (not those exact words) and tries to steal a liplocky kiss which Edward dodges.

With her plan to deflower Edward thoroughly ruined, she pouts with a 'you're welcome, I guess' and leaves – hopefully to never bother us again.

She was on her feet in one nimble move, and then she was running away, ghosting across the snow so quickly that her feet had no time to sink in. She left no prints behind her.

Fucking Elves...

Anyway, Edward curls up in a fetal position to stare in the general direction of the stars that he can't see because the Void takes up all his vision.

He finally gets off his ass and Legolases his way back to the car and every Tolkien fan weeps.

I just want to point out that Tolkien elves leave no footprint because they are considered otherworldly and are three quarters literal spirits.

Meyer considers her vampires to be 'of science' (and I'm assuming Meyer means the kind of science that says the earth is flat and vaccines make you autistic). Now, I admit I'm not the best at math or science but...

Bull. Shit.

The implication here is that the vampires are going so fast over the snow that their feet don't have time to sink into the snow and leave a mark. But the thing is: it's not an issue of speed, it's an issue of weight. Running is basically pushing your weight forward and to do that your feet push down. The more you weigh, the deeper your feet sink in.

This is powdery snow. A too harsh sneeze is going to leave a mark.

This is not the first time Meyer has a problem with her overpowered vampires and them breaking the very basics of physics.

No, Meyer, Edward can't run into the bathroom, fill up a glass with water, and run back to Bella's room in a blink of an eye. Yes, Edward can be that fast... the sink isn't.

Sure, Edward can hear any other human on the road and adjust his driving that way... can he hear the deer that might be crossing in front? And even if his reflexes are the fastest in the west... a car has momentum and inertia that has nothing to do with vampire speed/reflexes/whatever other excuse.

If I was doing segments or counters or something, this would be the first in “Meyer doesn't understand basic science'.

Please, let me know if I'm wrong about this. I'd love a science lesson on things like this...

With that out of the way, I checked the leaked PDF for this part and... some of the trash was taken out. That's something at least.

Anyway, back in Forks...

The Cullens walk into the school cafeteria (calling it 'run-down' which is the only time I can recall it being called such) like a bomb is about to explode at any moment. Alice is so focused on watching the future that Jasper has to lead her around by the arm. Emmett is walking around like a bodyguard and Rose is already done with this bullshit.

Way to not draw attention to yourselves.

We also get told that they actually had a very fun morning, having a snowball fight (aka pelting Edward with snow until that got boring) and how it's such a drastic change from how tense everything is now.

Meyer, you know what would have really set off that difference? IF YOU ACTUALLY WROTE THAT INSTEAD OF TELLING US IT HAPPENED.

I can even tell you how to do you could have done that while adding to the tension. You could have had Edward waiting by the car since five in the morning after having Esme and Carlisle give him a pep talk all night and hearing Emmett and Jasper plotting ways to break the tension. You can have him getting annoyed by having to avoid the snowballs before finally getting into the car to put a stop to it. You can have Esme thinking positive thoughts at him and giving him a thumbs-up while they drive away.

You could have had character, relationship, and world building but... no. No, instead we get straight to the whining, no more aware of just what is at stake than we were before.

This writing fucking sucks.

Edward listens to all the thoughts around him. He's absolutely certain Bella told everyone how he traumatized her with his mean looks so surely everyone would be gossiping about them!

Have you see how mean he looked at Bella a week ago?! Surely they're not human if one of them can give a random girl such a mean look!

You see how stupid that is, Meyer?

A normal girl would have asked around, compared her experience to others’, looked for common ground that would explain my behavior so she didn’t feel singled out. Humans were constantly desperate to feel normal, to fit in. To blend in with everyone else around them, like a featureless flock of sheep. The need was particularly strong during the insecure adolescent years. This girl would be no exception to that rule.

bEcAuSe BeLlA iSn'T lIkE oThEr GiRlS.

Also, fuck you.

Edward is amazed by how shy Bella must be to not have told anyone that he gave her a nasty look! He wonders if she told her father but decides she must be closer to her mother but he'll have to read Charlie's thoughts just to be sure.

Edward, of course, doesn't know Bella holds her father in contempt and seems to utterly loath him until the plot requires otherwise.

As he's listening to the entire student body, he informs us that, a week ago when he went to Carlisle to get his car, they had a talk about how vampire powers always got stronger and never went away which was what Edward was worried about.

WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE TO SEE THAT TOO!

They're all amazed that Bella didn't spill the beans about how mean they can look at people. As Bella's coming in, they all try to act normal.

So Emmett throws a snowball he had hidden in his ice-cold hand and threw it at Alice who, seeing it coming, flicked it away so that it flew across the very large room and hit a brick wall... cracking said wall.

You maybe be wondering why the snowball didn't break as soon as it hit her fingers... Shut up, that's how!

“Very human, Emmett,” Rosalie said scathingly. “Why don’t you punch through the wall while you’re at it?”

“It would look more impressive if you did it, gorgeous.”

Okay, I can forgive it for this line.

Edward checks to see if their 'acting' worked. Bella is standing in the lunchline – not moving at all to the point where people have to check to make sure she didn't have a stroke or something. Bella claims she feels sick and Edward gets a rage boner over Mike getting worried for her.

Also: Translucent skin.

Edward realizes he was showing human emotion by worrying about Bella so much that he calls himself an idiot for acting like the 'dimwitted' Mike Newton and vows to stop worrying about stupid things aka Bella.

We know how that goes.

And, in case you forgot/didn't know that Emmett killed a little old lady...

“Ease up, Edward,” Emmett said. “Honestly. So you kill one human. That’s hardly the end of the world.”

“You would know,” I murmured.

Emmett laughed. “You’ve got to learn to get over things. Like I do. Eternity is a long time to wallow in guilt.”

Also, does Emmett not know that Edward went on a murder spree? Emmett, we know, killed two people, maybe a few more... Edward killed, at least, a several dozen.

Edward don't feel guilty about shit.

To help make them look normal, Alice throws ice in Emmett's face so he shakes his head, releasing a 'deluge' of melted snow everywhere. Apparently, Emmett's head can hold a lake's worth of water or Meyer doesn't understand what 'deluge' actually means.

Also, the Cullens are notorious for being closed off, strange, and weird. From the first chapter, they sit in silence, not talking to each other, not even looking at each other. Wouldn't this sudden play fight be so out of character for them that it would draw the entire of... everyone in the room? This would be like if your stern, religious grandmother decided to throw a rave.

Somehow, no one else seems to notice the extremely out of characterness of the Cullens but Edward does catch Bella looking at them again. Edward tries to listen to her thoughts because maybe this time it'll work.

Guess what? She's still a void.

What follows is Meyer trying really hard to make Jessica unlikable to retroactively make Bella's assholery towards her in the previous books seem justified.

Edward catches on to Bella trying to ignore him. When lunch is over, the Cullen's stay at their table, waiting on him to decide what he's going to do and...

Would I go to class, sit beside the girl, where I could smell the absurdly potent scent of her blood and feel the warmth of her pulse in the air on my skin?

'feel the warmth of her pulse in the air on my skin'

I know what Meyer is trying to say but... there are a LOT better ways of saying it.

The whole Cullen family discussed what Edward's choices were and the consequences would mean... also pointing out that they are all, more or less, monsters who don't give a flying fuck about humans in any meaningful way. If ants could give a fuck, the Cullens would give less of a fuck than an ant's fuck. That's how little fucks they give in regards to humans.

Carlisle disapproves but isn't going to stop Edward if decides to get to chomping.

Jasper disapprove too but more in a 'Why does Edward get to kill people but not me?' kind of way.

Rosalie wonders how Edward fucking up is going to ruin her day.

Alice is useless (as always)

Esme thinks Edward 'can do no wrong' so I guess she'll probably be very proud and impressed by how good of a murder he is. I mean, he did murder her abusive ex-husband...

And Emmett was just remembering all the murdering he did and how fun that was and decided to poke the bear that is Jasper into remembering how tasty humans are.

So, yeah, fuck all these guys.

I don't think I touched on this previously but I know pointing out the monstrous things the Cullens do seems counter-productive and hypocritical. Vampires are monsters and I'm angry they act like monsters? No. I'm angry because they claim they're not monsters and then wave off whatever evil they do as inconsequential because of their lifestyle.

A vampire wants to be good? Great, I want to see that conflict in their nature. I want to see them fight against their nature and see the guilt from their past. I want to see the pain and struggle so that we they fail or succeed it has a real, emotional payoff. I love those stories.

The Cullens... don't have that. There's lip service towards it but it's only skin-deep. None of them really seem to care about human lives (Bella being the exception) and it shows. They may act nice enough (and barely even that) but that doesn't make them good.

Their search for redemption/a normal life/whatever else they claim to want is like a smug billionaire talking about how they had to settle for the solid gold napkin rings because a diamond encrusted one clashed too much with their aesthetic but that's the price one has to pay I guess. Life truly is suffering.

Their sincerity rings false and it shows.

Back to this shit show and, in a genuinely surprising turn of events, Jasper 'Murder-boner' Hale tells Edward to take it slow, maybe even go home. Yes, Jasper is a bit smug that Perfect Edward was struggling but it's still better advice than any of these other murderers have suggested.

But, of course, Edward's pride is more important than these insignificant humans so he stays.

Edward decides to go, of course he does, but he also remembers how he promised himself that he wouldn't get 'unduly interested' in Bella because she's the void. He seems to have forgotten that, in the same breath, he vowed to figure out what she was thinking no matter what.

(But we already know everyone in this book has a selective memory when it comes to moving the plot along.)

He wonders if staring into the void will somehow help him figure out what she's thinking.

He hurries his butt to class, making sure we know what each individual 'sibling' feels about this. He gets to class before it starts and sees Bella doodling on her folder. He thinks that this will be a peek into Bella's thoughts...

… and he's disappointed that it's just circles within circles (though now I wonder if a picture of the drawings from The Ring might not have been better). He does the thing I hate where Meyer sucker punches us with a hint concerning Bella's actions from the first book: he concludes that she must to be thinking of something other than what she's actually doodling.

As he sits down, he notices her 'deer in headlights, if I don't move the car can't see me' approach to being near him and, in a moment of true human emotion, he promises himself he'll try and leave a better impression this time so she's not so scare of him.

Just kidding, he's going to leave a good impression to gaslight the fuck out of her into thinking she just imagined him giving her a mean look.

He gives her his most polite smile, careful not to show his teeth. I don't know why because Meyerpires don't have fangs.

Bella stares at him in wide-eyed confusion which is, apparently, the exact expression he's been daydreaming about for the last week.

...okay? Weirdo.

He stares into her eyes, telling us all the shades of brown they are (milk chocolate but clearer like tea because I guess Meyer didn't realize tea can be pretty dark) and about the flecks of color in them that isn't brown (basically bright green and yellow only described with more purple prose) and never realizing that means her eyes are hazel which I find hilarious after the big deal they made about losing Bella's dark brown eyes due to the food meter vampire eyes they have.

To Edweirdo's surprise, he finds he can't hate her anymore.

I approve because at least we get to see this tiny bit of actual falling in love here that was, as far as I'm concerned, completely and utterly absent in the rest of the series. Seriously, it was getting awkward with them getting married and her pushing out a kid and I'm still waiting for any hint that they're actually in love.

It's a nice change of pace.

Edward stares her into submission and claims he didn't have a chance to introduce himself and, being the gentleman he is, he reminds her of her own name, in case she forgot.

Bella, having forgotten that new students usually get introduced to the class and that, after a week of being at school, most people would know her preferred calling... asks how the person sitting next to her knows her nickname.

I must have truly terrified her, and this made me feel guilty. I laughed gently—it was a sound that I knew made humans more at ease.

“Oh, I think everyone knows your name.” Surely, she must have realized that she’d become the center of attention in this monotonous place. “The whole town’s been waiting for you to arrive.”

The thing is: she does know she's the center of attention because she bitched about it nonstop in the first book! Which makes the 'Isabella/Bella' thing even more stupid.

She frowned as if this information was unpleasant. I supposed, being shy as she appeared to be, attention would seem like a bad thing to her. Most humans felt the opposite. Though they didn’t want to stand out from the herd, at the same time they craved a spotlight for their individual uniformity.

Fuck off! Just fuck off!

I had to take a break after that stupid just so I could deal with the stupidity of the rest of the page.

I know it's a stupid thing to get hung up on but Meyer plays Edward knowing Bella's name as the first hint that he can read minds and... it's really not a good example. Especially with how Edward reacts to it:

I’d just realized what her questions meant: I had slipped up—made an error. If I hadn’t been eavesdropping on all the others that first day, then I would have addressed her initially by her full name. She’d noticed the difference.

I felt a pang of unease. It was very quick of her to pick up on my slip. Quite astute, especially for someone who was supposed to be terrified by my proximity.

Yes, you heard it all the time that first day and probably the first day back since that's her preferred name. Everyone calls her that, especially by now. It's not a hard thing to pick up on. Edward acts as though she's going to call him out on his vampirism any moment now. It's not only stupid but it's a bad plot device to try and convince us how astute Bella is when, really, it's just Edward being paranoid because despite being a vampire around humans since 1920, he has no idea how to act around them and has never made the effort.

To make matters worse, his coping mechanism around Bella is to not breath... and he needs to do that now if he wants to keep talking to her. Because not talking to her would be 'incomprehensible rude'. Because that's what matters here: politeness.

Edward needs a cheekily little breath and...

Ahh!

It was intensely painful, like swallowing burning coals.

Meyer... when people go 'Ahh!' after taking a breath, or having a drink, or anything refreshing really, it's because they're expressing relief... not because they're in sudden pain.

We get the same awkward (in a good way because teenagers are supposed to be awkward) 'Ladies first' exchange concerning the microscope.

Bella just stares at him blankly...

… and having seen the darkness that surrounds and inhabits every living thing in the universe, he says he can start if she likes and to please not consume his consciousness to feed her insatiable appetite.

I added the last part but I feel it was implied.

She insists she goes first and, fearing for his soul/consciousness/whatever, he agrees. She says it's prophase. He asks to check it and:

Instinctively—stupidly, as if I were one of her kind—

Gotta make sure we know he thinks humans are stupid. You know, in case you forgot.

Their hands briefly touch and they're zapped with the Static Shock of Twu Wuv though Meyer plays it off as Bella's skin feeling so hot against Edward's cold, disgusting, yucky, cootie-ridden hand. He wonders what she must think after touching his horrible, icy skin and concludes she must be repulsed by him.

Or, you know, think you were having a snowball fight with your siblings during lunch. Or that you have poor circulation. Or that it's fucking Forks and everything is cold.

Also, Meyerpires's relation to temperature doesn't make sense unless they are a literal heatsink. Their temperature don't settle into that of the area around them, like other dead things/rock, but just absorbs heat nonstop. But that's a complaint we'll see again later.

Terrified that if he glanced into the void once again his mind would become consumed with madness, he does the next slide in their assignment. She asks to check his answer since turnabout is fairplay. Except Edward has, apparently, never heard of this and is shocked that this lowly hooman/eldritch being might think he's wrong!

But he sees the hopeful look on her skinless face and can't help but smile because Mood Whiplash is something else Meyer doesn't get. Bella is disappointed to find Edward is right but decides to spare his sanity in order to fuck with mine:

I dropped the next slide into her palm, keeping my skin far from hers this time. Sitting beside her was like sitting next to a heat lamp. I could feel myself warming slightly to the higher temperature.

THAT IS NOT HOW... HE CAN'T JUST GET HEAT FROM... AMBIENT TEMPERATURE...

They finish the assignment first because of fucking course they did and then we get this:

Wish he’d stayed wherever he went, Mike thought, eyeing me sulfurously.

Mike thought, eyeing me sulfurously.

eyeing me sulfurously.

sulfurously.

THAT IS NOT A PROPER WORD. EVEN IF IT WAS, THAT MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE.

WAS MIKE EYEING YOU SO HARD YELLOWISH VAPOR THAT SMELLS OF ROTTING EGGS WAS COMING OUT? DID HIS EYES TURN YELLOW INSTEAD OF YOURS?!

BECAUSE THAT IS EVERY MEANING FOR SULFUROUS, MEYER JUST ADDED 'LY' TO THE END BECAUSE SHE HATES ME AND EVERYONE ELSE.

Okay, I'm calm now.

Edward is surprised about how much Mike seems to hate him. Way to go on that whole 'Keep track of everyone's thoughts in case the townsfolk have a sudden interest in pitchforks and torches' thing.

He's also surprised to find the feeling is mutual. I'm surprised because Edward already hates everyone and everything so why is this new information?

Edward admits he understands Mike's attraction, that Bella is actually kinda pretty for a human...

Fuck you.

...but in an 'unusual' way.

Better than being beautiful, her face was… unexpected. Not quite symmetrical—her narrow chin out of balance with her wide cheekbones

Aka: a heart shaped face which is actually a very common face shape and classically attractive.

extreme in the coloring—the contrast of her light skin and dark hair

Also a very feature that we see over and over again in conventionally attractive actors/models/what have you.

and then there were the eyes, too big for her face, brimming over with silent secrets.…

Eyes that were suddenly boring into mine.

Bella decides to spare his consciousness but only so she could send it out of his body, trapping him in the nothingness between atoms to witness the everlasting and all encompassing void and know nothing else for all eternity.

Nah, she was just wondering why his eyes are all sulfurously yellow and weird looking.

Edward:

We get a long paragraph of Edward explaining that yes, his eyes are different because he ate all the Bambis and Bambis's Moms in the forest though he used more words than that.

He then calls himself an idiot for not realizing why Bella was asking about contacts.

He tells us that in the two years of being in that school that no one every looked at them close enough to notice their eye colors – despite them being extremely beautiful and attractive – because once they get a glimpse of their beauty, they're disgusted by them and have to look away because humans are just so stupid, you know?

Why did it have to be this girl who would see too much?

In reality, she ain't seen shit. Though, with Meyer goggles firmly in place...

The teacher comes to investigate why these two monsters aren't working, being the creep who, according to Meyer, fantasized about Bella, his underaged student, when she first moved to Forks, decides wemins can't science and assumes Edward did all the work.

Upon learning that Bella answered most of them, the teacher reevaluates his life and how, maybe, the female population aren't as dumb as he thought and thus deserve to be more than masturbation fodder for him.

Or Bella can just admit she already did this assignment in her much better, city-based school she went to before, thus helping to undermine her contribution as well as her intelligence.

Neither make Meyer look particularly good because, even if she didn't write the teacher lusting after his students into the text, she did reveal it elsewhere and thus can be argued to be canon.

Also: Banner calls Bella 'Isabella' but he doesn't have the excuse of fleeing the country for a week. Does he never do roll call? Has she never corrected him in that week? Has he completely missed her signing her work with 'Bella'?

Truly, the most mysterious thing that has happened so far.

Anyway, Banner is shocked that Bella's already did the assignment because he pulled it from a senior class...

So... did he not actually tell them what to look for? No chapter to read, no diagrams drawn/projected on the board? He just... pulled out some slides, told them words they might not have even covered, then set them to it?

What a fucking asshole.

Also, googling it I can find lessons on mitosis going back to Middle School.

At this rate the art teacher will be shocked that Bella can draw a triangle.

Also:

She was advanced, then, intelligent for a human. This did not surprise me.

Fuck you.

Banner walks off, muttering to himself about kids these days, not instinctively knowing science because he sure as fuck isn't going to teach it to them.

Edward is ashamed of his 'slips' in the past thirty minutes and is still completely sure that Bella is not only terrified of him but suspects something. He's determined to leave a good impression on her because... gaslighting.

Edward tries some small talk he heard the hoomans around them doing (because after 17 years of BEING human and several decades of pretending to be human, he still has no idea how to human).

He brings up the snow melting and how that sucks, huh?

She stares into his mind and rips every memory, thought, hope, and dream he's ever had and sends the shreds into the void where they belong.

Her reaction of 'Not really' sends him for a loop. Thankfully, he's a vampire which makes him so much smarter than everyone else in existence and he puts together that she's probably from a much warmer place (because her albino skin still seems somehow tanned to him) and thus must hate all this cold weather!

He announces his revelation: “You don't like the cold.”

She agrees and tacks on that she doesn't like the wet either.

Edward's reaction is fucking hilarious:

“Forks must be a difficult place for you to live.” Perhaps you should not have come here, I wanted to add. Perhaps you should go back where you belong.

That was nice, wasn't it? But now we get this:

I wasn’t sure I wanted that, though. I would always remember the scent of her blood—was there any guarantee that I wouldn’t eventually follow her? Besides, if she left, her mind would forever remain a mystery, a constant, nagging puzzle.

But, remember, he's not going to obsess over her just because he can't read her mind.

What I think Meyer is trying to do is create tension via internal conflict but this... isn't how you do that. Not well anyway. All she's done is have Edward mentally contradict himself over and over again. To do this properly, I feel, he should mentally say he's not going to do thing but actually, physically, catching himself doing it.

He can claim he doesn't want to know about Bella's thoughts then try and sneak a peek at her notebook to see what she's written just in case it's not notes.

That's a little bit better than this flip-flopping we got going on now. Not much, but better.

Back to this slop:

Bella shows Edward how Not Like Other Girls she is because she never answers how Edward expects! Because, as we've seen, Edward is just a master of human behavior.

He 'demands' to know why Bella moved here if she hates Forks so much but realizes he probably sounded very rude and impolite.

Fuck off Meyer. I know what you're trying to do but all the 'Oh, that was so rude!' doesn't make this asshole a gentleman.

Bella gives him the 'It's complicated' not answer and Edward 'implodes out of curiosity'. Surely it'd be implodes with curiosity? Or was Meyer trying to be clever and switch around implode/explode without thinking about the meaning?

WORDS MEAN THINGS

But Edward's 'curiosity' overpowers his thirst for a moment and all I can think of is:

Edward assures her he can keep up, mentally rejoicing that she's answering his questions and that, despite it being 'rude', if he keeps asking she just may keep answering!

Edward has just figured out how conversation works. It only took him a century to do it.

She doesn't answer him immediately, instead staring down at her hands. He wants to see into her void-eyes, longing to be reduced to nothingness, to feel freedom from this existence and the prison that is sanity, but he can't risk reaching out to touch her.

She suddenly looks up to meet his eyes. Why suddenly? I think she just remembered she existed and someone asked her a question.

She tells him, sorrowfully, that her mother got remarried.

“That doesn’t sound so complex,” I said, my voice gentle without my working to make it that way. Her dejection left me oddly helpless, wishing there was something I could do to make her feel better. A strange impulse.

Does anyone even use dejected anymore? Or at least not at the intensity that it used to be? Because when I hear dejected, I just think of the 'aw man, I didn't get the lead role in the school play!' kind of sad.

Also, kinda pointless because we know the reason for Bella's 'dejection', is because she just really hates the rain and mocking her father's lack of a love life or relationship with his only child gets old quick.

He asks if Bella doesn't like her new stepdad but Bella corrects him because she actually does like him. Which completely ruins whatever fantasy Edward was concocting in his head that we don't get to read in this first person narrative, it probably was going along the lines of this little tidbit of information:

Originally, Phil the Stepdad was the principal of her high school and there may or may not have been sexual abuse between him and Bella... thankfully, Meyer's editor told her to cut that shit out. I get the feeling Meyer read/heard of Lolita and thought it was a romance.

They talk about Phil some more, Bella smiling every time he's mentioned which is really making me uncomfortable considering the aforementioned information.

Edward is desperately trying to figure out who Phil is by mentally going over not only the professional ballplayer's rosters but the minor leagues as well. Because, as we know, Edward is a huge baseball fan. I mean, all the times he went on and on about his love of baseball in Twilight. That little story about he's the one who was enough of a nerd to get the family baseball jerseys? So endearing.

Too bad it never happened.

Characterization? In Twilight?

He makes the assumption, which he admits is an assumption, that Bella was sent off so her mother could go travel. Bella objects, saying she sent herself. Edward, master human impersonator, doesn't understand why she's upset by his assumption that she's treated as a piece of property to be sent off at the first sign of inconvenience. That's how women are still treated, right?

“No, she did not send me here,” she said, and her voice had a new, hard edge to it. My assumption had upset her, though I couldn’t quite see how. “I sent myself.” I could not guess at her meaning, or the source behind her pique. I was entirely lost.

Oh, fuck no...

There was just no making sense of the girl. She wasn’t like other humans. Maybe the silence of her thoughts and the perfume of her scent were not the only unusual things about her.

It's going to get worse from here. I've been dreading this part.

There's still so many pages in this chapter i'm gonna die

Edward admits he doesn't get it because he's a dumbass so Bella stares deep into his eyes and decides his consciousness isn't worth the dignity of being torn asunder and tells it to him like he's a damn child.

“She stayed with me at first, but she missed him,” Bella explained slowly, her tone growing more forlorn with each word. “It made her unhappy… so I decided it was time to spend some quality time with Charlie.”

“And he has like, pictures of me as a child on the fireplace mantel. Like, how fucking sad is that?”

Edward tells us he keeps saying his theories out loud... like we haven't noticed. Because Meyer has to pad this bitch out somehow and we already know this scene because she's written the same book three times.

Okay, everybody! Who's ready to get pissed off?!

“But now you’re unhappy,” I murmured. I kept speaking my hypotheses aloud, hoping to learn from her refutations. This one, however, did not seem as far off the mark. “And?” she said, as if this was not even an aspect to be considered. I continued to stare into her eyes, feeling that I’d finally gotten my first real glimpse into her soul. I saw in that one word where she ranked herself among her own priorities. Unlike most humans, her own needs were far down the list. She was selfless.

Bella is to selfless as wet is to fire.

I could go on and on with examples but I'm assuming you guys have read Twilight or at least snarks of it. You know everything I could say and more.

Let's just... let's just move on...

Edward says that doesn't sound fair and Bella informs him life isn't fair... Though we know Bella just doesn't like Forks and would throw tantrum after tantrum, ruining the few visits she had with her father growing up until he had to take time off work and spend money he probably didn't have to rent them a place in California for their visits. But sure, she's selfless.

To be honest, I'm not even sure why she said she'd come to Forks. She doesn't like her father so it definitely wasn't to spend time with him. Her mother's a teacher so maybe she didn't want Bella missing school by coming with them even though home school is a thing.

Let's face it, Meyer just needed an excuse to get Bella to Forks.

I was not ready to let this conversation end. The little v between her eyes, a remnant of her sorrow, bothered me. “You put on a good show.” I spoke slowly, still considering this next hypothesis. “But I’d be willing to bet that you’re suffering more than you let anyone see.” She made a face, her eyes narrowing and her mouth twisting into a lopsided frown, and she looked back toward the front of the class. She didn’t like it when I guessed right. She wasn’t the average martyr—she didn’t want an audience for her pain.

What fucking pain? Being slightly damp? Did Charlie forget to get her a pony to go along with the free truck?

Also: what the fuck is a lopsided frown?

Also Also: Fuck off

Edward gloats that he's right and Bella asks why he cares. He completely loses the ability of internal monologue and whispers dramatically: “That's a very good question...”

He wonders, once again, why Bella's thoughts matter so much to him when every other human's thoughts are so completely and utterly insignificant because Humans suck the biggest balls ever.

Also:

I was not used to being the less intuitive of any pairing. I relied on my extra hearing too much—I clearly was not as perceptive as I gave myself credit for.

He thinks he's intuitive... because he can hear thoughts. That's the equivalent of someone just outright telling him what they're thinking. That's not what intuitive means, Meyer!

WORDS FUCKING MEAN THINGS

Is it wrong of me to hope she has Spooky Mormon Hell Dreams?

One musical break later:

Edward is inexplicably amused by the whole situation because Bella's frustrated that he didn't answer her one question that... people usually don't answer... at least not with a real answer. He's finds it funny that she's annoyed when he could easily kill her if he loses focus for even a second and she doesn't even realize it.

He's probably thinking of that Whoopi Goldberg gif and cackling to himself.

Hilarious.

To be even more of a dick, Edward asks if he's annoying her. She confesses that she's annoyed at herself for being so easy to read which amazes him. You get it? Because he can't literally read her thoughts! Because that is literally the only way someone can understand another person. Body language, inflection, and a general understanding of actual human behavior is all fake news.

Edward takes a breather to remind us he isn't alive so using the word 'life' is misleading only he does it in a way that sounds like a whiny emo teen who thinks dressing all in black makes them deep.

Also, this conversation makes no sense.

“Not exactly,” she told me. “I’m more annoyed at myself. My face is so easy to read—my mother always calls me her open book.”

“On the contrary,” I disagreed, feeling strangely… wary, as if there were some hidden danger here that I was failing to see. Beyond the very obvious danger, something more… I was suddenly on edge, the premonition making me anxious. “I find you very difficult to read.”

“You must be a good reader, then,” she guessed, making her own assumption, which was, again, right on target. “Usually,” I agreed.

I'm sorry, what?

“I'm so easy to read!” “I can't read you.” “You must be a good reader then!”

“I'm an okay painter.” “I can't paint at all.” “Your paints must be amazing then!”

“I can sing the alphabet!” “I'm illiterate.” “You must be an amazing writer then!”

“I'm American.” “I'm from London.” “You must be the Queen of England then!”

Okay, I'm going to stop because that is a rabbit hole if I ever saw one.

But don't worry! The stupid isn't over yet!

Her body was closer to me than before, having shifted unconsciously in the course of our conversation. All the little markers and signs that were sufficient to scare off the rest of humanity did not seem to be working on her. Why did she not cringe away from me in terror? Surely she had seen enough of my darker side to realize the danger.

Also, since I had to use a HP gif: Fuck JK Rowling and the transphobic wagon she rode in on.

Edward goes on for almost an entire page about how he shouldn't get obsessed with Bella while obsessing over Bella. He knows he should stay away from her but he wants to know everything about her but also he wants to eat her but no, he can't! But he finds her so fascinating but he can't allow himself to find her fascinating because then he'll surely kill her!

We get it, Edward, you find her fascinating (because of the void) but being close is dangerous for her. You don't have to use a whole page to repeat yourself over and over again.

Much like the first meeting between them, he runs from the room first chance he gets.

I'm hoping that these last few pages will be easier now that Meyer doesn't have to force the narrative to fit with the dumpster fire that was Twilight. I don't think I can take much more of the 'Bella is amazing!' forced-feeding that was going on.

He takes a deep breath and:

Again, I gasped at the clean, wet air outside as though it was a healing attar.

Someone bitchslap the thesaurus out of her hands.

Emmett is waiting for Edward outside their next class. He tells him that Alice ditched the last half of her class, heading toward the science department. Edward hadn't realized how close he was to killing Bella... evidently.

Emmett reassures him that it turned out fine and he succeeded in not killing anyone...

Or maybe you kill her. He shrugged. You wouldn’t be the first one to mess up. No one would judge you too harshly. Sometimes a person just smells too good. I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long.

Enjoy this helping of victim blaming. It's not Emmett's fault he murdered that grandmother! She shouldn't have smelled so good!

Edward claims he's disgusted by Emmett's acceptance of Bella's 'inevitable' death and, because Emmett is also an asshole, vividly starts remembering the time he killed that one lady.

Also:

Emmett remembered the smell of apples hanging heavy in the air—the harvest was over and the rejected fruits were scattered on the ground, the bruises in their skin leaking their fragrance out in thick clouds.

In Emmett's defense:

I know. I didn’t last half a second. I didn’t even think about resisting.

Oh, wait, that's not a defense.

But remember guys! The Cullens are just so good and love humans and don't want to participate in that life of violence and blah blah blah...

The memory causes Edward to run out of Spanish... where the teacher seems to only speak Spanish which... I don't see how that helps someone else to learn Spanish but then again, Forks High School seems to have a 'throw them in the lake and let them figure out how to swim' approach to learning.

Emmett follows after and apologizes for bringing up the memory but also starts to say Edward should just get his murder on because Bella should know better than to smell so good. She's totally asking for it, amirite?

He sends Emmett away and goes to mope in his car. Again. At least he's more productive this time! He gets a head start on stalking Bella, reading the thoughts of everyone in the school to keep tabs on her.

He listens into Mike's thoughts but since Mike is reassuring himself that Bella doesn't seem to like Edward, Edward pouts and turns on some My Chemical Romance or something until school lets out.

Apparently some outside force compels him to get out of his car and lean against it in that particularly douchey way while waiting for Bella to come out of the school. She randomly appears with no lead up, walking to her truck with a frown on her face.

He watches her get in the truck and hold her hands out toward the heating vents and concludes she must not like the cold. You see, the only reason someone who just told you they don't like the cold would use the heater to warm up after being in the cold is because they don't like being cold!

Bella throws the truck in reverse, almost killing a girl by almost ramming into her car. Bella, fully aware of what she almost did, carefully checks her blind spots twice before cautiously leaving.

Edward laughs because Bella thinks she's dangerous after most causing a serious traffic accident. Oh, how adorable.

In case you forgot: Edward is an asshole.

And that's the end of the chapter!

And I was right, the last few pages was much easier to get through. I think, going forward, I'm going to have to cut some of these chapters into sections, especially the Twilight Recap heavy ones. It's just too hard for me to get through those quickly.

Anyway, I'm going to take a much needed break and continue my Friday the 13th marathon.

Save me, Tommy Jarvis, you're my only ho.

((EDIT: All future book reviews/snarks will be posted to my tumblr.))

#Book Snark #Midnight Sun #Twilight

4 notes · View notes

xantchaslegacy · 4 years

Text

Forgiven, Ch 3

This has been on Ao3 for a while but I never got past posting Ch 2 here ~

Link to Ch 1 and Ch 2 :)

Lesser eldrazi had many qualities that made them deadly predators, most of which made them relatively pathetic prey. The power to desiccate the land was a great liability when it gave your pursuers a trail to follow, especially when moving in packs. The average drone’s physiology, so adept at ambushing and bringing death, made them slow and clumsy when on the retreat.

The swarm had had a full day’s head start before Nissa, Sorin, and Nahiri set out on their trail. A day’s worth of travel that the planeswalkers could cover in considerably less time.

Unfortunately, what the Eldrazi lacked in natural advantage, inland Tazeem made up for by being an impenetrable maze of massive hedrons, cavernous ground, and rolling, titan forests. The eldrazi hadn’t even followed the Umara river, where the planeswalkers might at least have relied on reports from the merfolk settlements to indicate where the swarm was headed.

Thankfully, Nissa still felt the itch. One massive, festering, migrating rash for the mass that had abandoned the Halimar Basin, and minute irritations that helped her, Sorin, and Nahiri take care of any stragglers as they made their way north, through the reclaimed stretch of Oran-Rief.

Nahiri was dispatching two such stragglers now, far below in one of the forest’s many cavernous shafts. Nissa knelt by the mouth of the tunnel, a sheer drop of ridged stone in the middle of a large grass clearing. Sorin stood a few paces further off, one hand tapping irritably and irritatingly at his pommel. A pair of merfolk kitesailors watched from a slight distance.

“Wouldn’t that go faster with all three of you folk down there?” The smaller of the two merfolk called.

“Not enough space,” Nissa responded, gaze fixed on the tunnel. For the dozenth time she pressed her hand to the damp grass around the mouth of the cave shaft, feeling for signs of life. The underground networks were less-used nowadays ever since the threat of the Roil had subsided, but there was always a chance that a few elves might have gotten caught between the cave walls, the eldrazi, and an angry kor lithomancer.

“She’ll be careful,” Sorin said, unsolicited. “Nahiri has a skill of precision with her stonework like no other.”

“Thank you for the input,” Nissa muttered back. No unexpected pulses of life moved in the tunnels, which was the far greater reassurance at the moment.

“What sorta coat is that, mister?” The small merfolk asked.

“Demon hide,” Sorin replied, voice flat.

“Demon hide, he said, Olmer. What do you make of that?”

“Seems unlikely,” The tall merfolk replied. “But the world’s full of unlikely things, I suppose.”

Sorin rolled his eyes. “I could go help her. She shouldn’t be having this much trouble, if it really is just two.”

“The caves are vast,” Nissa said. “I’m not surprised it’s taking her a while to find them.” She glanced up at Sorin. “You have a lot of faith in her.”

Sorin crossed his arms. “She’s ruthless and she knows what she’s doing. That’s just the truth.”

“Then she’ll be fine. You’d just get in her way down there.”

Sorin sniffed, and ignored another question from the merfolk. They passed a minute in silence before he spoke again.

“We fought as a team on Zendikar before, you know. On many different worlds, for that matter. We can work together, and rather effectively, I might add.”

“I look forward to you showing me.”

That bought another two minutes of the vampire’s sullen silence. Nissa remained crouched by the tunnel shaft, trying to focus on the trailing winds drifting through the network of hedrons and trees that surrounded them. On the long, wild grasses trailing under the breeze.

“Ha!”

They both started at the sound of Nahiri’s laugh echoing up out the shaft, followed by the faint clash of stone on stone. Nissa let out a small relieved breath. Sorin’s shoulders slackened noticeably.

Nissa watched him out of the corner of her eye. He glanced down at her twice, and looked back away both times. One of the nice things about having eyes that glowed bright green was that Nissa could observe a person without them really knowing exactly what she was looking at.

If you have something to say, mover, you should not feel fear to say it.

Nissa narrowed her eyes. She was cherishing the silence-

Silence immersed in actions undone is no true silence.

“You’re very concerned for her,” Nissa blurted out in a whisper. “In light of what she took from you.”

Sorin shrugged and flicked his the wrist. “I’m allowed. I can be angry about what she’s done and worry as well.”

“You just sound like you regret what happened-”

“Of course I regret it! My entire plane-”

“That’s not what I meant. You seem like you regret it because you lost a friend as well.”

Sorin’s crossed arms tightened around each other, like a snake’s coils drawing close. “You say it like you think I’m incapable of that sort of regret.”

Nissa suppressed a twist in her stomach. No need to planeswalk away. Just deal with the confrontation at hand.

“You’ve never given me a reason to think you’re someone who regrets the consequences of their actions until a few days ago.” She turned to fully face Sorin. “I’m not complaining, but if you asked me whether I thought you were a creature of regret a week ago...well I’d have said ‘no’.”

“I’m very lucky, then, that your opinion on the matter means nothing to me.”

Nissa felt a stab of anger and irritation. She turned back away.

Are you satisfied?

Nissa shut her eyes, and sighed. “No I suppose not.”

“What was that?” Sorin asked.

“Speaking to myself.” Nissa stood. Behind Sorin, the merfolk were whispering to one another. “And...I apologize. I’m was trying to be honest, not hurtful. Your regrets are your own business.”

Sorin nodded. “Thank you.”

He was avoiding her eye, but his jaw unclenched. “It’s...it’s a matter of preservation. If that makes sense.”

“Not entirely.”

Sorin pursed his lips, frowning. A long breath trailed out his chest. Nissa wondered how much of that was habit, and how much was for effect.

“I prefer change in the world that I can control. The eldrazi were always the antithesis of that. I fought beside Ugin and Nahiri because by defeating the titans we preserved the multiverse as it was. I preserved my home from the possibility of uncontrollable, devastating change. When I thought the multiverse safe, I moved to ensure its preservation in the future.”

Nissa nodded.

“I took it for granted that the bonds I had made would preserve themselves. Next to the dangers to the physical worlds, the bridges of companionship seemed...well, much less assailable. So I neglected them. Then one friend died. And another almost lost everything she had fought for.”

“And then you lost the plane you’d given everything else up for all the same.”

Sorin nodded, slow. “All because I neglected the connections I’d made. I regret the ruin to my home most of all. And I am angry in a way that I don’t think will ever fade away. But for all that I still have space in my soul to regret that I did not preserve my friendships.” He looked past Nissa, toward the tunnel.

“That makes sense,” Nissa crouched back by the mouth of the shaft. After a beat Sorin stepped forward to stand at the edge, just a few paces away.

“Ha-haaaaa!”

A glow lit the depths of the tunnel, growing brighter and hotter with each passing second. Nissa and Sorin ducked back from the cave mouth.

A rush of air roared up, and Nahiri burst form the shaft, a cow-sized eldrazi clutched in each stone-gloved hand. She hovered above them a moment, bearing a grim grin of triumph along with her trophies. Then she set down onto the grass and cast the bodies to the ground.

“Just these ones, but if you want to check...”

Nissa nodded and felt for the leylines. The ground below was twisted and scarred still, but the active itch had subsided.

“We’re done here.” Nissa stood. “North, again.”

“That’s quite a trick, miss,” one of the kitesailors called from a slightly further distance. “How’re you flying in them tunnels?”

Nahiri grinned and patted her boots. The heels and soles, constructed so that bars of stone could slot into them, glowed with the hot-white flare of lithomancy, and gave her a lift several feet into the air, where she somersaulted over Sorin. “It’s all in the rocks, girls.”

The taller of the merfolk whistled appreciatively. Sorin pursed his lips.

* * *

The tangle of roil-sculpted earth, titan trees, and mountainous hedrons thickened the further north they ventured through the reclamation zone. And they ventured quickly. There was an urgency to Sorin and Nahiri that pressed them to weave impatiently through the roots, trunks, and floating rock. Nissa found herself relying on Ashaya more often than not for a ride and the speed necessary to keep up.

Above and to her left, Nahiri swooped under a low-floating hedron, scattering a flock of manta. Years ago there would have been no shortage of dangerous creatures about, even without the eldrazi, but the largest predators had been slow to return to the Rief, and the speed and suddenness of the trio’s travel had so far been too startling for the ones who had to even consider ambushing them.

To Nissa’s right, Sorin sprinted along a branch three times as thick around as he was tall. He hadn’t tired yet. When they’d first struck out, Sorin had suggested simply planeswalking off Zendikar, then using Nahiri and Nissa’s expertise to ‘walk back where the swarm had run to,’ to save time.

“It’s possible,” Nissa had replied, “But if the swarm disperses, I would prefer we do a thorough search on foot than have any of them scattered around the continent.”

So far the itch had remained a coherent mass. Whatever guided the drone and spawn movements, it had only led a few of the eldrazi to disperse along the way, and those few were easily dealt with without undue delay.

The merfolk, who’d introduced themselves as Olmer and Ton, had followed the trio from the cave on their flying kites, jabbering and shouting questions all the while. Occasionally Sorin even answered them back.

“Are you certain there aren’t any settlements ahead?” He called, the second such question in an hour.

“Not a one,” Ton, the shorter merfolk called back. “Most everyone’s still sheltered in an’ around Coralhelm. You’ll miss that by a good 30 miles if you keep this heading, and you’ll have nothing but leagues of dead woods around you by then.”

Nahiri caught Nissa’s gaze, nodded over at Sorin, and rolled her eyes. Nissa just grunted, and scanned the paths ahead. The low ground to the left faded into shadows as a web of roots and curved pillars of earth lifted the trees well above the dirt. On the right, the ground rose in a mossy shell of roots and massive, fallen logs.

Ashaya opted for the higher ground, and the elemental’s tread became light as the falling leaves as he loped through the moss. The trees here left tough remains, but it was the careless traveler who ruled out the possibility of a decayed spot taking their feet out from under them.

A speck of pale blue on the carpet of green ahead caught Nissa’s eye.

“Likely you won’t find any folk wandering this stretch of Tazeem for a while,” Ton drawled. “Mostly it’s bolder folk like Olmer and me who-”

“Body!” Nissa shouted to her companions. “There’s someone up ahead!”

Nahiri and Sorin split off to the left and right, as they’d discussed before leaving the wall. If either didn’t return in five minutes, the remaining two would treat the figure ahead as a trap. Ashaya slowed to a stalk and padded forward silently, Nissa scanning the surrounding trees as they approached. The merfolk landed on either side of Ashaya at her signal for caution.

“Haven’t seen much in the way of wildlife,” The taller merfolk said, just under her breath.

“It’s the despoilers, love.” The shorter merfolk pointed to the trails of dust and spots of twisted stone that grew, almost indiscernible, against the black bark of the trees.

Ashaya halted a hundred paces from the body. Nissa crouched low on the elemental’s shoulder and shut her eyes. The leylines were quiet, save for the itch to the north. On the edges of her mind the creatures that had fled from the Eldrazi’s path went about their business, a short distance displaced from their usual haunts. Calm, but alert.

Nahiri emerged first, gliding down from the trees, signaling ‘all safe’ with a brusque wave. Sorin emerged a second later, one hand wrapped around his sword, another around a grey sack that trailed spiked tendrils.

Ashaya crossed the distance to the body in a handful of long strides. The thing dangling from Sorin’s hand was covered with glassy, half-lidded eyes. An eldrazi. One of Kozilek’s drones.

“Hit it from behind.” Sorin threw the drone to the ground. A diamond-shaped gash ran straight through its body, leaking a faint distortion into the air, like it was full of gas. “It was waiting up in the branches, watching the body.”

Impressive.

“I didn’t feel that,” Nissa said, a cold lump forming in her stomach.

Sorin shrugged. “They’ve got all sorts of tricks.”

The one you called Kozilek was an apex of distorting the senses. There is no shame in having missed a trick, so long as you recognize it the next time it is played.

“So the body’s bait?” Olmer called from a distance.

Nahiri knelt by the merfolk. “Not a body.” She put two fingers to the merfolk’s neck, along his flattened gills. “There’s a pulse. We need to get him to a healer.” She ran a hand along the chest, mottled with ugly, plum-colored bruises. “Ribs shattered. He’s probably bleeding underneath. I can do some simple mending but-” She paused, as if remembering something, then looked up at Sorin.

“What?” He stared back. “We stabilize him and then what? Are we going to carry him with us?”

Nahiri’s face twisted into a scowl. “Maybe.”

“If we delay-”

“Please.” Nahiri squeezed the words out between grit teeth. “You said you were helping. This is the least you could do.”

Sorin wrinkled his nose, but still knelt across from Nahiri, laying hands on the merfolk’s neck. His fingers flexed and the veins tensed in the merfolk’s neck. The chest rose slowly, and then the belly, then the veins in the arms bulged as Sorin pushed the blood to flow to where it was needed.

“Splints.” Nahiri looked to Nissa.

“Splints.” She nodded and thrust her staff into the mossy log underfoot. Emerald shoots tore through the bark, twisting together in tight bundles. In seconds a small arc of saplings surrounded her.

Nissa pulled one up, and directed the skysailers to do the same. They exchanged wary looks, but followed her lead, stripping away the stubby roots with their trail knives. By the time they had cut the saplings to the appropriate size, Nissa had produces a length of vine to lash the splints to the fallen merfolk’s limbs.

He was drawing breath now, and a steady rise-and-fall had returned to his chest. A faint whistle of breath trickled through his lips. The bruising still looked horrible, but the body beneath was less shattered. Less sunken.

“Blood’s out of his lungs.” Sorin rose to his feet, and produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket. With slow, deliberate strokes he began to wipe down his palms and each finger. “and I’ve healed what the veins can heal. He won’t be moving under his own power without at least a month of bed rest, and he certainly won’t be able to defend himself out here.”

“We can take him to Magosi,” Ton volunteered. “We’re due there in the next week; won’t hurt too much to get back a bit early.”

“Thank you.” Nahiri glared at Sorin. “Are there survivors enough to take care of him?”

Olmer laughed at that.

“Plenty. And when they find out he was ambushed and used as bait by the despoilers? Well, you’d think folk would get tired of stories like that, but they’ll all be clamoring to hear it. Yeah, he’ll be well looked out for.”

Ton and Olmer spent the next few minutes rigging a hammock between the frames of their kites, joining them into a single, two-winged arrangement. Then they mounted the closest tree, Nissa following close behind on Ashaya, who cradled the injured merfolk in its arms.

“This’ll do.” Ton scrambled out onto a broad branch, grappling the kite with Olmer to get it up onto the limb. Ashaya lay the merfolk into the stretcher between the kites, and Nissa helped lash him down.

“Glad we found you.” Ton offered a hand to Nissa, who politely declined it. “Good to work with good people in these dangerous times.”

Nissa smiled faintly. “Always danger in our world, isn’t there?”

Ton shrugged. “Always good to find good people, then.” With a wave, she and Olmer kicked off from the branch, and glided quietly away through the depths of Oran-Rief.

* * *

Nahiri called for a short rest before pushing forward any further. She made the flight via lithomancy seem effortless while she was in the air, but the energy needed to move that way was clearly taxing her.

Oran-Rief didn’t lend itself to campfires, but Nahiri had enough energy in reserve to set a small boulder to glowing, providing some warmth for herself and Nissa. Sorin stalked off into the woods, and returned nearly an hour later, leaves and sticks tangled in his hair and clothing, two iridescent snakes hanging from one hand, and a handkerchief-wrapped collection of roots and fruit in the other.

“Supper,” He placed everything in a pile next to the stone.

Nahiri took the snakes without a word. The stone flared brighter, and she reached three fingers into the white-hot surface. When she pulled her hand back the fingers clutched a long, square knife. She let the blade cool, and began stripping the skin and scales away.

“These are poisonous.” Nissa held up several of the fruits before tossing them aside. “These are fine. This one should be cooked before we eat it. And this...well, this is technically edible...”

Sorin shrugged. “Then I guess it’s technically supper.” He didn’t move to sort through any of what he’d scavenged, and didn’t appear the least interested in partaking of any of it.

“Are you just going to stand around and look unpleasant then?” Nahiri had one snake skinned, and tossed it on top of the stone. The meat struck with a hiss and sizzle, followed by a stinging smell of cooking meat.

Sorin bristled. Nissa busied herself with rearranging the inedibles into random piles.

“Or were you looking for a ‘thank you?’”

“I never asked for thanks,” Sorin replied, tone cool. “I would appreciate not being treated like I haven’t been contributing.”

“Baby,” Nahiri replied, carving a strip of scales from the second snake with a flick of her wrist.

“Beast,” Sorin growled back.

“How about that.” Nahiri sneered up at Sorin. “Looks like the selfish old bat isn’t as willing to let things go as he claims.”

“There’s no shame to you, is there?” Sorin’s feet shifted, though he did not step forward. “Not a bit of remorse for what you’ve done and who you’ve hurt. It’s all just my fault for not being there for you, isn’t it?”

“If you call a thousand years imprisonment ‘not being there,’ then sure.”

“I did that to you, Nahiri. What you did was an act against hundreds of thousands. That is not justice of any kind.”

“You want me to do something to you?” Nahiri tossed the second snake on the stone, and pointed her knife at Sorin. “All you had to do was ask. I’ll cut off that dainty face and shove it-”

Ashaya took a step toward the three planeswalkers. Sorin and Nahiri froze and fell silent.

Nissa continued to re-arrange produce.

For a long minute there was no noise but the cooking of snake-meat. Nahiri leaned forward and flipped the pieces with her knife.

“It’s like Ugin used to say, Sorin. We’re older than some planes’ gods. We don’t do shame.”

Sorin folded his arms. “Perhaps that has been our mistake.”

“by the Pistons...” Nahiri rolled her eyes, and they landed on Nissa. “What do you think? Am I a monster like he says?”

“I didn’t-”

Ashaya shifted again, cutting Sorin off. Nissa hefted one of the fruits-a deadly green and purple thing the size of a fist-in her hand, and looked up, meeting Nahiri’s collarbone with her own gaze.

“I don’t think you care about what I think.”

Nahiri snorted. “You’re damn right I don’t care about-”

“Which is just as well, because I don’t care about what you’ve done.”

Sorin rounded on Nissa. “How can you say that? You were there! You fought the eldrazi on Innistrad. You saw the devastation!”

“Yes, I was there. I did see what happened and I did everything in my power to mitigate.” Nissa’s fingers tensed, and her gloves dug shallow furrows into the fruit skin. “And if I had been the person responsible for the things that happened on Innistrad...well personally, I don’t think I could ever look at myself without some disgust for a long time.”

Nahiri’s lip twitched.

Sorin threw his hands up in the air. “Then-”

“But that was then.” Nissa relaxed her grip on the fruit. A small crack ran down the skin where her index and middle finger had rested. “The damage is done, and it will always be done. What am I going to do about it? Kill you? For revenge? The multiverse doesn’t care about justice the way you do. I don’t care that you let worlds fall apart because of your neglect, or that you brought Emrakul to his world. Those problems are dealt with, and neither have any bearing on what we need to do next to fix the world.” Nissa met Nahiri’s eyes. “So unless you plan on turning yourself over for execution on Innistrad-” she jerked her head at Sorin “I-I suggest you do what he’s doing and focus on doing good with the power and the freedom you have.”

“Well, I would have had a lot more time to do good on the planes,” Nahiri impaled a snake with her knife and ripped it off the stone. “if someone hadn’t thrust me into a demon pit and forced my inaction.”

Now Nissa felt a hot pit erupt into her chest. She let the fruit fall to the ground, where it burst along the seam, leaking pale juices.

“It must have taken a while to make all your preparations for what happened on Innistrad.” She kept her voice level.

Nahiri scowled. “Yes. I’m not trying to hide that. I-”

“We were fighting against the Eldrazi for months. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like I spent a whole lifetime ripping out every inch of myself to preserve any scrap of our world from them. All Zendikar rose up to drive them back, and more lost their lives than anyone could ever mourn. And yet, I don’t think I ever saw you. Not in my travels. Not when we finally brought down the titans.”

Nahiri’s jaw twitched. Her eyes were flared. She lowered her knife from her face, until the snake nearly dragged against the moss.

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I’m not angry about what you did, not anymore. I’m upset by what you could have done instead. And...and I think you should be just as upset. You said before your regrets don't matter, but I don't trust someone with no regrets.”

Nahiri just glared across at Nissa. When Nissa said nothing more, she glared instead at the rock and started tearing chunks of meat off the knife with her teeth, letting the second snake to burn on the stone.

Nissa turned to her small pile of fruit and started eating herself, not even bothering to cut anything up, but letting the pulp stain the sides of her mouth.

After the silence stretched into minutes, Sorin spoke. Nissa almost wished he hadn’t. The strange silence between angry companions was miserable. Breaking it was worse.

“I’ll...take watch. If you two need to sleep.” There was still anger in his voice, but he drifted up into the treetops without any further comment. Nahiri settled back against her tree once she’d finished eating, and turned away so that Nissa couldn’t have told whether she was sleeping or not, even if she could have brought her eyes up to look the kor in the face a second time that night.

You wielded your words with conviction and truth.

Nissa almost jolted to her feet. She had, for the first time in a long time, forgotten the squatter in her mind.

You should be proud. With every ounce of self-belief you cultivate, the closer you come to being a true mover of existence.

Nissa didn’t reply right away, but lay back, letting her head sink into the moss. Her stomach hurt, her mouth felt dry, her head felt like there was a stone where her brain should be, and she would have felt entirely miserable if not for Ashaya. The elemental sat cross-legged at her side, wind trailing through his lusher body parts.

“Life isn’t chess, you know,” Nissa said at last, murmuring up at the treetops.

The games of the flesh minds are just a simple way to express what I mean. What matters is not the metaphor, but that it helps you understand. You deserve to be the one who directs your life. Whether it is pieces or lives you deal in, there is the risk of becoming a passive reactor. Be the actor. The one who puts ideas and movement into the minds of others.

“I don’t want to manipulate anyone,” Nissa said at last. She kept her voice to barely an echo of a whisper. “I’ll use the leylines where there’s good to be done, but I won’t force my will onto others.”

I don’t mean by force, unless force is brought against you. Though it is a skill worth cultivating. You’ve seen that not all great powers are as friendly as I.

“Then I don’t know what you mean.”

Many among your companions, past and present, have had the power of the word to inspire and direct and bring others together. A magic that needs no mana, and that I see you struggle to even try to use.

Nissa almost laughed, despite the heaviness pulling at her eyes. If the eldritch voice in your head spoke, what was there to do but listen?

I worry sometimes, mover, that you will let life slip through your fingers without ever seizing what you want.

“I’m very happy in my homeworld, actually,” Nissa snapped. Nahiri stirred slightly, and Nissa clapped a gloved hand to her mouth before continuing. “I’m satisfied with the work I do, and I don’t need you telling me I should be dissatisfied because I’m not...because I’m not powerful enough.”

That is-I will not argue that. Presuming the intent and wants of the flesh has not been my own greatest strength. I will say, whatever your intentions in this world, or any other, power will help you meet those goals. Power and understanding how to wield...no, how to apply it.

“And what would I need that for? I can heal the world with what I know.”

You should listen when the binders speak. There’s more than what you can touch that you can fix. And that’s with just your words. Or would you tell me you don’t want peace between your companions?

Nissa glanced over at Nahiri. Her pale shoulders where rising and falling in slow time. Above, Sorin was just visible as a sliver of moonlight hit his breastplate.

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t just...reach into their heads to have them do what you wanted?”

I can twist minds to embrace my being, and that is a type of victory. I myself am not satisfied with that sort of adoration. I want my foes and my friends to decide themselves that I am right, not to have to twist their minds to bring them to that conclusion. The final decision should be theirs, made freely.

Nissa rolled over so her back was facing the stone. The forest was cold. And she’d left her blankets and bedroll behind to move quickly. “I’m going to rest, now.”

Yes. The burner?

“Away.” Nissa curled her knees up, and shuffled closer to Ashaya. “Away, please.”

* * *

Nissa managed about four hours of sleep before the itch clawed her awake, burning a trail of fire-ant bites down her back. Her groggy grunts stirred Nahiri, who rolled to her feet, face calm, but brandishing her dagger in a tight-knuckled grip.

“Are you alright?” Sorin floated down, nearly at a dead drop, sword drawn.

“Fine. It’s-” Nissa shook her head, and flexed her shoulders, trying to steady her heartbeat. The itch subsided by degrees as she focused. “-the swarm is close. Moving slower.”

“Good.” Nahiri hurled her knife into stone between them. It stuck fast, then melted into the rock. “I’d like to kill something, and I don’t want to rest again until that happens.”

* * *

Nahiri led the renewed chase with a grim energy and a speed that left Nissa and Sorin trailing behind where the terrain got rough. After a mile they had lost sight of her entirely.

The trail grew more confused miles along as the markings of the retreating swarm intersected with larger swaths of eldrazi devastation. Further still and the trail disappeared entirely as the reclaimed swath of the Rief disappeared into the dusty ghost of itself.

It was at the edge of the ruined forest that they found Nahiri, staring out over the dusty landscape. The same shapes of trees and roots and bridges of earth loomed above them, but pale and desiccated. It was as if a sculptor had sought to re-create the forest from the memory of another, and had nothing but ashen whites to work in.

“It’s like this for miles further,” Nissa offered, gently, as Nahiri stared. “They didn’t get all of it, obviously, but...”

Sorin grit his teeth, audibly. “The Oran-Rief covers most of the continent for miles ahead.”

“It does.” Nissa slipped down from Ashaya’s shoulder to stand behind Nahiri. “It did. I believe it will again. Part of the forest we’ve traveled through is the result of our efforts to regrow and revitalize. Much of the land around Coralhelm and along the Umara has regrown as well, thanks to the waters returning in full. The land is eager to heal, and-”

“-and they have you.” Nahiri nodded, jaw set. “Someone with relevant skills. I’m glad,” She added, when Nissa cringed back from the result. “I really am. I couldn’t have done something like this.”

She rushed out into the forest ruins before Nissa could respond.

“Rash,” Sorin muttered. “Still rash.”

“Did you take the destruction of your home any better?” Nissa asked, quiet.

“Hardly.”

Nissa nodded. “I’m still waiting on you to show me you can work together.” Ashaya scooped her up and took a step into the dusty tangle, then another, and fell into a jog.

“I shouldn’t have called her a beast,” Sorin muttered, drifting forward after them. “That was a wound that didn’t need to be opened again. I’m sorry.”

“...Thank you. I’m not the one who needs to hear that.”

They both ran ragged to catch up. Nahiri’s pace fluctuated now, between bursts of speed that took her out of sight, to long, lagging floats through the air to the point that Nissa and Sorin would pass her by a quarter mile before she matched pace. Another hour into the chase and, without warning, she burst through one of the desiccated roots, one wider than a wurm’s neck, and swearing, doubled back once to pulverize the broken section into dust.

The remorse of a game badly played.

Nissa made no attempt to respond to Emrakul. The itch was growing stronger now, and she had to focus every fiber of her mind to not let the inflaming sensation overwhelm her. They were close. So close. They could put an end to this horde soon...

Ashaya sensed her agitation. His pace doubled, outstripping Sorin and the still-fuming Nahiri.

Nissa shut her eyes. There was life, even here, if she followed the leylines deep enough. True, it was buried under hundreds of feet of chalky forest-corpse, but it was there, ready to thrive again. Here worms still turned the soil. Here there were still minerals for life to grow strong on. Nissa sent mana through to these pockets of life, and felt them swell. Felt them jolt with energy, and begin the long climb through the waste to taste the sunlight.

There were years, maybe decades to go before Oran-Rief looked anything like its former self. In truth, there was little chance it would ever look exactly as it had. That was fine. Recovery was a slow process, change was part of recovery, and Nissa would be there to help her world heal every step of the way.

The land is steeped in my brothers’ touch

Nissa grit her teeth. “I’d noticed. Or did you miss the months I’ve spent trying to heal the land?”

An ambitious and a powerful endeavor. But I didn’t mean the wastes. My brother’s-

“I’m done hearing about Ulamog, actually,” Nissa hissed.

No, mover, not my one brother. I mean that my brothers pieces are-

A noise from behind shook Nissa’s focus. Sorin was calling after her. Bellowing something.

Her name.

The itch flooded Nissa’s mind like a rush of filth-laden water. Ashaya had passed under the bent form of an eldrazi-withered tree, and ahead, a small, sunken clearing radiated the itch from every direction.

Even below.

The ground beneath Ashaya splintered and burst upward in a column of shattered, desiccated plates. Nissa and the elemental were thrust up into the air. Trees shattered into dust. Purple-blue arms shot through the newly-formed hole in the forest floor, followed by taut red muscles and a face of blank bone.

A crusher. One of Ulamog’s brood.

Nissa leapt from Ashaya’s back onto an airborne sheet of hard packed-dust. It came apart under her feet as she sprinted along its length and flung herself onto a second chunk of airborne debris, just behind the crusher’s head. She bent her knees and sprang through the air, drawing her sword mip-leap and scoring a deep gash along its shoulder.

But not deep enough to kill.

And there were more coming. Spawn poured out of the hole. Drones leapt down from the grey-white branches of the ruined trees, filling the suddenly much larger clearing. Ulamog’s brood moved over the brittle ground with ease, and Kozilek’s obsidian-clad eldrazi added twists of bismuth to the surroundings as they threw themselves down into the clearing.

It was the swarm they had been tracking, and then some, all joined together for an ambush. Nissa swore and dove off the crusher’s neck just as it slammed its hand down where she had crouched. The blow echoed like an explosion, ringing in Nissa’s ears.

She hit the ground, rolled to a stand, then raised staff and sword as a tidal wave of eldrazi spawn flung themselves towards her.

Nissa stepped back with her first swing, cutting through the skull of one spawn and voiding the space where its companions slashed and stomped and lashed out with a dozen types of limbs. Each swing of her sword necessitated another step away from the horde. Each blow felled an eldrazi, but there was a pit full of them, a crusher just behind her, and nowhere else to dodge. Nissa threw a desperate glance over her shoulder. Ashaya had landed safely and was grappling with the titanic thing, though the crusher’s arm alone arm alone outweighed him two-to-one.

A sudden disorientation swept over Nissa, and she slipped on a sharp divot. She hit the ground hard, her vision nearly inverted. A crab-shaped eldrazi hovering above her, an upside-down crown of obsidian emitting iridescent pulses all through the clearing.

At least a dozen eldrazi converged on her. Nissa held out her sword. Her vision filled with red, and her chest a sudden, overdue fear.

“Too many.” Her gasp was barely a whisper. “Too many.”

Breathe, mover. You’ve faced worse odds.

“I had friends,” Nissa whispered. “I had-”

You still have them.

A blur of white and red swung down from the trees, scorching the air in its wake. The sizzling pendulum swept away a score of the eldrazi. The remainder of the spawn menacing Nissa lurched to a sudden stop. Their skulls burst. Their bodies fell limp to the dust.

Sorin and Nahiri loomed behind them, the vampire’s hand outstretched in an invocation of blood magic, the kor rushing forward, a molten sword in each hand.

Nahiri swept through the front ranks of the eldrazi, leaving each sword buried in the breast of a still-standing eldrazi before sweeping Nissa up in her arms. The stone that had smashed into the swarm followed in her wake like a blazing comet.

“This them?” Nahiri shouted over the rush of air.

Nissa nodded, weakly. The distortion in the air made it difficult to tell where Nahiri’s face ended and the white of the dead trees began. A blur of purple slid into her vision behind Nahiri’s head-

“Look out-!”

Nahiri swerved in the air in time to miss the full force of the crusher’s blow, but the glancing hit still sent both planeswalkers tumbling from the sky, and rolling into the dust.

Nissa recovered in time to register the looming shadow over them. Nahiri must have noticed it too, and they flung themselves in opposite directions just as the fist struck again. The ground caved in under the blow. Fragments of chalk peppered the air.

The fist jolted back up, and Nissa braced to roll out of the way of a third strike. Then the disorientation hit her again, and she fell, clutching at her ears. The crab-eldrazi was right above her. There was so much noise in the distortion. The light howled in her skull. A few feet away, she registered Nahiri scowling up at the air. The rock, which had fallen and embedded in the ground, glowed hot and streaked toward the crab-drone.

It never touched the creature. A blur of black and silver collided with the crab, and Sorin tore it neatly in half with a sideways stroke of his sword. The rock shot through the now-empty gap in the air, and glanced off the crusher’s face, cracking its skull across the bottom with the sound like a thunderbolt.

The fist still fell, square over Nissa.

This time she didn’t even flinch. With so little life in the surrounding earth, she sensed Ashaya’s approach with ease. The elemental threw himself over Nissa, intercepting the crusher’s blow and dragging the massive eldrazi off-balance. As it flailed backwards, Nissa noted that its other arm now ended in a ragged, purplish stump, and that Ashaya was splattered with similarly-colored gore. She sprang to her feet to face a second wave of the swarm with her comrades.

“Stop getting in my way, Sorin!” Nahiri had recalled her boulder, and split it in half to form two jagged, long-bladed gauntlets that covered her up to her forearm.

Sorin, coat still splattered with the remains of the crab-eldrazi, snarled.

“Keep your wits about you, then! I can’t coddle you all the time!”

“Just keep clear of me!” Nahiri shot back over her shoulder. She moved toward the trees, wading into the torrent of Kozilek’s eye-riddled drones and began cleaving their many limbs from their bodies.

“Oh, so now you don’t want help.” Sorin flipped his sword in his hand and spun in the air, striking the crack in the crusher’s face. The skull splintered, and the nightmare that passed for a face underneath was visible for a moment, until Sorin shoved his sword through the gap up to its hilt. “Good! I’d hate to respond the wrong way and have you try to kill me again!”

“Focus!” Nissa shouted, already racing towards the crusher. Ashaya followed a step behind. Even stabbed through the face, the giant eldrazi swiped at Sorin. With a thought from Nissa, Ashaya pounced at the eldrazi’s arm, somersaulting through the air, a buzzsaw of wood and root and earth. The arm, already cut deep by Nissa’s sword, was ripped from the crusher’s shoulder with a sound like a hundred coils of rope tearing apart. Sorin pumped plumes of blood colored magic into the crack in its skull, and a second later it burst, showering them all with solids and semi-solids which Nissa decided not to think about too hard.

“You don’t get to use that against me!” Nahiri screamed, she’d pinned the largest drone in the latest wave to the dust with her gauntlet. “Not when you wouldn’t even listen to me after! Not after you left me to rot in that demon filled hell!”

“I think I can use just about whatever I want.” Sorin rode the crusher’s body to the rim of the pit, and leapt off, diving through a crowd of sinew-winged spawn. Each one he dealt a single blow, cleaving their bodies in half. “unless stating facts is somehow more heinous than genocide!”

Nissa ducked under the swipe of one lanky eldrazi, and found herself face to no-face with a trio of spawn that looked like floating mountains in miniature, with fibers of alien flesh strung Between the peaks.

Ah, that’s me. One moment.

The mountains froze in place, then dropped heavily to the ground, their weight embedding them in the fragile earth. Nissa was so dumbfounded by the sight that the gangly eldrazi’s second swipe caught her in the stomach, folding her over.

Too many.

Not too many. Not for you. Breathe, mover. See them for the mass they are.

Nissa fell to one side to dodge another blow. As she fell she drove the butt of her staff through the underside of the lanky eldrazi’s skull. The force of the strike lifted the creature up and over the rim of the pit, where it fell away without a sound.

Perhaps it was the quiet of their opponents, Nissa mused, that let her comrades keep up their screaming match.

“Do you think-” Nahiri shouldered aside one squat eldrazi, then stabbed another right through its obsidian crown. “-That I don’t regret what I did? That I’m not just as angry with myself as I am with you? I have fucking nothing now. I was a protector. I kept the multiverse safe for centuries. Now I’m another gods-cursed killer.” Nahiri strode up the small pile of corpses, white face shining with sweat. “I wish every damn day I hadn’t brought that monster to your world!”

Sorin snarled, diving to the ground with a drone impaled on his sword. “Try acting like it, then!”

“What do you want to hear?” Nahiri roared, an upward swing bisecting one of Ulamog’s brood from groin to crown. “An apology? Do you want to hear sorry??”

Sorin sprang up, plunging his claws through the skulls of two more drones. “It would quite literally be the least you could do.”

“Please focus!” Nissa bellowed. An obsidian-crowned eldrazi with rows of eyes lining its bulging arms swiped at her once, twice, and shattered the rim of the pit with a scream that made the air ripple. They both stumbled, but Nissa kept her balance better than the eldrazi, and ran her sword through the flesh where a neck might have sprouted on any other creature. She jumped back and let it fall into the pit, knocking several other eldrazi down with it.

Sorin started to shout something back, but then the air was split by a vision-blurring screech, and a long-limbed eldrazi sprang from an overhanging branch, wrapping itself around Sorin, and slamming him flat into the dust. The other Eldrazi converged on him in a pile of pounding, flailing, grasping limbs.

Nissa and Nahiri paused for just a heartbeat, but that was enough time for their own opponents to capitalize on their distraction. One of Kozilek’s brood warped the space around Nahiri’s arm, slipping past the joint of her gauntlet with an oily sucking sound. The kor swore and screamed horribly as her arm went limp. Ashaya was just barely able to pull Nissa away from a disemboweling strike, but not quickly enough to keep the bony claws from drawing blood.

Nissa instinctively reached out for something. Dirt. Seed. Vines. There was nothing for miles, save for Ashaya. All that time spent coaxing growth back into the plane and she still found herself with nothing to call to their aid.

Your connection is with your plane, mover.

“I’d noticed, actually,” Nissa grunted, brandishing her sword. She cut down the spawn in front of her with a savage thrust, and began wading toward Sorin. Ashaya took her flank, providing a buffer and a plow through the crowd.

Well, this is your plane now. And not just the dirt and the vines. You are no less able to-

Nissa didn’t have the energy to focus on a retort, so she screamed, pushing forward with greater fury.

Sorin was nowhere in sight. More eldrazi piled onto the mass already pinning him down, unable to reach to the center, but adding weight with every drone.

“Sorin!” Nahiri’s scream matched and outstripped Nissa’s, as she hacked through the spawn with her good arm. “Don’t you dare die here, you selfish ass!” She hewed her way through the crowd around her with wide swipes, carving a gore-spattered path to the Sorin. Other eldrazi converged behind her as she started to carve through the pile. The blade of her limp arm flowed over her shoulders and head, hardening to shield her from the eldrazi piled onto her back.

That was the last glimpse Nissa had of her ally before the next wave of spawn roared up from the pit, joining the clutch that already beat down on her from the forest side. Her warpath came to a sudden, heavy stop. Even Ashaya could not wade any further through the crush of bodies.

Sword and stick won’t solve this, mover.

“It’s all I have,” Nissa screamed back, pressing closer to Ashaya’s back. “Look around you! They’ve cut me off! I can’t bring more of Zendikar here in time!”

Zendikar is here. It may not look like it once did. It may not look like how you plan it to look in the future. But it is still here. A rusted sword may not slice, but it can bludgeon.

To Nissa’s left, eldrazi were still pouring up from the pit. She could hear Nahiri bellowing somewhere far away. There were so many. Too many. Their presence flowed like a dirty stream across the leylines.

Will you swim against the current, or flow with it?

Nissa felt for Zendikar again. Delving desperately as she beat back drone after drone. This time she did not dig. She let her mind rest on the dust and desiccation right at her feet.

The voice that answered back was sickly. Strange. But it answered.

“I think,” Nissa grunted, “That I’ll dam up the whole stream.”

Magnificent.

Chalk blew out in geysers from the shattered edge of the pit, knocking several spawn back into the darkness as they tried to clamber onto level ground. A crack ripped down the side of the hole, bursting with even more dust.

A gaping maw tore itself free from the pit wall and reared up, Jaws of desiccated earth slammed down beyond the rim. Skeletal teeth punched into drones and spawn, pulping them to the ground.

Then the maw-thing, the soul of the wastes, fell backwards, dragging dozens of eldrazi with it, crushing the rest of the eldrazi rushing out of the pit against the walls. The grind of its fall echoed through the clearing, even as the eldrazi that remained pressed against Nissa all the fiercer.

Absolutely magnificent.

“Can’t...can’t do that again.” Nissa was panting hard. She could barely keep her sword and staff in front of her, barring the crush of eldritch limbs. “Check. Or however that damn game goes.”

The game is in disarray. You’ve made one important realization already: When the game has gone poorly, you always have the option of ripping the board out from under the arrangement of pieces that displease you. And now that they lie on the ground, let me give you another clue: who is to tell you that you may not take whatever piece you want for your own?

Nissa blinked, then furrowed her brow. Three spawn sprang at once, the bone-faced ones spreading their arms wide, the eyeball-covered one leaping at an angle that gravity should have made impossible. Nissa killed one with her sword, and found herself grappling with the other two.

They pressed in with rough shoves. They were not especially strong physically, and they blocked out the spawn gathering behind them, but the press of the whole crowd moved them forward. A sack-like limb struck Nissa across the jaw. Claws the color of twilight jabbed through the gaps. A slash tore through Nissa’s wrap and tunic, ripping flesh and scoring a nick on her ribs.

This is simple, mover. If your opponent would kill you, what must you do?

“Fuck off,” Nissa grunted.

I think you’ll find this germane to your present situation, mover.

Nissa almost laughed at that. At the bank-faced monsters pressing in around her. She felt something wet seeping into her tunic along her flank.

Suddenly Nissa felt as if she was seeing the eldrazi for the first time. Alien, yes. Horrifying in numbers, yes. But they were not gearhulks or elder dragons or gods-

This is ridiculous. I’ve laid better opponents than this low without every drawing my blade.

Yes!

Nissa relaxed her muscles, and the crowd shoved her back immediately. She let them push. Ashaya flowed around her, embracing Nissa in a cage of wood with just enough space for her to fall back, as the limbs of the eldrazi scratched at the wood and grasped through the holes of the cage. Leaf-coated vines descended from the roof of Ashaya, wrapping around Nissa’s flank to staunch the flow of blood. She felt the lines of Ashaya’s vital force surrounding her, and, using that as her starting point, reached out to the eldrazi.

Their lines were confused. They were individuals, certainly. Yet in another, truer sense, parts of greater, more intricate wholes. Wholes that had been burned out of existence, leaving a hole in the multiverse. Leaving these lesser eldrazi severed. And yet fragments of the ties that had bound them to the larger entities remained; strands of power, severed at one end, but alive, in their own strange way.

Nissa seized those strands by the metaphysical handful, gathering them together and folding them into a single thread. Grasping them was tricky. Like snatching streams of current from the water. Some she fumbled. Some wriggled through her grip. But with each pull of her mind, more spawn twisted under her power. Her influence radiated outward from where she stood, and slowly a growing number of eldrazi stood still, providing her a bulwark against those that remained hostile.

Nahiri cried out.

Nissa couldn’t see the kor from her position, so she directed the drones closest to Ashaya to lift him up, over the heads and head-like appendages of the crowd. Ashaya peeled open as he rose, wooden limbs curving outward like petals to protect Nissa from the eldrazi on the ground, though none in the immediate vicinity made a move towards her that she did not direct.

Further out, spawn still fought their way towards her, and towards Nahiri. Nahiri had met them with a fury that outmatched anything the mindless drones could hope to amass. Her stone armor was cracked and pitted in a dozen places. She was bleeding from more wounds than Nissa could count. Still she shredded eldrazi, one-handed, bellowing and driving closer to the pile atop Sorin, inch by hard-won inch.

“I’m sorry, you miserable corpse! Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?!” Her armor flared red-hot, singing the drones closest to her. A second later it exploded outward, and debris ripping through skulls, sinew, and eldritch flesh. She thrust the hand of her good gauntlet into the pile, and heaved.

Sorin emerged. At least, his arm and upper body did, the rest still pinned under the swarm.

But he lived, and somehow, still moved. His other arm cut free of the pile, gripped tight around a strange, jagged-edged knife. Nissa sifted further into the horde, grabbing more and more of the eldrazi and commanding their stillness, reaching out for the mass that menaced her companions.

“Sorin!” Even from a short distance, Nissa could make out the look of manic relief on Nahiri’s face.

“I hear you.” Sorin gasped. His flesh was bruised and torn, his garments shredded ribbons of leather and cloth. He thrust with his strange knife, impaling a drone at Nahiri’s side before it could slash at her. It died, but Sorin’s arm crumpled under the creature’s weight. “I said I wanted an apology, not for you to die.” He thrashed, freeing his legs from the pile and turning his knife back on the eldrazi that had buried him.

Nahiri snorted. “Who’s dying? It’ll take more than-”

Sorin’s blow caught her in the shoulder. Nahiri stumbled to one side. A spike of obsidian punched through the air where she had stood, and then, just as easily, through Sorin’s breastplate, pinning him to the ground.

Nahiri was back on her feet in seconds, swatting aside spawn left and right, desperately trying to keep them from converging on Sorin again. Nissa grit her teeth. She could set the eldrazi she had under her influence on the ones that still fought against the planeswalkers, but that wouldn’t stop the hostile ones before they tore her allies apart. And if she couldn’t grab control of the rest in that time-

A bolt of black flew into Nissa’s periphery. Just as quickly, Ashaya lashed out with a tendril, deflecting another spike of obsidian into the dust. Nissa glanced up into the trees. A broad-chested drone was perched in the ashen branches, a long spiral of tapered black stone forming from its throat, aimed right at her. She scowled and, with a strain that drew blood from her nostrils, reached into the dead leylines of the wastes and severed the branch. The eldrazi plummeted to the forest floor, where it landed among the still-growing horde that surrounded Nahiri.

Nissa gasped. She tasted iron as her blood ran over her lips. There’s too many

You see them as individuals and grasp them as individuals, Mover. A general does not call soldiers by name, but by unit.

Nissa blinked, and furrowed her brow. “What do you-?”

The spike-shooting eldrazi reared up suddenly from the crowd, a thorn of obsidian still forming in its throat. It lunged through the crowd, bowling other drones aside, its spike aimed at Sorin’s head.

It made it within a foot of the vampire’s face, and not an inch closer. Nahiri grabbed the spike with her gauntlet, stopping it dead and, with a scream, super-heated the spike until it cooked the drone from the inside out.

Nissa watched for only a moment until her attention was grabbed by a shape lying in the space the drone had cleared when it charged. More of the round, mountain-shaped eldrazi lay unmoving in the dust, unmarked by any weapon. Emrakuls in miniature A quick glance around the clearing confirmed a dozen other like them, some lying where none of the fighting had taken place.

Dealt with all at once. Like snapping my finger.

Nissa shut her eyes. In her mind, the eldrazi had were bundled together like bales of hay, the ones she did not yet have under her control lying loose like straw littered in a field.

“Straw will take too long to gather,” She muttered.

The image in her mind shifted. The spawn of Kozilek were like silt pouring through of muddy, running water. Rough. Difficult to perceive. She formed a sieve in her mind, and dragged it across the stream, collecting up the alien consciousnesses of the brood. In one swipe, she had half the clearing frozen under her control.

Ulamog...Ulamog was salt. Drying. Desiccating. In her mind Nissa pictured the clearing as a table, and swept the grains of Ulamog’s spawn into a bowl.

When she opened her eyes, every creature was still. All except Nahiri.

Sorin hung at an angle with the ground, forming a triangle with his body on one side, the earth on another, and the spike as the third. Nahiri cracked the spike with a blow form her gauntlet and pulled Sorin off onto the ground. He was bruised over every inch of exposed skin, and a hole ran straight through his belly.

Nahiri, at a sudden loss of anything dangerous to hit, then channeled her fervent energies at Sorin.

“I’m sorry!” Nahiri screamed down at Sorin’s still form. “Please! I shouldn’t have done it! It was wrong!” She didn’t seem to even register the circle of drones around her, still and watching.

Softly, Nissa commanded the Eldrazi to lower her and Ashaya to the ground. There was a slight buzz in her head as she instructed the individuals holding them up, but it faded away as she tucked them back into the collective in her mind, and strode through the still crowd toward her comrades. Ashaya plodded behind, the chalky ground crumbling under each of his steps.

Nahiri looked up as Nissa neared. Her eyes were wild. Bloodshot. There was something between a smile and a grimace on her face.

“They can’t have killed him, right? He wouldn’t just die like this. Somewhere like this.”

Nissa grimaced. “Nahiri-”

The Kor’s sudden gasp cut her off.

Sorin’s head lolled, then slowly dragged upright. His eyes slid open and a groaned.

“No fear there.” He lifted a hand slowly and lay it across his breast. “I freed myself from an impaling trap made by the meanest lithomancer in the multiverse. What’s one spike from a cockroach?”

Nahiri’s set Sorin down in the dust. “I-I thought so!” She laughed. A rough, manic bark. She held the smile for a moment, then it fell off her face. “I’m sorry.”

Sorin shook his head. Barely a twitch of his neck to the side. “You don’t have to-”

“I’m sorry,” she echoed, soft. “I really am.”

His face twisted. “I can’t accept an apology from you. I don’t deserve forgiveness any more than you do. I hurt you in a way few people in the multiverse have been hurt, and I did it deliberately, to preserve my own selfish peace in the world.” He lay a hand on Nahiri’s. “I don’t want you to be what I pushed you toward being. Not when I know destruction isn’t what your soul is meant for. I’m sorry. That was selfish as well.”

Nahiri shook her head, rapid. “It’s no excuse. Whatever happened to me, it’s no excuse for...for...”

She stood, suddenly. She stared past Nissa like she was seeing something far off among the dead trees. Nahiri’s chest rose and fell with an increasingly furious pace, and she stepped over Sorin, past Nissa, almost to the edge of the eldrazi circle.

Then she just stood, staring.

Sorin and Nissa exchanged glances. The Vampire’ face was contorted as he pumped blood magic into the hole in his chest, but the contortion was mixed with...it was the same look Gideon used to make when he fretted over the others.

Nahiri fell to her knees, screaming in a sudden rage.

“Damn you!” Her fists broke the brittle ground easily. “Damn me! Another fucking killer!” Her fists quickly reduced the patch of ground to a conical pit of powder. “The sealing, the hedrons...none of it means a damned thing now!”

“You kept your plane alive for millennia!” Sorin shouted, horse. There was a horrible sucking sound as he yelled, and Nissa realized with a start that he only had one inflated lung. “That’s not nothing.” He struggled upright, and Nissa ran forward to grab him under the arm before he collapsed again. He wheezed, and looked up at Nissa. “Thank you.”

They ambled over to Nahiri. Sorin knelt nest to her, head bowed. “What I did to you...where I left you. I owe you as much of an apology.”

“You didn’t kill anyone to hurt me. Not on purpose.” Nahiri’s response was ragged; barely a whisper through a scream-sore throat. “You were a fucking selfish bastard but you didn’t try to kill anyone other than me. I’m worse than you.”

“Maybe.” Sorin said it automatically. “Probably. I still wronged you.”

Nahiri shuddered suddenly, with a violent sob. She reached out and seized a handful of Sorin’s torn sleeve, and slammed her other fist against the dusty ground. Her shoulders shook, and her hand twisted the leather around. Sorin did not move or back away. Nissa wondered if she should.

“I’m a murderer! Evil! I don’t deserve anything!”

“That’s true,” Nissa whispered. She leaned back against Ashaya, holding the vine-bandages wrapped tight around her side. “But life’s not about what we deserve; it’s about what do.” Her legs started to buckle, and she slid down the elemental’s leg to sit in the dust. “What we’ll do next.”

Nahiri drew in a dry, rattling breath, and shuffled around to face Nissa. “Next?”

“This...this is good, what we did here today. Together. Look how much fewer we’ve made the spawn that still threaten our world.” Nissa looked down at the waste beneath her. “Look at how much world remains to be saved.” She lifted her head and looked from Sorin to Nahiri. “You can heal. You can build. I can grow. And if you can work with each other, I would...happily work with you.”

Sorin nodded, slow, and looked to Nahiri. She returned his gaze with eyes red and watering, but unblinking.

“No forgiveness.” She held out her hand to him. “We build something new, starting today.”

“That...that works for me.” He grasped her hand, and they shook; a quick, singular motion. He turned to Nissa, and inclined his head. “And I hope we might do the same. My actions against you and toward your world-”

“When I said I didn’t care, I meant it. And I meant nothing of malice against either of you.” Nissa jabbed a head at her temple. “I’ve had this force in my head for some time now. By most sane definitions it is evil, a thing that’s twisted and killed millions. Still I tolerate it. I listen to it. I try to use its guidance to do good, because I do not have the power to oppose it, and because the alternative is to leave it unattended.”

My guidance has been of great use.

“I had a friend who believed in justice. Who believed that there were good actions in the world, and wrong ones, and that the latter should be opposed without question.” Something rose up in Nissa’s chest, but she forced in down, breathing slow to calm her heartbeat. “But he believed in every person’s capacity for good, no matter their past. I can’t say if he was right in the end, only that that sort of justice is the only kind that’s ever made sense to me.” Her arms felt heavy, but Ashaya lifted his own for her. “So please. Let’s do better, and let our mistakes be lessons, not yokes.”

The other two said nothing, though Nahiri nodded, slowly. Sorin leaned forward, hand still pressed to his breast, fingers still weaving healing magic.

Silence and dust drifted through the clearing. When the latter settled, only silence remained.

* * *

They sat around another stone fire that night, back where the chalk wastes gave way to the green remains of Oran-Rief. Nissa sat cross-legged in front of the stone, both hands laid in the comforting sponginess of the moss. The remaining spawn, a little under four-hundred by Nahiri’s count, all lay a distance away, huddled together in a crude corral of vines and stone bells to alert the trio if they starting moving while Nissa slept.

Her head was full of buzzing, and there was a throbbing ache behind her eyes.

But it was better than their last rest. The tension had gone out of her companions, and Nissa could breath easier.

“There’s pockets all over,” Nahiri said over a supper of roasted tubers and wild onions. She picked at her food with her left hand, her right still hanging limp in a sling. “Not just spawn, but opportunists taking advantage of ruined settlements and wild creatures displaced by the dead stretches on the plane. We could, the three of us, we could give those Zendikari a better chance at starting their lives over.”

Nissa nodded. She was leaned up against Ashaya, moving as little as possible to not disturb the lacerations along her side.

“That’s true, though I would like to set aside time to continue replenishing the forests. Oran-Rief is a daunting project, and I still hold out hope for restoring Bala Ged to a place for the elves.”

“Is it true, the stories about the elemental?” Nahiri was much more eager to talk since the battle.

All the words unsaid over the past week.

“Yes. Yarok, they call it. Another creature we may have to coexist with.” Nissa dared a small smile. “But, coexisting is something we’re all getting much better at.”

Nahiri nodded, suddenly interested in wolfing down the rest of her supper. Sorin just nodded from where he reclined on a stone slate cushioned with harvested moss. Faint wisps of blood magic crawled over his form, and the bruises that mottled his body were beginning to receding by bits. He pointed in the direction of the spawn. “Will they be coming?”

“Until I can find something useful for them to do. There is a strain, trying to keep them in line,” Nissa noted after a time. “I expect we may still need to face more in the days to come.”

“Not the companions I expected,” Nahiri observed through a mouthful of food. “But...beats having enemies, I guess. Were you ever able to track down Ugin?” She asked, looking to Sorin.

“Not a sign since Tarkir. When it comes to that dragon, I don’t know what to believe anymore.” The barest hint of a smile crawled over Sorin’s face. “Remember how surprised we were to find out he was in contact and collaboration with so many other walkers? Even in the middle of that accursed mess on Ravnica?”

Nissa lowered a piece of onion from her mouth. The memory of the spirit dragon, bright and looming, flashed briefly in her mind. He’d been there at the end last time. He’d spoken to her. To Jace. To...to Gideon and-

“Of course. I stopped trying to kill you, I was so intrigued.” Nahiri chewed her lip. “Do you think it’s true?”

Sorin glanced over to Nissa. “The mind-mage was your companion, right? Do you trust him?”

“With my life,” Nissa said, soft. She pressed down another lump in her chest.

“What about you?” Nahiri asked Nissa. “You didn’t-I never even thought to ask how your companions fared after the...well, the war, I guess we’re calling it. The mind-mage and the pyromancer and-”

“We’re fine,” Nissa replied. “All fine.”

“Ah.” Nahiri nodded.

“More hands couldn’t hurt here,” Sorin ventured. “If we can’t get the spirit dragon...I don’t know how many of your companions are able and willing to help, but I saw many talents on display against Bolas that would help here. The time mage, certainly. I believe I saw another elf calling upon dead spirits as well. Plenty of those to go around. Even the fire-flinger might be useful for clearing out-”

Nissa didn’t hear the rest as she, much to everyone’s surprise, hunched over and started sobbing.

“...but maybe not...?” Sorin finished.

Nissa tried to catch her breath, but she could not stop the heaving in her lungs, and the twisting of her face as tears spilled out over her chin and into her lap.

The other two didn’t say anything right away. Through shudders Nissa could see them exchange nervous glances.

“I’m sorry,” She muttered, choking out the words between sobs. “Sorry, I-”

“It’s fine.” They said it together automatically. Nahiri leapt up from her spot to amble over and sit next to Nissa. Nissa dug her fingers deeper into the ground, if only to keep herself from covering up her face.

Nahiri lifted her good hand, and it hovered over her own lap a moment before she moved to rest it on Nissa’s shoulder. Nissa shook her head. A tight, frantic shudder that might have been mistaken for more shakes from her crying, but Nahiri took her hand back all the same.

“I’m sorry.” Nahiri lay the hand instead on the grass next to Nissa’s. “I owe you one as well. If I...if we distressed you – I mean, if we acted in such a poor way as to-”

“No.” Nissa shook her head, a more deliberate movement this time. “Not you.

“Mostly not you,” she added.

Sorin cleared his throat. “Is it...is it something we can help with?” The words stumbled out from him so unnaturally that Nissa almost laughed through her tears.

“I-no? I don’t know.”

The other two exchanged another look. What look, Nissa couldn’t say, but even through blurred eyes she could see them turn toward each other.

“Is it the pyromancer?” Sorin asked after a moment. “Did something happen to-”

“I don’t know!” Nissa pulled up a fist and punched the ground, grinding her knuckles into the moss. “I haven’t seen Chandra in months! I – she came to see me and then she just-she just...”

“What did she do?” Nahiri’s own fingers clenched, and the heat from the stone rose perceptibly. “Did she hurt-”

Nissa shook her head. “She just...she just came and left. And I let her. I stood there like an idiot and I just let her.” She brought her elbow up and coughed into it. Snot was starting to run down to her lips. “I’m sorry, this isn’t important, I just-”

“Clearly it’s important to you,” Sorin interrupted. “So it is, by definition, important.”

Nissa shook her head. “I just wanted her to be happy . She said distance was what she needed, and I let her...of course I let her go. I love her. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

Sorin drew and released a breath in a long sigh. “You need to be a bit more selfish sometimes.”

“And what?” Nissa replied. “Force her to stay with me? Make her do something that will make her miserable?”

“You said yourself,” Sorin returned after a short silence, “that you didn’t even tell her how you felt. That you let her make assumptions from your silence.”

“What would you know?”

“It’s what you did last night,” Nahiri cut in. “Until I provoked you. Um, sorry for that.”

“She said she wasn’t right for me.” Nissa steadied herself, and drew in a short, rattling breath. “She said...she knows I like the quiet sometimes. I liked that about her, that she understood that. But then she said she couldn’t-that we couldn’t be...I don’t know.” She brought the back of her glove up to clear her eyes. “She thought...she thought I wouldn’t have made space for her in my life. That I wouldn’t have liked making space for her in my life” She breathed in again, longer this time, steadying herself.

“Would you have?” Nahiri kept her voice low, just loud enough for the three of them.

“I think so.” Nissa lifted her head. Sorin had sat up and to face them. “It wasn’t the firs thing on my mind when we parted the first time. There was too much work for me here. But I did think about it when I came back again, after Ravnica, but there was still so much to do, and...” She choked again. “I took too long. I didn’t...I needed more time. I didn’t think she’d just-”

“That’s not your fault for needing time,” Sorin said. “No matter what came of it, there’s no shame in thinking through a hard decision.”

“Months though?” Nahiri said. “I mean – sorry, that’s not the point.” She lifted her hand again tentatively, but put it back down on the moss without Nissa having to say anything or shake her head. “It’s...it’s been a strange time for all of us, since, well since we were all together last. A hard time for introspection.”

“I don’t think she had to wait for me,” Nissa whispered. “I just wish she had.”

For a while there was no sound but the occasional hiss of the wind carrying a stray leaf into the stone. The trails down Nissa’s face started to dry, and she drew in slow breaths of the cool night air.

“Your paths could easily cross again,” Sorin offered, eventually. “She knows where you are, and even if you don’t-”

“I do.”

“...what?”

“I do,” Nissa said. “I mean, I could know. I can feel many things in the leylines now. More and more since I traveled with the Gatewatch. Since...since Emrakul began speaking to me. If I focus-” Nissa held out her hand, and channeled mana into the leylines that threaded through the air. There were so many on Zendikar. The plane was so abundantly alive in a way that so few other planes were.

“-She burns brighter than anyone I’ve ever met. If I wanted to – that is, if I felt it was right, I could just follow that light.”

“So why don’t you?” Nahiri leaned in, voice louder now. “Go and tell her what you told us.”

“She said we weren’t right for each other. What if she still feels that way?”

“Then you’ll have tried,” Nahiri replied. “You’ll have told her how you feel about her, and she can make her decision knowing what you want. Otherwise she’ll just go on thinking that she made a choice that you agreed with, and...well, it doesn’t seem like that’s the case.”

Nissa tensed. The thought of doing just that had occurred to her weeks ago, and seemed laughably implausible since then. Nahiri suggested it like a real possibility, but...going to Chandra? Using her words to express whatever it was she felt for her? It made Nissa’s whole body seize up from the inside out. But if she could bring the right words…

“I...think I would like that,” Nissa said at last. “But, even now, I don’t know that I’ve given it the thought it deserves.”

“Then take the time,” Sorin said. “You’ve got us now, as long as you need us. You don’t need to run yourself as ragged as a one-elf savior across the whole plane. We’ll all do our good work, and we’ll be your counsel as you work through your thoughts. And when you’re ready, whenever that might be, you can go to her with the right words.”

Nahiri nodded. “If you want our help, of course.”

Nissa was silent a long while. Her head still ached from the commotion and confrontation of the day. Her body still throbbed with pain from a dozen wounds, and the alien tinge of the eldrazi spawn still crawled along her body like a new limb. She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to do anything but close her eyes and rest.

Still, the comfort of caring company made the night just a degree less cold.

“I think...I think I would like that. Thank you.”

* * *

Mover, before you sleep…

Nissa groaned softly. She had just lay her head down and begun to close her eyes. The soft ground felt like a balm against her buzzing scalp, she had only a few hours before Nahiri woke her for her turn at night watch, and she wanted nothing more than the quiet of sleep.

If you’d rather wait...though I find the sooner the debrief-

“No, let’s do this now,” she muttered, keeping her whisper low.

You’ve added great power unto yourself. We’ll discuss that.

Nissa waited for Emrakul to say more. The eldrazi titan remained silent.

“I’ve reached out and taken control of another mind. Minds. Or lack of a mind. Several voids where minds should be. I’m not sure I understand entirely what I’m going to do with them, and I’m not sure that qualifies as becoming more powerful.

You used one method to add the power of my brothers’ pieces to yourself. You used another to add the power of your companions, the binders. Even the mere act of finding a new application for an existing competency is an act of growing power.

“Yes. Nissa poked wearily at her connection to the herd of drones off in the wastes. “That will take...it will take some getting used to. And there’s peace between Sorin and Nahiri now. I’m not certain how much of that was me, to be honest.”

You facilitated a renewal of their companionship. Indirect intervention is still intervention. It’s all part of becoming powerful.

Nissa blinked. “I...I’m pleased to have them as allies. As friends, even. But I don’t know what you...I haven’t been sapping their powers or taking power from them or-”

Friends are power stored in other bodies. A friend made is power added unto yourself, and better still, power that aids you willingly. Joyfully.

The earlier battle flashed in Nissa’s mind. The crush of bodies. Emrakul’s voice booming in her mind all the while…

“If my opponent is about to kill me, make them my friend.”

Yes.

“I don’t know how to feel about that. What if making a friend means conceding part of who I am?”

Then you get to decide if it’s worth it to you. Look around though, and I think you’ll find you’ve conceded very little.

“I’ve conceded to interrupt my work healing the plane. I’ve conceded to speak the language of the eldrazi. To let them into my mind.”

Emrakul was silent a long moment.

You’ve spoken my language with me for some time now. Has it not been worth your while?

“...let’s talk about that later.”

...has my presence been unwelcome?

“No but...having someone else’s thoughts in your head all the time makes it challenging to know what thoughts are your own.”

This is so. I do intend only to advise, mover. I do not wish to control a fellow controller.

“I’m glad,” Nissa whispered. “And glad you’ve been less prone to objecting to our fight against your...pieces.”

I am not beyond learning, mover. And any sentimentality for what remains of my brothers does no good. All in the past, as you said to the binders.

Nissa nodded vaguely. Her eyes were growing heavier by the minute.

On the topic of my presence, do you wish for the possibility of dreaming of the burner tonight?

“Why do you call her that?” Nissa’s eyes opened slightly. “Burner? She had a name, you know. I have a name.”

She is defined by her burning. That is what binds the two of you.

Nissa pursed her lips. “That’s all you think binds us? That we killed eldrazi together?”

The burning of my brothers is not what defines her to you, Mover. It is her mind that burns for you, so she is the burner.

It seems obvious to me, at least , Emrakul added.

“You call them the binders.” Nissa nodded at Nahiri's sleeping form, and at Sorin, hovering further away.

They bound me. It was a significant, defining thing that they did.

“That’s not what defines them to me.”

It’s not always about you.

“Mm.” Nissa laid her head back. “Sure.”

Mover...the burner?

Nissa stared up a long while, past the looming edge of the hedron mass overhead. A thousand pinpricks of starlight filled the open stretch of night sky beyond that.

“Not tonight. If I dream of her...” Nissa lapsed. A pair of glints, like from twin panes of glass filled her mind, along with a brush of cinnamon. “If she’s in my mind, I prefer she remain there.”

Emrakul did not reply, but a warm rush crawled along the back of Nissa’s scalp as her eyes slid shut.

The above is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.

#forsaken #mtg #fan fic #mtg fan fic #gruulfriends week #forgiven

4 notes · View notes