#book: the heart's invisible furies

[haveyoureadthispoll]

Cyril Avery is not a real Avery--or at least that's what his adoptive parents tell him. And he never will be. But if he isn't a real Avery, then who is he? Born out of wedlock to a teenage girl cast out from her rural Irish community, and adopted by a well-to-do if eccentric Dublin couple via the intervention of a hunchbacked Redemptorist nun, Cyril is adrift in the world, anchored only tenuously by his heartfelt friendship with the infinitely more glamorous and dangerous Julian Woodbead. At the mercy of fortune and coincidence, he will spend a lifetime coming to know himself and where he came from and--over his many years--will struggle to discover an identity, a home, a country and much more. In this, Boyne's most transcendent work to date, we are shown the story of Ireland from the 1940s to today through the eyes of one ordinary man. The Heart's Invisible Furies is a novel to make you laugh and cry while reminding us all of the redemptive power of the human spirit.

[bookcoversonly]

Title: The Heart's Invisible Furies | Author: John Boyne | Publisher: Hogarth (2018)

[inthegoodbooks]

reading books I should have read by now - end of the year tbr

I am a collector books. I think we all are. I am a firm believer in the fact that collecting books and reading books are two separate hobbies; they support one another, but they can exist in isolation.

Over the years, I have collected so many books. Wonderful books, books that are raved about and praised beyond words. At the start of 2024, I made a real commitment to reading the books I already own and refrain from buying too many across the year that never end up being read. I have done quite well with this: so far this year, 22 out of the 38 books I have read are books I already own. Bear in mind that within the other 16 are audiobooks included in my audible subscription and library catalogue and physical books borrowed from the library too.

So all in all? Not bad.

For the end of the year though, I have decided to pick five books that are renowned for being excellent. Maybe they’ve won literary prizes (such as the Booker for Girl, Woman, Other and Shuggie Bain; the Pulitzer for The Goldfinch; the Glass Bell Award for Heart’s Invisible Furies; and On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous was also shortlisted for a number of prizes too.) Of course, I’m not just reading these because they’ve been recognised by prizes though; all of these books have been recommended to me by friends or bookish content creators whose opinions I really value.

My plan is to read one a month (ish), starting with Shuggie Bain for August. I am nearly finished and boy oh boy, am I glad I finally got around to picking this one up. Such a wonderful novel. Anyway, more about that in the review.

I can’t wait to dive into the rest of them very soon.

[thereadingchallengechallenge]

JOMP BPC - October 29th - Freebie

this month's book club read is The Heart's Invisible Furies by John Boyne and it's been a fascinating, surprisingly funny read so far. I've still got a third to listen to but I'm intrigued to see where Cyril ends up...

[mercerislandbooks]

50 Years of Island Books: Our Sales Reps

In this installment, we’re seeing Island Books through the eyes of our sales reps. Dan Christiaens, Christine Foye, David Glenn and Kurtis Lowe all have decades-long relationships with Island Books, with lots of stories to share.

Miriam: Welcome Dan, Christine, David, and Kurtis! I'm excited to talk to all of you. As key sales reps for the big publishing houses, you've all had long-standing relationships with Island Books, and we wouldn't be the place we are today without your contributions. Tell me some stories! It can be about your first impression of the store, how you came to work with us, a particular title that did well at Island Books, or any other fond memories.

Dan Christiaens (Norton): I’ll start off. It was around 20 years ago that I started covering accounts in the PNW. I was still living in SoCal. Island Books was on my account list so on my first trip I stopped by and met Roger. He was pretty terse, made it clear that he didn’t see reps, but would review my stuff and send me an order for anything that he wanted. The store was lovely, well curated, with the typewriters all over and a small music section featuring CD’s, which caught my attention. I would stop by the store when I was in town, say hello, and always buy a CD or two.

When I moved up here in 2004, I started visiting the store more regularly, chatting with Cindy or Nancy, or even Roger—and would buy a CD or order some music that I wanted that they didn’t carry, and began to suggest music they should be aware of. Then our books became the topic of conversation, and I started recommending various books of ours. Roger slowly came to respect my knowledge of our books—and we became friendly, and then MAGIC HAPPENED! And he started ordering from me!

Christine Foye (Simon & Schuster): Here's one of my favorite photos of all time, a picture of Laurie, Taylor Jenkins Reid, and me on tour for the hardcover of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Which leads me to.... 

A book that did especially well at the store and why—The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo! Laurie and Victor came to the prepub dinner that I had for TJR in Seattle. Laurie immediately embraced the book and shared it and hyped it and talked nonstop about it until finally pub day came and by gum, Island Books was outselling all of my other accounts within a month. This was the perfect storm of great book, passionate reader and responsive customer base. It's wonderful to find a book one can really get behind, and Laurie and the whole staff did that with this marvelous novel. Also, don't we look lovely in green? 

Remembering my first days selling to Island Books—I started selling to Roger in 1993. I knew nothing about anything, I was fresh out of the St. Martin's Press office in New York, selling trade paperbacks and mass markets and children's books and perfectly confident in my ignorance. Roger made short work of my inexperience but was kind about it, and commented on how I tidied up the store shelves and faced out titles. Had I worked in a bookstore, he asked. I sure had, and after that things were always affectionate between us in the Roger way. Which is to say, he let me sit and chatter for probably 10 minutes longer than he would have otherwise. And often I got a laugh out of him, which was wondrous. We did bond over having both been to Newfoundland — did you know he co-edited a book about it titled Outport: Reflections from the Newfoundland Coast? He did. (It's out of print.) I always loved Island Books, it was a pleasure to visit and see what kind of books Roger had decided to buy for the community. What a lucky community. 

David Glenn (Penguin Random House): Durn, my first visit to the store was so long ago I’m not sure I can even dredge it up from my addled brain. If I had to guess, I’d say it was probably way back in the mid-90s? Of course that was back in the “Roger Days,” and I think it’s fair to say that, within our tightly-knit rep community, Roger was known as kind of a tough buyer. He relied a lot on jobbers and didn’t particularly like being “sold,” especially if it was by someone he felt perhaps didn’t necessarily measure up, or wasn’t sufficiently prepared to defend a title if questioned about it. Roger did not, as they say, suffer fools gladly and, quite honestly, I was pretty intimidated by him at first. He gave me a bit of a rough few seasons there at the beginning—always good-naturedly, for sure, but also making sure I understood who the buyer/owner was. Early on, though, I decided that I was going to do whatever it took to win Roger over. I was gonna get a belly laugh outta that guy one way or the other. So every season I made sure to bring my A-game, and began my campaign to be “welcomed” by Roger. It took me a lot longer than I thought it would—at least a couple years—but eventually, the respect I had for Roger as an owner and businessperson, was replaced by just the simple goodness of the man. I loved his dry sense of humor, and if you could coax it out of him, he had a truly impish grin. So Island Books at that point became one of my favorite stores to visit.

When Roger decided he’d had enough and it was time to sell, I was pretty bummed. And in what was an odd quirk of fate, the fellow that helped Laurie come to a decision about buying the store was an old fraternity brother of mine who lives on the island. Happily, Laurie and Victor have been the ideal stewards to move Island Books along, post-Roger. The store has always had a wonderful vibe, a superb staff, a great location, and a tremendously supportive community.

As far as books go, I have to mention a title I feel is perhaps the finest novel any of my imprints have published during my 34-odd years with Penguin Random House: The Heart’s Invisible Furies, by John Boyne. Full disclosure: Island Books has sold a solid, if unspectacular 40-plus copies of it since it came out in August of 2017. So, not a real barn-burner. But more than the “zero” it would have sold had Laurie not been willing to take a chance, and an example of the fruits of the give-and-take between a rep and a buyer. It may not have set the world afire, but my fervent hope is that it will remain a staple at the store for years to come.

In January of 2018, I hosted a dinner for three PRH authors: veteran Amy Bloom, and newcomers Tara Westover and Karen Cleveland. Both Laurie and Victor attended that dinner and, at one point, Victor noticed that while nearly everyone was chatting away left and right, Karen Cleveland was looking a little lost and forlorn (whoever the rep host was that night should have been paying more attention). So he marched right over and began chatting her up. Well, cutting to the chase, Victor read her debut thriller Need To Know (based on the author’s own experiences as a former CIA counterterrorism analyst) and made it his own personal crusade to make it an IB bestseller. In short order, IB sold over 70 hardcovers, and another 100+ more in paperback, which is just an outstanding result for a debut novel. Tara Westover’s singular memoir, Educated, also struck a chord with Laurie and Victor that night. And while it’s true the book was a massive bestseller for nearly every bookstore in America (spending over two years on the NYT hardcover bestseller list in hardcover no less), IB more than held their own and, in fact, really punched above their weight, selling nearly 600 copies in hardcover alone. This is the power of the independent bookstore in general, and the superpower of a store like Island Books. Every community in America should be so lucky to have such a store, and I can’t help but believe that if this were actually the case, the country would be a far less frightening and chaotic place.

Kurtis Lowe (Imprint Group): When I started as a commission rep back in 1997, I did not work with publishers that ranked for a meeting with Roger Page. However, in early 2001, I joined Book Travelers West, so Roger was ready to meet with me to scrutinize the lists of Workman, Ten Speed Press, Running Press, Watson-Guptill, and more. As I pitched book after book (only the best), Roger would pause before a title, pen hovering over the printed catalog page… sometimes he would he would score a one, for one copy... saved! It would have a chance. Two copies. Looking good! Three copies… just about as high as he would go with me. That is because local wholesalers had no better indie partner than Island Books when it came to restocking a title if it worked, and the high shelves were too full displaying vintage typewriters to make room for overstock.  Roger’s team could be on the phone minutes before the deadline and receive a shipment by the end of the day. An initial order of one, two or three copies of could become 20, 50, or 100s sold over time.

When a title did not make the grade, Roger was not cruel, as he slashed a diagonal across the page, but at least he was definitive: “Not quite,” he would state, and often add a helpful comment of feedback for the publisher.  Perhaps the greatest feeling of triumph as a rep was to throw a Hail Mary, one more point to get that book on the shelf, and Roger would page back, look again, squiggle out the slash and enter a number and circle it for order entry.

The times that Roger really went for a book were beautiful, and he was ready to do something a little special. Back in 2014, Island Books picked The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry for their April store pick. I committed to touring Gabrielle Zevin to 27 Pacific Northwest bookstores in three days to celebrate this gift to the bookselling (and rep) community. Roger loved the idea; he set up a display in front and gave a little speech to the the late morning gathering. 

(Photo Credit: Kurtis Lowe / Roger Page introducing Gabrielle Zevin /The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill) / April 2014 Book of the Month Pick for Island Books / April 7th, 2014)

I’ve observed many bookstore succession stories. Laurie Raisys taking over, respecting traditions, and creating new ones, while bringing her own experience and energy to the store has clearly been a great success. Lillian Welch is my buyer now, and she eerily brings some of that challenging scrutiny that reminds me of Roger, but also a new and vibrant commitment to the best books for all readers in challenging times. Thank you to the many booksellers at Island Books who carry on your great tradition and congratulations to Island Books for 50 years as a shining literary light on Mercer Island!

Thank you to Dan, Christine, David and Kurtis, for giving us a glimpse into how those books get on the shelves at Island Books!

To our Island Books community: In the next 50 Years of Island Books installment, I’ll be talking to Cindy Corujo, who has been a bookseller for 36 years and has the longest tenure of any Island Books employee.

—Miriam

[crisiscutie]

Wait for me...

I'm coming.

The yandere version of this fic/scenario.

Pairing: "Fluffy" Sephiroth/Pregnant Darling

Content Warning: NSFW. Noncon. Milk Kink.

You gazed at the well-stocked cabinet, the moonlight beaming on your face. You didn't know why you were doing this, considering that everything had already been put away for the night and the triplet boys were in bed. Maybe you weren't used to so many of the chores being done so quickly ever since your husband, Sephiroth, came back into your lives. You wanted to be glad about this "reunion". You really did. You couldn't, though. The horrific atrocities he committed in your family's name, his insistence on his right to rule the planet, his indoctrination of your sweet, innocent boys... It made you sick.

That fateful day he left your old home to find a cure for your degradation ended up changing him for the worst. He never told you the exact details of what happened, only mentioning an "epiphany" he had that day when he injected you with some sort of cells. Maybe, if you had gone with him, you could have stopped him from transforming into the monster he became now. It's all your fault.

You shook your head and closed the cabinet door, passing Sephiroth on your way upstairs. While you didn't dare to look at him, you saw him in your peripheral vision. He was sitting at his desk with his legs crossed, absorbed in a maternity book under the dim glow of the desk lamp. But as you closed the bedroom door, you practically felt his slit eyes piercing into you.

You laid sideways on the bed, careful enough to not cause discomfort to you or your unborn child, JENOVA. Her movements had become increasingly scarce and feeble in your womb lately. It's worrisome and odd, as you're forty-one weeks into this pregnancy. And to think a few months ago, you were worried about her coming out too early, as she was hyperactive, especially after Sephiroth reentered your lives. But now, it's almost nothing. Your hand gently cradled your swollen belly. Did those cells cause this? You received them not long after she was conceived. But alas, help was out of reach. Your husband had already gone to each and every neighbor of yours for his "visits". And even then, you and the boys are only allowed out of the house on occasion, always under his watchful eye.

Sephiroth entered the bedroom, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. You're not surprised. Wherever you go, you knew the serpent in your mind will follow. Like an invisible tsunami, his anger seeped through the room as he quietly closed the door and placed his maternity book on the dresser. He then gathered the scattered pillows around the bed, positioning one underneath your head, two for your belly, and one for your knees. He carefully adjusted your position before lying down behind you, spooning your body.

"You're overdue," he whispered, his lips now dangerously close to yours. Your breathing hitched and your heart rate increased as those words resonated in your mind. Of course, you are! You knew that. With one hand, he massaged your back while sliding his other hand beneath your maternity lingerie, toying with one of your nipples. He rolled the engorged nipple between his fingertips while studying your reaction; your lips parted, yet you struggled to suppress your moan. This obviously wasn't the greatest time for lovemaking, so why is he doing this? He forced that sweet moan out of you when he gave the nipple a gentle tug.

"Shh… We wouldn't want to wake the boys, would we?" He cooed at you, though his sweet, smooth voice didn't match his expression. His slit eyes shone at you with fury and the slightest hint of despair. It's clear that he's worried about her, just as you are. His luscious lips curved into his trademark devilish grin as his gentle tug on your nipple became rough, finally secreting that sweet milk that was contained for so long. He hadn't been suckling your tits for a while since he was too busy researching (and killing).

Fuck, he made it so hard for you to be quiet. His rough but pleasurable treatment of your tits is already pushing you to the breaking point; You didn't even notice him briefly freeing his long, hard cock from his pants. As he positioned himself at your entrance, his other hand began toying with your other nipple in tandem. You let out a gasp as he forcefully entered you, gripping your waist tightly to keep you in position.

"Don't," his breath hitched, his cock twitched from your walls massaging it. "...worry. I will guide you, as I always-" He couldn't finish his words as his vast wing sprouted from his back, enveloping you in its dark embrace. He let out a primal growl, flipping you on your back to start rutting you like the madman he is.

"T-too rough! The baby!" You huffed out just as his lips captured yours in a searing kiss. His tongue swirled yours forcefully, his hands opening your legs. It was as if something had taken over him. You only see him become vicious a few other times. He's being just cautious enough to not put any pressure on your baby bump. The urge to pull away from this kiss grew within you, but your resistance and muffled pleas only encouraged him to ravish you further. With each passing second, your supply of air dwindled, and his hand roamed your curves, finally coming to rest at your clit, teasing it relentlessly.

Just as you both came, you couldn't ignore his slit eyes dilating as he groaned. He withdrew his cock, his warm seed splattering across your legs and lower belly. Finally, he allowed you a moment to catch your breath. Resting his head on your belly, he softly traced the stretch marks with his fingertips.

"The reunion...is nothing to fear."

I think "Serpents" is a perfect theme for the alternate Domestic AU. It capture's Darling feelings about Sephy very well. I recommend giving it a listen sometime.

Yandere Domestic AU chronology: Christmas Kids | The Reunion is Nothing to Fear | Wait for me | Homecoming | The Crowning Moment

[pit-and-the-pen]

I'll Crawl Home to Her- Chapter 5

This is a short but not so sweet chapter. I’m sorry in advance for what I’m about to do <3

Warnings: so much angst, mild torture and violence, injury to characters (let me know if I missed anything)

This is the first chapter I’ll put a big spoiler warning on, it follows the events at the end of A Court of Mist and Fury. I would HIGHLY suggest not reading this if you haven’t finished that book.

WC:4.5k

Previous Parts: [Prologue] [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4]

It all went wrong so quickly. So quickly, I knew there was never any chance it would have gone right. We woke before the sun had risen. My mind instantly screamed to leave the moment I saw the bone white castle in front of us. But instead, we followed Feyre. Deeper and deeper into the castle.The cauldron urging her to find it. 

Cassian followed nearly a flight ahead of us, clearing the few guards with ease. If only I knew why it had been so easy. 

And then I saw it. It filled the room with something so dark, I didn’t have a name for it. 

“Hurry.” Was all Mor said as Feyre approached it almost timidly. 

“Listen.” Azriel whispered. I felt it then. I thought it had been my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. But as I took a deep breath, it seemed to be coming from the cauldron itself. Feyre walked towards it, eyes clouded and unfocused. Mor cried Feyre’s name as the other female reached into her cloak, hands grabbing onto the pieces of the book. I realized seconds too late as did Mor. Feyre laid the pieces atop one another. The world did not explode around us. A good omen, or simply holding its breath for something worse. I did not know. I watched as Feyre’s lips formed words I could not hear. Then the small trail of red streaked down her face. Azriel’s hands reached out so fast I almost missed it until I sensed the new addition in the room. Jurian. I took a step back, closing the distance between Mor and Cassian. Azriel retreated back a few paces as well. Putting himself between Feyre and the resurrected human. Rhys was instantly at her side. Hissing words at Jurian. The male only seemed to brush them off. I tugged on the sleeve of Cassian’s leather. A silent plea for us to run the hell away. The fog would not roll from my fingers. Frozen behind some new, unknown force. But I stayed silent, not taking my eyes off of my family as they spoke with Jurian. 

“I was sent to distract you-” The joy in those few words was enough to send my mind into a panic. I surged forward to pull them back to the stairs. “You won’t leave this castle alive.” 

Jurian tilted his head as he eyed up Rhys, my proximity to him.

“Do you know what it was like? To be forced to watch everything, to be alive in that ring. Not able to sleep or breathe, or feel.” 

“It must not have been so bad if you joined her master.” 

Rhys’ response seemed to be sucked from his chest. And I followed his eyeline and felt the air leave my lungs. The familiar face of the King of Hybern soaking us all in. 

“I’m almost disappointed you didn’t see the trap, it was oh so…easy.” 

The king of Hybern spoke, distracting all of us just long enough that no one could stop Jurian as he drove an ash arrow through Azriel’s chest. A twisted, gnarled scream ripped through my chest as I saw Azriel fall to his knees. His precious wings drooped to the ground. I scrambled over to his side before a pair of invisible hands wrapped around me, pinning me in place. A cry left my lips as I saw Rhys and Cassian struggle to haul Azriel to his feet.As the force released me, Mor’s support at my side was the sole reason I was standing. 

We marched up the stairs behind the King of Hybern. Soft sobs racked through my whole body as Mor all but carried me up the steps. My eyes did not leave Azriel’s frame. Holding my breath at every passing second, waiting for the moment Hybern would release the poison into his heart. We didn’t stop moving until we entered the throne room

The throne room ripped me from my body, catapulting me back into that vile place under the mountain. Except it was not Amarantha that was waiting for us. It was something more horrifying altogether as I watched Lucien and Tamlin step out of the shadows. 

My legs finally gave out. Mor’s hand wrapping under my arm to stop my knees from colliding with the hard marble floor. Feyre was shaking her head from side to side, like she could shake the sight from her memory. “Tamlin…” I started to take a step before a force pushed me onto my back. A snarl ripped from Cassian's chest as I yelped. My breath getting knocked out of me in a loud whoosh. I could only sit and watch as Tamlin’s green eyes swept greedily over Feyre’s figure, taking in the Illyrian leathers she was dressed in. It seemed it was only Lucien’s hand on Tamlin’s shoulder that stopped him from lunging at her. 

“What have you done?” Her voice a cold whisper. 

“It was easy really. I return you to your rightful place, and Tamlin, in exchange, would allow my shoulders to pass through his court and use it as a base when we brought down that stupid wall.” Pure panic flowed through me as I fought against Hyben’s power to try to get to Feyre, to put myself between Feyre and the High Lord of the Spring Court. I could only manage to sit up with my hands resting beside me. 

“Tamlin…please.” I panted at the effort it took to speak the words. “Don’t do this.” I searched for any other options. “Take me instead. Leave her here.” Despite the arrow through his chest, Azriel growled lowly at my words. For the first time since we arrived, Tamlin looked at me. 

“That’s what you think this is all about?” He gave a single sharp chuckle. “This isn’t about revenge for you leaving me. This is only about returning what was stolen from me.” Feyre tensed as he said her name, a command to obey in his tone. Lucien’s metal eye was whirling around in his head as he spoke Tamlin’s name. A hint of doubt and fear in his voice. A tone I had never heard from the red haired male. It felt like the world was moving in slow motion around me. My mind desperately trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to rip out that arrow from Azriel’s chest, how to get Tamlin as far away from my family as I possibly could. 

“The last part of my plan is simple. Break the bond between you two.” He pointed a bony finger to my brother then Feyre. I felt every muscle in Rhy’s body tense beside me. To his credit, he didn’t lunge at the king. The whole room took a collective breath. 

“No.” Feyre’s voice broke around the single word. I could hear the way her heart broke in that single syllable. 

“Please.” I said around a sob. 

Hybern turned his cold eyes to me. “How else is Tamlin supposed to have his bride? He can’t have Feyre dear running off to a different court every month. We saw what happened last time.” 

“I told you not to come for me that I lef-”

“We all saw that you weren’t okay. He took advantage of that, turned you against your home, against me. He stole you from me. 

“She was going to die in that house.” Anger flared through me for the first time since we arrived. 

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.” He spit at me, not taking his eyes off of Feyre. 

“Don’t you dare-” 

“I’ll come with you.” I swore I felt my heart stop beating. “If you leave them alone. Let them go.” 

“You’d let them- Feyre, they’re monsters.” Tamlin almost pleaded. His voice sickly sweet. Despite his words, he crept closer to Feyre, hand outstretched. He lunged at the spot where Feyre had been standing not a second before. She was now standing across the room. I felt no satisfaction in the way Rhys’ fist made contact with Tamlin’s face, knocking the male off of his feet. Feyre was at Rhys’ side in an instant. The unmistakable combined scent filling the air. Tamlin went deathly still. A look I had never seen crossed the High Lords face as Hybern confirmed what he had already realized. 

“I’m sorry.” her tone honest. 

More soldiers filled the room and I lost the last bit of control I had as I saw the color drain even further from Azriel’s face. 

“You fucking traitor. Do you know what he is going to do with that cauldron, do to all of us?” I could not stop the tears that tracked down my face. 

“There are many, many things I’m going to do with it.” He snapped and the Cauldron appeared in the room. “Starting with this.” Fire flickered in Feyre’s psalm at the sight.

“There she is. Made from all seven courts. Did you really plan to destroy the cauldron? You could rule the world with that book by your side.” He noted her silence, tilting his head with a sickening smile. “You’ll tell me soon enough. Your master made a bargain and you don’t want to know what happens to those who break their word” 

“If you take me from my mate, from my home. I will find a way to destroy you. You, your whole fucking court and everything you love.” 

“Feyre, please. Just come with us.” Lucien begged Feyre. The king’s laugh echoed through the throne room. 

“That won’t be necessary. Because you will find it in your best interest to behave, Feyre Archeron.” The four queens filled into the room but their guards did not stop as they hauled into two small figures. I heard the cry that left Feyre as we all saw the faces of her sisters and thrown at the feet of the King of Hybern. 

Feyre did not move, she wasn’t breathing. She could only stare blankly at her sisters. Elain who was sobbing even through the gag in her mouth and Nesta who yowled like a rabid animal. “If you touch them I will end you all.”

“Do you hear that,” The king of Hybern purred to the queens. “Slaughtering and destroying, that’s all they are capable of. Ending life. While I plan to give it. Now will you let me show you what the cauldron can do?”

“Please. I’m proof, Jurian is proof. I’ll give you whatever you want, just leave them out of it.” Feyre pleaded, the King just gave her a wicked smile. 

“Just show us.” A bored drone from the eldest queen. 

“Don’t look so down, Feyre. Isn’t this what you told our dear friend Ianthe about. How you would miss your sisters terribly. Now you don’t have to. Now you three can stay young together.” 

“Don’t pl-” 

A force knocked the wind out of Feyre.

“Bring them here.”

And then the room exploded. Feyre exploded around us. It felt like drowning and burning and when you come in on a cold day to a hot fire. My skin buzzed. Under that magic, a scream, Cassian’s scream pierced through me. I felt the force of it knock me off my feet once more. And then it was gone. And Azriel was crouched over me. Mor around Cassian. Cassian. One look at his wings and I felt like I was going to be sick. The room broke into chaos. Mor and Rhys both lunged for the king. Tamlin going for Feyre. And I could do nothing more than cling to the male next to me. Azriel let out a cry of pain as Mor pulled out a dagger from her belt. I froze. Mor looked back to him and let her knife fall to the floor. Mor stumbled to Azriel’s other side. 

“Start with the pretty one first.” Feyre only moved an inch before Azriel was writhing in my hold. My hand went to wipe away the strands of hair that stuck to his face. 

“You’ll be okay. It’s okay.” I whispered against his forehead. I could feel his sweat against my skin and my stomach rolled. I closed my eyes tight, praying to whatever god was still listening that this was all going to be a dream. Azriel’s hand resting on mine made me open my eyes, tears streaming down my face at the streaks of blood his hand left on mine. 

This was no dream and I could do nothing but watch as the guards struggled with Elain, pulling her up to the mouth of the cauldron. Nesta looked like she wished nothing more than to rip everyone's throat out with her bare hands. More guards joined her side to hold her back. 

“Stop this. We didn’t agree to this.” Tamlin called out, an unfamiliar horror etched into his face. Jaw and shoulders tight. When the guards continued dragging Elain to the cauldron, Tamlin pounced. Even I cried out as he was slammed to the ground by that invisible force. He strained but did not rise. 

With a blood curdling scream that drowned out Feyre’s last plea, we watched Elain get thrown into the almost black water of the cauldron. Seconds passed like hours, she hadn’t resurfaced after a few moments and both Feyre and Nesta were holding their breath. Eyes locked on the horror in front of them. Suddenly, the cauldron tipped over and Elain’s limp body tumbled to the floor. Feyre let out a sob as Elain gasped for air. I was ashamed of the relief that flowed through me. Her skin had a slight shimmer to it, ears already elongating. It worked. 

Elain was already shivering, her nightgown soaked through. 

“So it works?” One of the queens spoke, if I had been able to move I would have punched her in her perfect face. 

“The next one if you please.” Hybern spoke to the guards holding Nesta. In all my years, I had never seen someone fight as hard as Nesta did in those moments. She almost slipped out of the guards hold three times before they managed to get her to the edge of the cauldron. Before she could be dunked, I watched as she pointed a long finger at Hybern. A curse, a promise that he will pay for this moment until he stopped breathing. Nesta spent longer under than Elain did, each second passing by slower than the next. Feyre vomited as the time passed. Rhys scrambled to her side.  Nesta was dumped onto the floor beside her sister. Just like her sister, she was faintly glowing. But there was something different, unsettling. I couldn’t place my finger on it but Nesta felt like she was more than fae as she clutched her sister. 

Nesta shoved Lucien off, shoved the cloak he had wrapped around her shivering body and replaced it with her arms. Sobbing her sister's name into her hair. She rocked her like a babe. 

Between my own sobs I almost missed it. That one whispered sentence from Lucien. Mate. I never hated him more than I did right at this moment. I let my mind fill with what I would do to the both of them when we left this room. Imagined the blood was not Azriel’s but Tamlin’s or Lucien’s. That it was them screaming and not my family as it was torn apart in front of me. 

Feyre collapsed to the ground so suddenly it pulled me from my violent thoughts. Light so blinding I buried my head into Azriel’s shoulder. My hand blindly reached to cover his eyes. I sensed the light fading and peaked my head up enough to see Feyre on the ground, clutching and tearing at her head. Then she looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. She pushed Rhys away from her and scrambled towards Tamlin. This has to be a sick dream. 

“What did you do to me?” Feyre cried out, clinging to Tamlin like he wasn’t the reason we were in this mess. 

“How’d you do it Feyre?” Rhys’ voice wrapped around the words like a siren song. I couldn’t make sense of what was happening around me until Mor gasped. 

“What did you do to that girl?” 

“Break the bond.” Feyre sniffled. Crawling a pace towards the king of Hybern. The small flicker of her eyes back to Rhys made it come crashing down on me. She was not leaving with us. She was going to go with Tamlin. I watched as the scene unfolded around me. I cried harder. Azriel’s hand tightened on my own. They would pay for all of this, one day. I would make sure of that myself. They were-

Rhys’ scream made every hair on my body stand up. Feyre’s own screamed wove in with his and I covered my ear not pressed into Azriel’s chest with my free hand. Unable to hear the sounds around me any longer. I rocked back and forth, desperately trying to calm down. But the sobs continued as the screams did. I couldn’t take this. Hearing my family's agony was going to kill me, I was certain. Then it all went quiet. A haunting quiet that left my ears ringing. 

Tamlin ripped off the glove on Feyre’s left hand and found nothing but perfectly smooth skin. I clutched onto my brother's jacket as he crawled over to us. He wrapped his arms around our group as best as he could. 

“You’re free to go, Rhysand. His poison is gone. Shame about the wings.” He taunted my brother. I grabbed at his jacket so hard my hands shook. Fiery pain at the small motion. I turned my eyes to Feyre, to this brave and beautiful girl who once again had sacrificed everything for the people I loved. I let my thank you echo in my head, roaring in the mess that was left. It was in that split second that Mor winnowed next to the huddled newly-fae females. And winnowed away. Rhys winnowing us at the same moment. 

I couldn’t breathe. So afraid to even move. I laid on the floor until Rhys pulled me up to my feet, my unsteady legs nearly buckling under me. My eyes looked around, not believing what they saw. The warm wood of the walls in our townhome. Rhys’ arms wrapped around me, pull.ing me tight against him. My arms hung limply at my side. I felt like I was floating away, like it had been me that was pulled into that inky black water and sent adrift. 

“Stay with me.” Rhys whispered into my hair. I fought through the haze in my head and eyes, clawing my way back into the very real room I was now standing in. My muscles locked tight, an ice cold feeling traveling down my spine. A cry left my lips and I pulled myself out of my brother's arms. Caring about nothing else but Azriel suddenly. 

I crouched over him, pulling his head into my lap. The ash arrow still sticking out of him

 “I’m sorry.” I whispered as I ripped the arrow out of his chest. “Where is Majda?” I hissed to my brother. His face was pale. 

“She’s on her way, he’ll be o-”

“Don’t finish that fucking sentence Rhys.” Azriel was getting paler by the second. Eyes fully closed. I leaned my forehead against his. “Please. Please, I can’t lose you.” I whispered, not caring if the others heard. I was shaking all over but I couldn’t let go of him. 

Amren walked into the room, freezing as her eyes swept over all of us. 

“Where is she?” Her quicksilver eyes flaring with something dangerous. Rhys didn’t respond, when none of us did, she simply asked again. That fire behind her eyes growing ever brighter. 

“It was a trap. Tamlin sold out his court for Hybern’s use and Ianthe sold out Feyre’s sisters. He wanted to prove…prove the cauldron could make people immortal. Make them fae. We could do nothing. We were out of options.” Mor responded. Voice heavy with the words, like she was speaking with a mouth full of rocks. 

“Rhysand” Amren started. Blind rage flared through me at the accusation in those words, 

“She knew we couldn’t do anything. She pretended like I had made her do it all, leaving spring, staying here, the bond. She said she would go with them if they stopped. So we walked out of there freely because she stayed behind.”

“The bond?” 

“Hybern broke it.” I croaked. The words like sandpaper in my throat. 

“That’s impossible. That magic simply does not exist.”

“No it doesn’t.” Rhys spoke clearly. My eyes darted to his. That pain was real, the heartbreak for his mate could not be faked. But it was not because of the bond breaking. Because if it could not be broken then Feyre…

“Go get her. Now.” Amren hissed at my brother. 

“No.” The room trembled under the weight of a high lord’s command. Even Amren balked at him. “She is a spy, with a tie to me. So she will stay in Spring where she will see Hyberns’ soldiers, learn their plans. And so will we.”

“She isn’t a spy.

“No. She’s my mate. And she is the High Lady of the Night Court. 

“What?” Amren and Mor spoke at the same time. 

“If they removed her other glove, they would have seen the mark from last night, the ink swirled around her wrist from when I swore her in as my High Lady. My equal in every way that matters.” 

I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to break more tonight. Hearing the sure way Rhys spoke, the decision they had made in a split second together. He would never have allowed this on his own, but Feyre. The cunning girl came up with this in seconds. When Azriel’s life was hanging by a thread. She knew she would have to return to that vile place to save my family, her family. I sobbed, already tired of the sound. But for the first time tonight, there was a shard of hope poking at the edges of all the pain. Worming it’s way to the surface. But I felt it, that itch under my skin. The warm thoughts were already being dragged under by the simmering rage I felt. The rage that was echoed in my brother. The stiffness in his shoulders, his hands clenched white knuckles by his sides. The muscles in his jaw jumped slightly, eyes far away as he drifted far away for a second. Only a second before I felt the room tremble again. A deep sigh in the ground beneath us. My skin crawled in response. That surge that threatened to swallow us both whole and take the house with it.

I unwrapped myself from Azriel’s side, standing on sure legs this time. And crossed the room to my brother. I held out an expectant hand. He only stared for a few moments before he grabbed it. Winnowing us out of the house. I exploded the moment Rhys appeared back in the world. Inky blackness thick enough to hold poured out from me in waves. This was not sadness, no, it was pure rage. Rage at a male who thought he owned Feyre, could own anyone. He might hide behind polished clothing and excuses of good intentions but I could see him for the monster he truly was. Rhys stayed by my side as I fell apart. And when I saw that last cloud of black ink fade into nothing, Rhys collapsed with the force of an earthquake. The ground splitting around us. Cracks formed so deep they seemed to never end. He let out a roar that sent animals and birds running away from us. I didn’t try to comfort him. I had no words that could fix this, nothing that would bring Feyre back to us. So I sat and watched as his heart poured out from him in the only way he could. Screams broke off into sobs and that was my undoing. I sank down next to him, wrapping my arms so tightly around him I was worried if he could even breathe. Worried he wouldn’t push me away if he couldn’t.

“We’ll get her back.” I spoke against his answering swirl of darkness. “We got her out once. We can do it again. We Will do it again.” I pulled back enough to see his face. 

“And we will plan, and we will fight. And you will eat. You will breathe. And you will live knowing we will get her back. And I will live knowing that I am going to help you end them all for what they put our family through.” My own power trickled out. Nothing more than vapor before it faded away. And this time I felt it. That final death knell of the powers I had clung to so dearly. 

“And once she’s back. We go to war.” I whispered, a stray tear rolling down my face as I pushed the hope of ever using my powers again far away. There was no forgiveness in my heart. Swept away when I saw the pain in Feyre’s face. No. I did not forgive Tamlin for what had happened today. And as I tried to forget the screams as they danced around my head. I know, deep down, I never would. 

Next part: Chapter 6

Taglist: @nickishadow139 @tothestarsandwhateverend @quinzzelx @durgenyx @i-am-infinite @mariahoedt @acourtofbatboydreams @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @nocasdatsgay

[coochiequeens]

There's something satisfying about when an abusive man is called out by other men. Or at least one man.

Rest In Infamy, You Haunted Castle

Why I believe the Neil Gaiman accusations

By GRAHAM LINEHAN JUL 19, 2024

I only met Neil Gaiman once, at an upscale dinner party where Derren Brown had been hired to do magic tricks like in the old-timey days. Between astonishments, Gaiman and I withdrew to a quiet corner where I pretended to be pleased that he was giving me a signed copy of ‘Sandman’. One of the unexpected advantages of being cancelled is telling people who took part in my harassment what I really think about their work, but this was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, so I said the right things and we went back to being bamboozled by Brown’s invisible craft.

To give credit where it’s due, I later read Gaiman’s ‘Coraline’ to my kids which had them simultaneously terrified and hooked, and thanked him for it. Whatever my feelings about his earlier work, he was a real writer, practising his own invisible craft. From the evidence of that book, I thought he was probably a decent person too, an impression that continued until 2022, when we started to get into it over The Issue.

I may have asked why he wasn’t speaking out on behalf of JK Rowling, who was undergoing one of her regular cancellations for refusing to pander to the spoilt brats who loved her books but missed their meaning. A big name like his might have shifted the conversation and given her some much-needed support. He might perhaps have persuaded some of his fans to give the matter another look. This was when I assumed people like him acknowledged biological reality but worried about ‘coming out of the closet’, as it were. It took me years to realise that almost every celebrity mate of mine believed, or was pretending to believe, in the fashionable, American mind-cancer of ’gender’.

But back then, I was still astonished to find that he was a carrier of the virus, the mass delusion that by sheer coincidence, turned up after the arrival of the Internet. Whether it was Bill Bailey or Neil Hannon, Robin Ince or Matt Lucas, Arthur Mathews or Jimmy Mulville, it was always the same story. A sudden cloud of amnesia would form around my celebrity mates, a real peasouper, from which they suddenly could not see why we need female-only spaces, or why unhappy teenage girls will not find a miraculous cure for their woes in a double mastectomy. Far from sharing any of my urgency in the need to stop children from being irreversibly harmed in gender clinics, they instead downplayed, deflected and dismissed. “I never ask you to join in with my animal activism” grumbled Neil Hannon on one of the occasions I begged for his support.

“Couldn’t you pretend women and children are animals?” I thought.

My usual trajectory during these conversations saw me shifting from gobsmacked disbelief to fury and despair. The disloyalty made me angry, but knowing my friends did not care about their own daughters, wives, sisters and mothers was, and continues to be, destabilising in the extreme.

Gaiman went one step further. I can’t find the tweet, so I may be paraphrasing, but he said

"I hope you're kinder if your daughter ever hopes to transition."

I can think of no uglier thing to say to a parent. For girls, ‘transition’ means double mastectomies in their teens, hysterectomies in their mid-twenties, early menopause and a four times greater chance of having a heart attack than males of the same age. To have this decaying goth wish that horror on my daughter was more than I could bear. I wanted to rip his throat out.

Like a pair of grappling cowboys falling off a rooftop, our fight spilled into email. I sent Gaiman this article about the Tavistock. It was clear when he wrote back that he hadn’t absorbed it Like most celebrities in this fight, he appeared to have lost the ability to read.

“As I said before Graham, I hope that you'd be kinder if it was one of your kids who wanted to transition. “

He actually said it again. The piece was right there, detailing exactly what was happening to the children unlucky enough to wander through the Tavistock’s doors, and he chose to repeat that disgusting thing. Why?

That same year, just months before Gaiman was advising me on the value of kindness, a 22-year-old woman (‘Scarlett’ in the podcast) arrived at his Waiheke Island home in New Zealand for a babysitting job. Upon her arrival, she discovered that Gaiman’s wife of the time, Amanda Palmer, had suddenly remembered a sleepover, an appointment the child was apparently eager to attend.

So she and junior drove out of view, leaving the 23 -year-old Scarlett alone with Gaiman for the night. Within a few hours the 61-year-old man, without warning or invitation, appeared fully naked and slipped into the other end of her bath. Scarlett alleges that over the next three weeks, they embarked on a semi-consensual relationship, where Gaiman routinely ignored the boundaries she set. She alleges that he became angry when she would refuse these demands, used a belt to beat her, insisted she call him ‘Master’ and once sexually assaulted her so violently that she lost consciousness.

“… (the sex) was so painful and so violent that I fainted. I passed out, lost consciousness, ringing in the ears, black vision, the pain was celestial, you know, which is a strange word to use, but I couldn't even describe it in language. And when I regained consciousness and I was on the ground, I looked up and he was watching the rehearsals from Scotland of whatever they were filming, I don't fucking know. And he didn't even notice that I was passed out. And you know…there was blood. It was so so, so traumatic, and I asked him to stop. I said it was too much.”

Scarlett is a compelling witness despite, or because of, her contradictions. Certain things paint a picture of consent—she sexted Gaiman, to which he would send careful replies—and she laughs nervously when she talks about the alleged abuse. But when Gaiman’s side of the story is put to her, she turns cold as a knife and shows flashes of fury that she—in her telling—young, inexperienced and dazzled by Palmer and Gaiman’s fame and lifestyle, was used so casually and so brutally.

A few years back, I wrote about becoming a sort of Jessica Fletcher figure on Twitter. ‘Murder, She Wrote” but with paedophiles and predators. “Just as murderers seemed drawn to any location Jessica presented herself, “ I said. “My opining about women's rights and safety on Twitter appeared to attract the kind of men who can't sit still during a spelling bee.”

Among my adversaries was Peter Bright, the Ars Technica writer now doing twelve years for trying to buy two children to abuse. Luckily the children didn’t exist and the parents were actually FBI agents. Our exchange was brief and concerned safeguarding. I’m sure you’re all astonished to discover that he was against it.

Then there was ex-Labour MP Eric Joyce, who argued with me about the safety of mixed-sex loos in schools and was done for possessing the worst kind of child abuse images. More recently, I tangled with ‘Lexi’, who is now serving time for rape.

They all had one thing in common. They couldn’t leave alone those of us who were actively opposing the trans movement's assault on safeguarding, an assault that chimed nicely with their plans for the future. Each was returning to the scene of a crime not yet committed, each picking at a scab on their own character.

In 2018, at the height of #MeToo, Gaiman tweeted “On a day like today it’s worth saying, I believe survivors. Men must not close their eyes and minds to what happens to women in this world. We must fight, alongside them, for them to be believed, at the ballot box, and with art, and by listening, and change this world for the better.”

Well said. I certainly believe the women in ‘Master’. During my Jessica Fletcher period (a period which continues) no-one except Gaiman ever mentioned my kids. I think he knew it would cause me distress, and the second time he said it was just a twisting of the knife. Many of my colleagues in the media joined in with the trashing of my reputation, but Gaiman went that extra mile. I believe this is because he is a sadist. I think he is a man who finds pleasure in the suffering of others, and a man who does not see women and girls as fully human.

This was my final letter to him.

Dear Neil

I notice you’re still pretending you can’t read the Tavistock story. If you ever try and lay that curse on my kids again I will certainly share our exchange. Your privileged beliefs are harming children so to paraphrase Will Smith, keep their names out of your fucking mouth.

Thank you for giving me one last chance to say that JK Rowling will be remembered as a hero and you as a traitor to the kids who loved your books.

Rest in infamy, you haunted castle.

All the best,

Graham.

[sumire-no-nikki]

I visited Topping and Company in Edinburgh earlier this year and it was such a lovely time that I couldn’t not visit the one in Bath (thanks to @pourdownlikesilver for telling me about it!) I spent so much time deciding which book to get as it’s always overwhelming in the best possible way when I enter a bookstore for the first time. I ultimately decided on an exclusive copy of Water signed by the author John Boyne (whose earlier work The Heart’s Invisible Furies I thoroughly enjoyed, so I’ve got high hopes for Water!) Then I chose a couple of books to gift to friends. It was a lovely sunny day 🌞

[marvelstoriesepic]

Breaking Chains (2)

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x reader

Series Summary: Leaving behind an abusive and possessive boyfriend, and finding refuge in the hometown you once yearned to escape, certainly wasn’t a chapter you anticipated in your life’s story. Yet, eyes as blue as the sky at dusk, belonging to a mysterious biker drew you into a world of unexpected possibilities, where a job at his bar becomes more than just a means of survival - it’s a pathway to freedom and self-discovery. Though, breaking away from your past proves daunting when shackled by invisible chains.

Chapter word count: 6.3k

Warnings: flashback to toxic relationship, abuse and possessiveness; vomiting; toxic parents; nightmare; self-preservation; anxiety

Author’s note: Here’s the second part. Let me know if you want to be tagged on the next one. Thank you for the support!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“Michael!”

“Michael, stop!”

You chased after your boyfriend, steps pounding over the wooden floorboards of your apartment that felt little like home since you shared it with him.

Your heart was hammering against your chest, lead filled your stomach and your cheek was still stinging from a few moments earlier when his palm had met your face in a swift motion.

The sound of the mixer lid opening reverberated through the apartment and panic surged within you as you quickened your pace.

You rounded the corner into the kitchen where he stood beside the kitchen counter, the mixer sitting innocently next to the microwave. Michael held your phone precariously over the open mixer, his other hand poised to turn it on. Tension crackled in the air, though that was a known occurrence by now. As was the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Another call lit up the screen of your phone - your coworker who had tried to check in with you a few times this week, since you haven’t shown up at work for a while now, Michael not letting you leave the house. However, the many messages and unanswered calls in the last minutes reached the peak of his rage, and his patience - there wasn’t much to begin with - wearing thin.

“You’re not going back there again, do you understand that?”

The deadly calm of his threat weighed heavily on you, bearing you down, suffocating you.

“Michael-”

“Do you understand?” He roared, his whole body shaking with rage.

“Yes. So leave it be. Put it down Michael, you don’t need to do this!”

You walked towards him, eyes wide and arms out in front of you. Trembling hands reached out to grab your phone, pulling it out of his white-knuckled grasp. Before you could retreat, his grip wrapped around your arms instead, his touch like a vice. His hard gaze sent shivers down your spine, his dark eyes burning with a fury that seemed to consume him from within. His voice was laced with venom.

“You fucking bitch!”

You knew what came next, got used to the routine by now - the shouting, the violence, the destruction. It was a cycle that seemed impossible to break, a cycle that left you feeling numb. When he shoved you aside, your body collided painfully with the counter, but you barely registered the pain. It was a familiar sensation. So you stood there, frozen in place, as he continued his rampage, his voice cutting through the air like knives. His arms were wildly thrashing around, aggressive shouting meeting the walls of your apartment.

Picture frames crashed to the ground, their glass surfaces shattering into a thousand pieces, mirroring the shattered fragments of your once-hopeful relationship. The couch bore the scars of his anger, indentations where his feet had collided with its surface in a fit of fury. A book lay abandoned on the coffee table, its pages now crumpled and torn. You had forgotten about the plot anyway.

As he stormed through the room, his voice booming with unrestrained anger, you found yourself detached from the chaos unfolding before you, his words not registering in your mind - a protective barrier. You had been here before and it would happen again.

Bile rose up your throat. All the things he destroyed were remnants of the life you shared. The life you despised. Usually, you were able to swallow it back down but your eyes drifted to the coat rack where your jacket molded with his, and the nausea churning your stomach threatened to overwhelm you.

With a desperate lurch, you tore yourself away from the chaos unfolding in the living room and sprinted across the hallway toward the bathroom. You stumbled inside, barely managing to reach the toilet before the contents of your stomach erupted in a violent rush. The sound of Michaels' raging voice echoed in your ears like a distant storm.

“Ugh, you disgusting bitch!” Michaels' curses reached your ears and you squeezed your eyes shut. You heard keys jingling, indicating that he was making a hasty exit. “You better get a grip before I come back, or you’ll pay!”

His parting threat hung in the air like a dark cloud as you heard the door slam. You slummed against the bathroom floor, cold tiles pressing against your back. Tears streamed down your cheeks, mingling with the bitter taste of bile still lingering in your mouth.

You didn’t know how long you laid there. But as you pushed yourself up from the floor, your muscles protested and your back felt sore. Avoiding your reflection in the mirror, you leaned heavily against the sink, reaching for your toothbrush to scrub away the remnants of bile.

As you leaned down to spit out the foamy toothpaste, your eyes caught something beneath the sink, lying on the floor. Your heart skipped a beat, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through your veins. It was your phone. You had snatched it from Michaels' grasp before his anger spiraled out of control and he hadn’t retrieved it before he left in haste, not wanting to deal with a vomiting girl.

Clammy hands reached down to pick it up and you and unlocked it. Michael had changed your password but seemingly forgot to delete your fingerprint. In a blur of urgency, your fingers flew over the screen, calling back your coworker.

Carol had eased you over the phone and left her own apartment with a quick ‘hold tight, kid’ in a rush to get to you. Relief flooded your senses as she gained herself access to your home by picking the lock. You didn’t know how long Michael would be gone and you felt your heart beating erratically the whole time you packed your few possessions into the boxes Carol had gathered. She had offered you her place to stay but you declined, knowing you had to put some distance between him and yourself.

Your eyes flew open, the sudden jolt rippling you from the clutches of the memory that had ensnared you in its chilling grip. You tried to catch a breath, feeling sweat coating your skin like a clammy shroud.

A hand was running soothing patterns on your back and your eyes focused on Wanda sitting beside you in your bed, concern etched deep into her features. She was talking but her voice didn’t reach your ears, distant words that seemed lost in the disorientating fog of your mind.

It took some moments for her voice to pierce through the haze. “I need you to breathe Y/n, come on!” She urged softly, not letting up to rub your back.

You managed to draw in a few shaky breaths as you clung to the sheets beneath you. Your racing heart calmed down and the room seemed to come into sharper focus. A heavy sigh left your lips.

Wanda’s touch gently withdrew from your back after your breaths visibly evened out again. She kept sitting on the edge of your bed, a sigh in her breath. A sense of tranquility hung in the air, a heaviness settling like a veil of velvet.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Surprisingly, that was all you needed. You sat there, bathed in the soft glow of the moon filtering through the windows, and a sense of comfort washed over you. You had kept your struggles hidden for so long, afraid to burden her with your troubles but the weight of your past pressed down on you like a heavy cloak and she obviously knew something was going on. Your friendship had taken a soft blow due to your silence and you refused to grant Michael the satisfaction he would most definitely feel of prolonging it.

So after your small nod, Wanda slid under your sheets, enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth. With each word that tumbled from your lips, you unburdened yourself of the weight that had been taking residence in your chest for so long.

You recounted the early days of your relationship with Michael, the tender moments and sweet gestures that had initially swept you off your feet. His charm had been intoxicating, his affection seemingly boundless. That was as far as you told your friends.

But then you also told her about the darker, more sinister side of Michaels' personality, that came out after a while. How his possessiveness had escalated gradually and the need to control everything - dictating where you could go, who you could see, and what you could wear. Raised voices and heated arguments had become the norm, his temper flaring at the slightest provocation.

You let her examine the bruises that still littered your wrists from the day before - the day you left. You had become adept at hiding the evidence of Michaels' abuse, concealing the physical manifestations of his cruelty beneath layers of clothing and make-up. Yet, as they lay exposed for Wanda to see, a strange sense of relief washed over you.

Tears were shed, both, Wanda's and yours and it took a while until everything that gripped at your heart was laid bare, sunlight now filtering through the curtains but Wanda listened intently. She held your hand when you choked on words and offered you the kind of comfort you had been craving for years, a weight being lifted from your shoulders.

She embraced you in a tight hug after you were done. “I’m so sorry, Y/n! I’m so sorry!” It was the only thing she could manage, struggling to find her voice.

****

Brick walls stared back at you hauntingly. They had a different color now. The sunlight played upon the textured surface, casting shadows that danced across the facade, accentuating the subtle variations in color.

You noticed the meticulous attention to detail that had gone into the renovation of your parent's house. The one you grew up in. Though it felt little like the house you knew. The mortar between the bricks appeared fresh, neatly applied to fill in any gaps and cracks that had formed over the years you lived there. Your parents seemed to have taken care to restore the exterior, washing away any indications that you had lived there not long ago.

The wooden doorframe gleamed with a fresh coat of varnish, the scratches on its surface you were responsible for, when you were a kid not visible anymore. The brass doorknob was polished, reflecting the sunlight in dazzling glints.

In the driveway, parked in the spot, where your old family car used to rest was a vehicle you didn’t recognize - a sleek, modern model that seemed out of place in the suburban neighborhood. Your parents never told you about the new car or anything else they did to the house, living their life without you.

A bucket of ice water could have been poured over your head and you wouldn’t have felt much colder than you already did. It was a sunny day, you even had to squint your eyes and still got blinded but nothing could make you feel warm at the sight of the house in front of you that looked so familiar, yet foreign. You felt disconnected from the life you once had here.

Your mother never had a hand at gardening, her forgetfulness to water the potted plants she still put in every corner of your house and in front of it, resulted in withered blooms and dried leaves strewn across the ground until she got annoyed and threw them out. A reflection of your relationship.

So you found yourself staring at the tended flower beds and carefully arranged pots now littering the front yard with a bitterness that left your mouth dry. The sudden burst of enthusiasm for gardening she must have had felt like a slap in the face, the realization that your departure had inadvertently paved the way for your mother to rediscover herself in ways she had never before considered.

You thought about knocking. Maybe it was a fleeing wish your parents would welcome you with open arms and a smile on their faces. But that possibility was small - or not there at all. Sorrow filled your stomach at the thought of facing your parents, or confronting the painful truth that they had moved on without you. You had become a distant memory in their lives already, a footnote in the narrative of their newfound happiness.

Your arrival wouldn’t be met with relieved smiles and comfort, it would only serve to reopen old wounds and stir up long-buried resentments - you would be a burden. The weight of reality bore down upon you with crushing force.

“What are you doing there looking like a lost lamb?”

Your head snapped away from the house with the lost fragments of your childhood, gaze meeting the weathered visage of an elderly man slowly making his way towards you on the sidewalk you have been standing on for who knows how long. He leaned on a sturdy walking stick, a flat hat resting atop his grey hair.

Your eyes widened upon seeing him better. “Mr. Clark!” you exclaimed, a warm sensation making way in your stomach at the old shopkeeper of the gardening store further down the road you always passed on your way to school as a kid.

You vividly remembered the time you had stumbled and fallen on the sidewalk, knees and hands scraped, and tears streaming down your cheeks. He had seen you trip through the windows of his shop and rushed out to ease you and take you home. He had been more gentle than your mother was.

Upon hearing his name the old man’s gaze sharpened and a slow smile crept across his face. He halted a few inches away from you, hooded eyes scanning your features. “Well, well,” he mused, “Would you look at who’s come back to town.” His gaze lingered on you, it looked like he could see right through you. “Been a while since I’ve seen you around, child. You look different. Almost didn’t recognize you.”

Did you look different?

You had no idea what you looked like the last time you were around.

“Yeah, I haven’t been here for quite some time.”

A sheepish chuckle escaped your lips and your eyes drifted back to the house.

Mr. Clark followed your gaze and he took a big breath. “I’m sorry about your parents kid. It’s a shame they left town. I don’t even know where it took them.” He kept his eyes on the building but your gaze burned in his side.

Your heart constricted inside your chest, feeling like it had just been pierced by thousands of small needles. You didn’t feel yourself breathing and were unable to blink.

Left town?

Your parents had left town?

You guessed that was the confirmation you needed. The final blow, the definite proof that they had moved on without you. You had clung to the hope that perhaps, deep down, they still cared and that there was still a chance to mend the fractured relationship between them and you. But now that hope felt like nothing more than a cruel illusion - a mirage in the desert of your longing.

Slowly, your eyes shifted back to the house in front of you. The neatly arranged pots of plants, the well-tended front guard, the fresh coat of paint, the new car - it all made sense now. It wasn’t your parents who had renovated the house, but rather the people who lived in it now.

Guilt consumed you like a relentless beast, tearing at your insides with its sharp claws and gnashing teeth. If you hadn’t left and just followed the path your parents had laid out for you, then perhaps they would still be here. If you finished college they probably would still be a part of your life. If you-

“Is everything alright, child? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The voice of Mr. Clark once again snapped you back to reality with a subtle flinch. You tried a smile reaching your lips but it might have come out as more of a grimace.

“Uh, yeah. I-” you started, choking on your words, but Mr. Clark had already resumed his walk, indicating you to follow him with a wink of his walking stick.

“I think you could use some water, dear.”

A weary sigh left your lips but you felt too tired to relent, so you met his pace, walking side by side.

You neared the gardening store, he still seemed to have kept in his old days. “The boys will be there already,” he remarked. You turned to him confused.

“The boys?”

You saw the bikes first. Two of them, parked in front of the gardening store that - other than anything else in this town as it felt like - hadn’t changed at all since you left. You recognized those bikes. They stood outside the bar the day before yesterday when you dragged Pietro home and met some of the bikers for the first time. The telltale dent in the front of one of them caught your attention as it had that evening. A stark contrast against the pristine surface of its companion.

Then two figures came into sight. One leaned casually against the wall near the opening of the store, exuding an air of nonchalance, shoulders shaking with a laugh as he had his arms crossed in front of his chest. The other stood before him, his body language tinged with irritation. A hand came up to run over his face.

As you drew closer to the store the figures standing in the shadows began to take shape and you recognized them immediately. It was Sam and Bucky. Sam was leaning against the wall, his teasing grin on display, a laugh in his breath. A groan from Bucky met your ears and although he stood with his back to you, annoyance radiated from him in waves.

Sam seemed to have spotted you, judging by the smile that lifted his cheeks as he pushed off the wall and uncrossed his arms. “What a way to meet again!” he called out to you.

You surely hadn’t expected to meet them here and it threw you off the loop for a second but Sam’s bright grin managed a genuine smile to reach your eyes. Bucky had turned around and you met his gaze briefly but before you could conjure up another smile or read his expression, Mr. Clark walked past you with a jingle of his keys, to open the door to his shop.

“That girl stood there pale as a ghost. Thought some water would do her well, eh?” he declared, letting out a gruff chuckle. “Don’t want her passing out on the sidewalk.” His voice, weathered by age, held a hint of concern, albeit expressed in a rather blunt manner that had a blush creeping up your cheeks in embarrassment.

The old man entered the store and you quickly fell into step behind him, not needing the two guys to dwell on your momentary discomfort.

You picked up that Sam had been about to say something but then a grunt escaped his lips behind you, followed by an aggravated “Damn you, man,” directed at Bucky who had evidently delivered a punch to Sam’s side.

You never really had entered Mr. Clark's store before - Never really were in need of a gardening supply but the interior bore the marks of age with a weathered elegance, the wooden shelves displaying an assortment of gardening supplies with a sense of rustic charm. Vintage gardening posters and faded photographs adorned the walls, adding to its nostalgic allure.

However, you barely had a moment to take in the store's ambiance before Mr. Clark practically ushered you into a wooden chair behind the small counter and disappeared behind a nearby door.

“Mr. Clark, you really don’t have to-” you began calling after him but your words were swiftly interrupted as he reappeared, handing you a glass of water.

“Drink the water, child,” he ordered and diverted his attention to the two guys standing a few feet away, seemingly caught up in a glaring contest. “And you two boys, stop with the stalling and get on with the work. That’s what you are here for, aren’t you?.”

With a final warning glare towards Sam, Bucky’s demeanor shifted from tense to purposeful as he began to pick up a lawn mower standing next to the entrance and moved the heavy machinery to where Mr. Clark indicated.

Meanwhile, Sam took charge of the flower pots, rearranging them with care. From your vantage point behind the counter, you observed their actions, nibbling at your water when Mr. Clark sent you a glare across the room. They didn’t appear to be here out of obligation or duty, but rather out of a genuine desire to assist an old man who needed a helping hand - not being able to do it on his own anymore, but without wanting to give up his well-loved shop.

It seemed so ordinary for them to be here and do the work for this old man, it made you wonder what else they did around town - what other acts of kindness they might be involved in. Guilt found its way back to you, settling in your stomach and making it churn. The revelation that they actually appeared to be good-hearted people, had first dawned on you after your first initial encounter two days ago, but seeing them like this, engaged in such a well-meant act of kindness, solidified that understanding even further.

You took a few more sips of the water, hoping its coolness would calm the fluttering sensations in your chest. But the effect was fleeting, especially when you caught sight of the smile Bucky directed towards Mr. Clark.

It wasn’t that kind of smile you knew of Sam but it was more you had seen of him at the bar. It lit up his features with warmth and sincerity, small crinkles formed at the edges of his eyes - it was disarmingly charming.

He had shrugged off his jacket to better tackle the task at hand, revealing toned muscles rippling beneath his long-sleeved shirt. Lifting another lawn mower with ease, Bucky’s back muscles contorted visibly. His hands were both covered with gloves and you noticed the little specks of dirt that had accumulated on his jeans throughout but he didn’t seem to mind.

You quickly averted your eyes upon noticing you yourself were watched. Dark eyes were fixed on you and your peripheral could make out the knowing smirk that grazed Sam’s face. Glancing around the gardening store once more, trying to maintain a fond of indifference after being caught ogling at his friend, you saw Sam turn back to his task but the smirk on his lips didn’t leave his face.

You took in the store a little more, looking out the forefront and imagining seeing little you walking by on your way home from school with your little backpack on, the zipper broken because it was always a little too packed. Sunlight filtered through, casting a warm glow over the interior and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Wooden floorboards creaked under heavy boots.

You found appeal in the idea of helping out here yourself. It was a cozy place and you were in need of a job.

After your nightmare yesterday and the heartfelt conversation with Wanda, you had found a small sense of solace again. You both went to Pietro to check up on him and spent the day. When you also confided in him about your troubled past, Wanda and you had to ease him out of buying a ticket to Seattle to ‘show him how he deserves to be treated’. You had spent the whole day with them, filled with take-out and movies, bringing back that comfort you had missed for so long.

Nonetheless, Wanda had to return to her job today. After all, she had completed her graphic design degree and was working from home, designing a new logo for a local startup company. Not wanting to disrupt her creative flow, you had decided to take a leisurely walk around town earlier in the hope it would clear your mind and perhaps explore potential job opportunities in the area.

However, as you strolled through the familiar streets, you found yourself in front of your parent's house - well, which wasn’t their house anymore as it seemed.

Perhaps you might have even fled out of your new shared apartment with Wanda earlier. Watching her immersed in her graphic design work only served to amplify the ache in your heart. The urgency to secure a job as quickly as possible might stem from the deep-seated longing and regret that consumed you. You could have been in the same position as Wanda, pursuing a degree in graphic design and building a career from it.

You might not have been as talented or passionate as Wanda was and probably not as happy, but you also weren’t happy in the place you found yourself in right now - essentially losing three years of your life, along with the love of your parents and the sense of identity you once possessed could do that to a person.

“Do I need to get you some water as well, son? Work isn’t finished yet.”

Once again, Mr. Clark's voice jolted you back to the present, snapping you away from the tangle of thoughts that had consumed you. You turned your head, watching Bucky getting pulled out of wherever his own mind had drifted, grumbling a quick response to the elderly man and hastily making his way back towards the entrance to fiddle with a few gardening tools.

Sam wore that knowing smirk again, as he continued with his own task. It was clear that he had noticed Bucky’s momentary lapse in focus and was likely already formulating a teasing remark to poke fun at him later on. Well, that was how you imagined their kind of relationship to be.

You were intrigued to find out what might have caught Bucky’s attention that left him almost bashful after being caught.

Mr. Clark walked by you and you stood from the chair, taking the chance to talk to him. “I could help you out as well, Mr. Clark-” you started but got boldly interrupted again.

“I’ve got the boys already, child. They’re more than enough to keep an old man busy. No need for any more fuss,” he declared, dismissing your offer and taking the glass out of your hand to refill it again despite your protests, handing it back to you. “Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to? A better job?”

You shook your head, your fingers tightened their hold on the glass. “Uhm. No, I’m still looking for one.”

“You’re looking for a job?”

Sam's voice behind you made you turn around to see him standing up and dusting off his jeans, his gaze on you.

“Sam,” Bucky warned sharply from his place, turning to him as well after adjusting a wheelbarrow, his movements stiff.

Sam seemed used to ignoring Bucky, his grin just widening and undeterred by the way Bucky’s hard glare burned holes in his side.

“We could use some help in the bar,” he continued, his voice casual but he still wore that ever-present smirk. The kind that made you think he knew something you didn’t.

Surprise etched your features and the tension that crackled in the air as you exchanged glances between Sam and Bucky left you a little unsettled. Bucky wasn’t meeting your eyes, his shoulders tense and his arms were held at his side awkwardly, fingers twitching.

Nonetheless, you couldn’t deny it was alluring - Sam’s suggestion. It would certainly be more exciting working in their bar than a gardening store, managed by a moody old man. The prospect of immersing yourself in the vibrant energy of a bustling bar scene appealed to the sense of distraction you could definitely use right now, in your current situation. And the bar surely held some sense of charm.

Bucky’s reaction though left you a little uneasy. Sure, it was a demanding job and not always that easy or even safe. Rowdy patrons, bar fights, and unwelcome advances from strangers were something you had to expect to happen in a bar, but you had experience, having worked in a bar in Seattle before Michael had put an end to it. He wouldn’t get a chance this time.

Perhaps Bucky didn’t believe you were capable of handling yourself in a bar environment. Yes, you had flinched this morning by the mundane sound of the kettle clicking off but did you actually look that helpless? A pang of indignation elicited in your stomach at the notion that Bucky might have already formed a judgment about your abilities grated against you. After all, you had navigated heated situations before with finesse - admittedly, you were lacking that kind of confidence now that you still had back then but you couldn’t help the small flicker of anger simmering inside you.

Your assumptions about Bucky’s reactions could possibly be off base, you had to acknowledge. You had been wrong about these guys before, forming your own judgments based on your imagined version of bikers so you considered the possibility that his apprehension had little to do with you, but rather himself. Whatever was going on inside his mind. He did seem like an overthinker if you were being honest.

But regardless of the reasons for his reaction, there was one thing you hadn’t lost; the stubborn sense to prove yourself.

Sam seemed to have read your answer in your expression, because his grin widened and he pulled out a gardening chair, sitting down and gesturing for you to take a seat on the one you had occupied before.

“We’re having a job interview,” he declared after you blinked at him in confusion, making it seem like it wasn’t utterly surreal to do this in the midst of a gardening store.

“Here? Now?”

A deep frustrated sigh caught your attention and you observed Bucky running a hand over his face in exasperation, mirroring his earlier actions outside the store. With another unsure glance at Sam, you hesitantly took a seat in front of him.

“Sam, don’t do this,” Bucky sighed, clearly done with him but Sam just pressed on with his agenda - leaning forward in his seat and fixing you with a feigned serious expression.

He started asking you about your full name and age, saving it in his phone. It was actually impressive how Sam managed to ignore the sharp glares of Bucky, while they made you shift on your rickety chair uncomfortably, although they weren’t even meant for you.

The relationship between those two remained a mystery to you. They were like opposing forces, caught in an eternal tug-of-war - Their banter full of irritation and teasing. You got a glimpse of their bickering at the bar and it seemed to be a normal occurrence. But then you noticed the subtle glances from Sam, as to check on Bucky and the almost fond clap on his shoulder after entering the store - they were breadcrumbs leading to a hidden story.

Eventually, Bucky redirected his attention back to the few gardening tools scattered in a corner - trowels, rakes, and a rusted watering can and started rearranging them. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

You offered Sam a court sketch of your past - the brief experience of college life that you abandoned to see the world beyond your little town. You left unsaid how your departure fractured the relationship with your parents, how their silence became a chasm. You skirted around their disappointment, the unspoken ache that wrapped around you like a well-worn scarf. The plans they had woven for you - the threads of stability, the safety net of expectations - and you had shredded them like old love letters. There was no need to delve into the guilt, the jagged edges of remorse.

To your surprise, Sam’s expression remained unclouded by judgment. His features were soft, understanding etched into the lines around his eyes and you felt yourself relax into the chair. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the falter in Bucky's movements and the way his body stilled at one point of your recap, curious eyes flickering toward you. You kept your gaze on Sam.

“Where’d you go?”

Sam's inquiry hung over you, a weight pressing down on your chest. Your throat tightened and you cleared your throat before forcing yourself to respond, the word escaping in a curt tone.

“Seattle.”

Sam eased back into his chair, arms folding across his chest. “Impressive move,” he remarked with a smile and a slight nod of his head, “I’ve never been to Seattle, but it’s got that buzz for sure.” His words held a quiet enthusiasm, a stark contrast to your own muted tone. You longed to see the city through Sam’s eyes, to rediscover its vibrancy beyond the shadows that clung to your past there.

“Why did you come back?”

You should have expected Sam to ask that but your breath hitched nonetheless, the room seemingly closing in on you. Your mouth opened but nothing came out. Fingers fidgeted with the fabric of your jacket in your lap and your palms started getting clammy. Feigning indifference, you hesitated, as if carefully selecting your words.

“Uhm,” was all you managed, silence stretching like an eternity, though it was likely mere seconds only.

“You don’t have to answer that!”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air and your head snapped toward him, a touch startled. For a moment, you even forgot he was there, the clattering of the gardening tools had ceased probably a while ago already and he stood there standing in your direction. His gaze locked with yours, sincerity emanating from his blue eyes and something that looked a lot like a heavy understanding.

“Now stop this Sam, this is ridiculous.” Bucky’s gaze hardened again as it swung back to Sam. Said man rolled his eyes in a comical display of exasperation, arms flailing in the air.

“Can’t have fun with this guy,” he quipped, voice dripping with mock seriousness. Bucky exhaled a heavy breath as he returned to his work, the lines of his jaw etching in frustration.

Sam's attention shifted back to you, clapping his hands together with enthusiasm. “Alright, well,” he declared, “Welcome to the team! The job is yours.”

“You can’t decide that,” Bucky stated flatly, his back still turned to you.

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Sure can, man,” he countered, rising from his chair.

You observed them both quietly from your chair, grateful that the attention had shifted from you. You took a deep breath, savoring the momentary respite. However, the creak of the backroom door reminded you of the presence of Mr. Clark, who reappeared, his hooded eyes sweeping over you three.

“Is this a clandestine gathering, children?” he rasped, pointing his stick at each of you in turn. “Your work is done here, sons. Now get out of here, will you?”

Sam grinned and gave Bucky a clap on the back as he walked passed him to the entrance. “Until next week then, Mr. Clark,” he threw over his shoulder.

Bucky shot you a brief look and followed Sam with a nod to the old man.

“It was nice to see you again Mr. Clark,” you said before making your way to the entrance as well. Bucky held the door open for you and you thanked him as you stepped into the daylight.

“Need a ride home?” Bucky’s voice was gruff, yet gentler than you had heard before. Sam perked up at his question, surprise dancing across his features that quickly morphed into an amused smirk.

“That’s really nice, thank you,” you replied, your smile genuine. “But I’m not far, really.”

Bucky nodded, a fleeting smile curving his lips. “Alright well, get home safe then.” He swung his leg over his black bike - the one with the damaged front you noticed.

“Well Y/n, I guess we’ll be seeing you soon,” Sam remarked, throwing you a wink as he got on his own bike.

You exchanged quick goodbyes and soon enough the rumble of their bikes faded into the distance, leaving behind a lingering echo.

You chose the longer route home, deliberately avoiding the street that led past your parents' former house. The sun dipped lower secondly, casting elongated shadows on the pavement. The pebble you kicked along the sidewalk became your silent companion, its journey mirroring your own - a solitary wanderer seeking solace.

The irony of your situation didn’t escape you. A few days ago, the notion of accepting a job at a biker bar would have been laughable for you. But as you had learned, life had a way of upending expectations, revealing the hidden layers beneath the surface.

And as yesterday, Bucky etched his way into your thoughts. He was still an enigma to you. His gruff exterior, a fortress of stoicism, belied the intricate layers beneath. You got a glimpse of it again today. A softness that defied the world-worn facade. Determination stirred within you, urging you to unravel the mystery that surrounded him.

Since you would work in their bar now you were aware you’d see him more often and it filled you with a fluttering sensation - both thrilling and treacherous. You knew the risks, the precipice upon which you stood, but curiosity tugged at your sleeve.

He wasn’t easy to read, this biker with eyes like storm clouds. You wondered if you would ever learn to see behind the broodiness, the armor he wore like a second skin.

Perhaps you would find the key to unlock the enigma - the heart that beat beneath the leather.

“She’s battling things her smile will never tell you about”

- Jonny Ox

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@heletsmelovehim @moonlightreader649

[yaeggravate]

Unraveling Princess Fischl

So I recently finished studying Princess Fischl in a lab and the results I got were kinda crazy.

As a disclaimer, I do this just for fun. I like connecting dots and solving puzzles. But I'd rather you draw your own conclusions. In this post I will try to dissect the mysteries surrounding the Prinzessin. And you really can't talk about Fischl without including Kaeya. I've even got a surprise guest star for you.

WARNING: this post is VERY long, click on that Read More at your own risk, otherwise you'll be stuck scrolling forever.

For simplicity's sake Princess Fischl will be referred to as Fischl while playable Fischl will be demoted to F.

PART 1: MIDSUMMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Most of this will use the books Legend of the Shattered Halberd and Flowers for Princess Fischl as a source. These books are authored by someone named Mr. Nine. The books are published by Yae Publishing House. So keep in mind there's a non-zero percent chance Mr. Nine is actually just a certain Nine-Tailed Fox.

F's alternate outfit is called Immernachtstraum. This is a reference to Shakespeare's play Midsummer Night's Dream. In German the play is called Ein Sommernachtstraum. So you can see the similarities (Immernachtstraum means Eternal Night's Dream.)

Kaeya is in part based on the Indian changeling prince from the same play. The character Oberon, the Fairy King, is the french derivative of Alberich. The play itself is basically about people getting into Shenanigans so absurd it might as well be a dream. Oberon and his wife Titania are actually key players in quite a bit of different media… But as much as I want to delve into that, this isn't a Kaeya post.

Just remember for now that Titania is the Fairy Queen.

In the book Flowers for Princess Fischl, there is a mention of a Sommernachtgarten. It is described as a Domain possessed by someone highly skilled in the magical arts. Sommernachtgarten seems to have existed in Teyvat. The domain Midsummer Courtyard, which has the Thundering Fury set, tells us the Sommernachtgarten was buried underground.

The domain is located in Starfell Valley. It's nearby Starfell Lake and Starsnatch Cliff. Starfell Lake is said to have been formed by a fallen star.

Fischl is also equated to a star that fell down. Notably, in F's birthday letters, and in Legend of the Shattered Halberd.

Birthday Letter: Day of Destiny… On the day of a sacred star's descent from the depths of the night sky into this realm, I, the Prinzessin der Verurteilung, have asked Oz to cross the ocean and bring, me exotic treasure.

LotSH Vol. 1 The story was that an iron meteorite had fallen from the sky five or six years ago, and convention dictated that as nature's treasure it belonged to the imperial family.

Starsnatch Cliff is the only place where Cecilia flowers grow. These flowers have a triquetra shape, which is similar to Kaeya's passive talent Glacial Heart. Kaeya has been featured with these flowers in his birthday arts, and even invites the Traveler to go see the flowers with him.

Alice: With enough bombs placed in proper positions, even huge cliffs like Starsnatch would crumble into dust in a second. With flatter terrain, Mondstadt would surely look much nicer. But that unctuous Cavalry Captain rejected my proposal instantly. He even asked me to stay away from Starsnatch Cliff.

Furthermore, when Alice proposed to blow Starsnatch Cliff up, Kaeya denied her request and warned her to never go near there again… Starsnatch Cliff also overlooks the Nameless Island which is shrouded in mist and invisible on the map.

菲谢尔 = Fischer = Fischl

Fischl's name might be a reference to the Fisher King from Arthurian legends. One name of the Fisher King is Amfortas. In the game Anfortas is the name of the Knight Marshal of the Schwanenritter; he's thee Alberich who stepped up as Regent King when Irmin was indisposed.

Perhaps Fischl was the original "Fisher King" and the kings who came after her, like Irmin and Anfortas, fulfilled her role. …But this would imply Fischl was once the ruler of Khaenri'ah. That would be crazy, right? Right, guys?

PART 2: THE PRINCESS OF JUDGEMENT

When I was analyzing the 8-pointed star, I discovered these 8 points could actually correspond to the Guardians of the Eight Directions in Hinduism.

For some reason, ascension gem stones are named after Hindu gods (with the exception of Electro). This isn't the case in the original Chinese naming however.

Still, I tried to mix and match the gemstones to a direction.

North: Kubera, The God of Fortune -> GEO

South: Yama, The God of Justice and Death -> ???

East: Indra, The Lord of Heaven and God of the Weather, Sky, Rain, and Storms -> ELECTRO

West: Varuna, God of the Seas, Oceans, and Rain -> HYDRO

Northeast: Ishana, God of Birth, Death, Resurrection, and Time -> DENDRO

Southeast: Agni, God of Fire -> PYRO

Northwest: Vayu, God of the Winds and Air -> ANEMO

Southwest: Nirṛta, God of Death, Sorrow, and Decay -> CRYO

Hydro (Varunada), Pyro (Agnidus) and Anemo (Vayuda) gems already have the same names as the Hindu gods so that was easy. The Electro gemstone Vajrada is named after a sword but it belongs to Indra, God of Weather, Rain and Storms.

That just left me with Cryo (Shivada), Geo (Prithiva) and Dendro (Nagadus). Ishana is the God of Birth, so I'll assign him Dendro. Kubera is the God of Fortune which is Geo because Mora.

Now Cryo is a bit puzzling, because it's named after Shiva, who in Java and Bali Hinduism is actually the direction in the center. Some crazy implications here for our buddy the Tsaritsa because Shiva is the God of Destruction within the Trimurti, a trinity of deities. The other two are Brahma, God of Creation and Vishnu, God of Preservation.

In Java Hinduism, Brahma and Vishnu would correspond to the directions Zenith (South) and Nadir (North). Whether this is hinting at something about the nature of the Tsaritsa is unclear. When you see Three Deities you think Moon Sisters, right? However, we can't rule out the possibility that Genshin decided to mix these deities up. Let's just spare ourselves the headache for now and forget about this. This is a Fischl analysis after all.

So instead, let's have a look at the Cryo gemstone's original name in Chinese. The stone is simply called Grieving Ice.

哀叙冰玉: Grieving Ice

Since Nirriti is the God of Sorrow, I decided to assign them Cryo. Now we are left with one deity, Yama: The God of Justice and Death. Well, it can't be Hydro, because we already assigned them to a God. So it has to be someone else.

Fischl's title is the Prinzessin der Verurteilung. Which translates into Princess of Judgement. According to Legend of the Shattered Halberd and F's voicelines, Fischl's role was to act as a judge.

More About Fischl: I To condemn the guilty, to sanctify the just, and to draw all castaway dreams into the embrace of the infinite Immernachtreich. This is the birthright of the Prinzessin der Verurteilung, and her burden. None may gainsay it.

What's interesting is that Fischl uses magical arrows to shoot down the "enemies of fate".

About Us: Shooting Down the World Beast Should this world, like a beast prowling in the night, covet your dreams, then I, Prinzessin der Verurteilung, shall fell it with my ensorcelled arrows of judgment!

Feelings About Ascension: Intro My magic arrow cries out my holy name as it streaks through the night, praying that the violet lightning of retribution shall strike the enemies of fate down from the skies!

On the 8-pointed star, there's an arrow pointing upwards. Kaeya, Clothar and Halfdan's stars on their outfits and even F herself have the arrow pointing downwards.

The achievement you get when you find this door is called "Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here". Which is a reference to the entrance to Hell in Dante's Inferno.

The Immernachtreich is described as a place where all things will eventually flow into. Immernachtreich literally translates into Eternal Night Realm…

Flowers for Princess Fischl: Phantasmagoria Every good, bright and noble thing must eventually fall to inexorable entropic destruction, and the final destination of the universe is the realm-in-waiting of the Prinzessin, Immernachtreich. This is the fate of all worlds, of the universe, and all who live in it.

In the Immernachtreich Apokalypse, Leon calls Fischl the Soteria.

Soteria means salvation, preservation. It's used as an epithet for Persephone and Hecate. Persephone was forcibly made Queen of the Underworld, and Hecate is also known as the Goddess of the Underworld and Witchcraft…

Look, I don't want to claim Fischl was the secret 8th Archon or anything, because lest we forget Khaenri'ah was a godless nation who would've been Fischl's enemies. But why then would Khaenri'ah have this giant star referencing the 8 deities as their emblem in the first place? Seems a bit counterintuitive. I don't have the answers for now, and perhaps the 8th "archon" was simply Irmin. Or maybe it's not even representing a god but an element or a direction.

Regarding Oz, he is a not so subtle reference to Odin/Irmin but is also a reference to the Wizard of Oz. In the first book, it was revealed this wizard was literally just some guy pretending to be powerful. Eventually Oz starts working as an advisor for the true ruler of Oz, Princess Ozma, who is the inspiration behind Fischl. We'll get back to that later.

This Oz's full name is Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs. OZ is actually short for Oscar Zoroaster. Zoroaster is referenced in Flowers for Princess Fischl.

In a distant causality, if the philosopher Zarathustra was not chosen, then the opera writer would have gained victory in the contest over the will of the world.

This does make you wonder if Irmin really was the true ruler of Khaenri'ah and if he even existed the way we believe he did. Perhaps Fischl got Irminsnapped and now everyone believes Irmin was always the One-Eyed King.

Of course this is all my personal speculation and I could be way off here.

Wait, before we move on to next section, I want to point out something that always gets ignored:

Kaeya and Mona, when they cast their bursts, summon the same 8-pointed star. This is unique to them alone. Could there be a connection between Khaenri'ah and witchcraft? Or is either Kaeya or Mona an outlier?

PART 3: HEXENZIRKEL

In the trailer Mage's Teaparty, there are eight witches shown. However, we only know the names of six witches, and there is a chair missing at the table.

There is a slideshow where the figures of the eight witches are shown, minus Andersdottir who is represented by the book The Boar Princess.

Observe the witch on the broom and the little witch. The design of the little witch is similar to the design of a famous fictional character who got pulled into another world: Dorothy Gale from The Wizard of Oz books.

Dorothy is illustrated as having twin tails and wearing a farm girl dress. Dorothy's character was influenced by the character Alice, from the Wonderland books.

Originally I assumed Alice Genshin might be based on book Alice. However, it's the Narzissenkreuz quest that's based on the Wonderland books and Mary-Ann who takes the role of Alice.

With that in mind, could Alice Genshin actually be more of a Dorothy inspired character instead?

Now, Dorothy had a very good friend, called Princess Ozma. Ozma seems to be the inspiration behind Fischl.

So who is Ozma? I only have the Wiki to go on because I'm not about to read 40 books, but by the sound of it, Ozma is the current ruler of the realm of Oz. She is the daughter of a human king and a Fairy Queen. Her mother Lurline was the one who created Oz and turned it into a Fairy country.

Ozma took it one step further and separated Oz entirely from the outer realms making it invisible to outsiders. Everyone who enters Oz never ages.

If you're an F main I'm sure you know by now Fischl created another universe and founded paradise.

Now I want you to take a look at the witches portrayed in these circles. There are two witches holding a sphere. In F's cutscene from the Summertime Odyssey event, she is also holding a sphere which contains the Immernachtreich which you can see in the header image of this post and below.

You might think a glowing sphere represents a crystal ball to scry in, but that poses a problem since known prophet Barbeloth is probably represented by the witch holding a waterdrop, which is Hydromancy. So the glowing sphere might not necessarily mean a prophetess.

As for the identity of the other witch with the globe, I believe this could be Alice, since she was the one who created the domain/dreamscape of the Veluriyam Mirage. It could also be Rhinedottir who is creating something in a flask.

So Orb = Domain/Realm/Creation

Furthermore F's specialty food is Die Heilige Sinfonie, which has a Magic Hexagram painted on top… (Die Heilige Sinfonie translates into The Holy Symphony.) As mentioned before, the Sommernachtgarten could only be created by someone with great magical powers…

Magic Circles is Ceremonial or Arcane Magic, and according to a note left by Master Ruggiero in Bravais' study, Arcane Arts originated from a pre-Remurian civilization.

So someone must have taught humans magic. Might sound obvious, but it begs the question of WHO?

PART 4: FREYJA

To answer this question we need to dip our toes into Norse mythology. As you know, Odin is Irmin.

There was a war between two groups of gods: the Aesir and the Vanir.

Eventually they had enough and decided to exchange hostages as a peace offering. The goddess Freyja, originally part of the Vanir, joined the Aesir which would be Odin's group. As a sacrificial priestess, she was the one who taught the Aesir dark magic, which included seeing into the future. The implication here then is that Odin was taught black magic by Freyja.

This magic is known as seiðr. Seiðr is derived from *soi-to- which means rope/string. The distaff, a tool used for spinning wool, is associated with dark magic. There are images of women riding distaffs as a broom, similar to a witch riding a broomstick. To quote the Wiki: "In any case, the string relates to the "threads of fate", that the Nornir spin, measure, and cut. " Wait, that sounds familiar:

F, joining the party voice line: The threads of your fate lie in my hands!

Scholars suspect Freyja is the same person as Gullveig who was involved in the Aesir-Vanir war. Gullveig was attacked by the Aesir with spears; she died and was reborn three times. When Fischl tried to visit the Kingdom of Eternal Twilight she was also attacked by its people and "shed her blood on the sacred emblem" whatever that means. It was Oz who saved her, pledging his loyalty to her.

Freyja sometimes is conflated with another goddess named Frigg. There has been much debate whether or not these two goddesses stem from the same deity. Frigg is part of the Aesir and usually Odin's wife.

I mention this because in the book Hex and Hound, one of the characters is named after Frigg: Nottfrigga. This book is about two twin witches sharing the same body. In the book we find out that they were the daughters of a powerful witch, but witches are unable to keep more than one offspring of the same generation. This led to Nottfrigga's twin sister Magdalene eventually dying, and her using magic to sustain her sister inside a magic bracelet.

In Norse mythology, Nott is the personification of night. Nott's father is named Narfi. This really got my attention, because Fischl's full name is Fischl von Luftschloss Narfidort. (Fischl of the Castle in the Sky Narfidort.)

In the Hexenzirkel teaser, every witch is represented by a teacup (or in the case of Andersdottir, an inkbottle) but the saucer next to Nicole's teacup is empty. Since this saucer belongs to the same teaset this could mean one of the missing witches is Nicole's twin sister or a relative.

So what could Fischl's role be in all this? Perhaps she's one of the twin sisters, or their mother. Perhaps she's even an ancestor. ...Or completely unrelated to them and I'm full of shit.

PART 5: THE HARBINGERS

F's theme shares a leitmotief with the Fatui Harbingers theme.

F's theme: Sieh an, mein Sommernachtgarten! Signora's theme: Saltatio Favillae

Obviously this means Fischl is Capitano.

Composers don't do these things by accident. This is hinting at something. Either Fischl is connected to the Harbingers, was/is one of the Harbingers, or she is indeed the Tsaritsa.

Which is not as crazy as it sounds.

In Legend of the Shattered Halberd, Fischl possessed someone else's body. And if she is Freyja's equivalent, who died three times, then it's possible she could've been reborn as someone else. In the book, it was Mir who summoned Fischl into Weiyang's body and sacrificed his eye to appease her. Pierro is working for the Tsaritsa and has his right eye covered for reasons unknown. Having been a royal mage who would have had access to Khaenri'ah's restricted library, perhaps it was Pierro who summoned Fischl into the Tsaritsa's body.

The Tsaritsa is collecting the seven Gnoses, Fischl had to collect seven of the nine Ominous Swords to repair the Divine Halberd, which would be herself. She already had two of them in her possession… Could also be that the Tsaritsa is trying to revive her. This would imply Fischl is the Third Descender. Since she came from another world, this is not impossible.

The Fisher King, Fischl's possible namesake, was struck with a wound that could only be healed by a "pure fool" who would ask him the right question. ...Fatui is Latin for fools. If the Tsaritsa really is/is possessed by Fischl, then creating an organization of fools starts to make sense: the fools are her saviors.

This could also connect to the empty 10th seat within the Harbingers. The vacant spot could be a reference to the Siege Perilous, which was an empty seat reserved for the one successful in obtaining the Holy Grail by way of saving the Fisher King.

Usually this is accomplished by Percival, who later finds out his mother is the sister of the Fisher King. In the story, Percival keeps failing to return to the kingdom of the Holy Grail since it is an otherworldly place. Does that not remind you of Kaeya trying to find Khaenri'ah but failing halfway through?

Going back to Princess Ozma, an evil witch cast a spell on her that turned her into a little boy named Tippetarius. This was done to prevent Ozma from ascending to the throne. Tip was unaware of his true identity until he was transformed back into Ozma.

tippet /tĭp′ĭt/ noun A covering for the shoulders, as of fur, with long ends that hang in front.

As noted in The Marvelous Land of Oz, Chapter 23, Tip has brown colored skin.

…Kaeya, blink twice if you need help.

As a staunch hater of things that don't make sense, I highly doubt this means Kaeya is Fischl; the game would never go there. Perhaps being "Fischl" is simply hinting towards the fact that he will become one of the Fisher Kings.

That would certainly explain this random hangout ending.

Now, here's where things get really crazy.

Remember Anfortas? The Knight Marshal of the Schwanenritter who took over as regent after Irmin became indisposed? At the time of writing, Anfortas's fate remains unknown.

As said before, Anfortas is the name of the Fisher King in Arthurian legends. Fischl's name might've been a nod to that.

But it gets weirder.

T.S. Eliot's poem The Waste Land combines Arthurian legends with the legend of the Fisher King. In it, he associates the Fisher King with the tarot card Three of Staves.

The Man with Three Staves (an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself.

…We have seen this symbol somewhere before. On the constellation wheel of the Fatui Harbingers. By process of elimination this constellation belongs to Il Capitano.

👏🏽👏🏽CONGRATULATIONS CAPITANO YOU ARE KAEYA'S NEXT TOP GRANDPA 🎉

Kidding of course, but I doubt this is a coincidence. This doesn't necessarily mean they are the same person, maybe Capitano simply mindmelded with Anfortas. It's a fantasy game, everything is possible at this point.

Wait a minute… three nails, three deaths… Uhhh maybe Fischl really did turn into Capitano.

👏🏽👏🏽CONGRATULATIONS CAPITANO YOU ARE PRINCESS DIANA'S NEXT REINCARNATION 👸🏼

PART 6: THE THIEF AND THE MAGE

Alright, for this section I want us to keep in mind the following things:

Fischl is a fallen star

Fischl may have been a mage

Fischl could be connected to Irmin and thus Khaenri'ah

The play of the Veluriyam Mirage is written by Zosimos. This play stars Kaeya as a Thief, Klee as a Mage and Idyia as a last minute heroine added to the story.

You see, Zosimos originally wanted to write a story based on rumors he'd heard about a thief and a mage. This means the play might not be entirely fictional. The problem is that Zosimos combined Idyia's backstory with the story of the Thief and the Mage, making it hard to tell which bits belong to Thief's story.

We know at least that Alice was the mage who helped Idyia. But what about the Mage who helped the Thief? Who was she? Could it have been Alice or someone else?

For that we need to consider the character Kaeya was playing. It's unknown who he is, but if Klee was playing her mom then it stands to reason Kaeya must've been playing someone connected to him. Before you get excited, this does not necessarily mean someone related to him by blood. Could also just be someone from Khaenri'ah. Heck, we don't even know the gender of the mage, for all we know they could've been a man.

Now, the soundtrack that plays during Kaeya's part is called Towers of Afrasiab. This name has come up before. In the play of Kaeya's hangout, the character he plays opposite of is called Frasiyav. The location of the Khaenri'ahn door is called Hangeh Afrasiyab.

I personally suspect Afrasiyab is either Irmin or the founder of Khaenri'ah.

Afrasiyab is a character from the Persian epic, the Shahnameh. Afrasiyab lived in an underground iron palace held up by hundreds of columns. (If you look at the architecture in Hangeh Afrasiyab, you'll see little reliefs of men holding up a ceiling above them.) Afrasiyab lacked the divine royal glory known as Khvarena and was obsessed with obtaining it. In the play they say Frasiyav lost because he lacked the blessing of god…

I mean it can't get any more obvious than that. So this could mean the dude from Kaeya's hangout was Irmin. Which does raise a bunch of questions, such as who is the identity of the Prince in this play? And why were they at war?

Should be noted in the hangout's play, Frasiyav offered hostages as a peace offering. Kind of reminds me of the war between the Aesir and Vanir… Also, Kaeya's character Prince Qubad is based on Siyavash who eventually married into Afrasiyab's family…

Towers of Afrasiyab then could refer to Khaenri'ah. In the Veluriyam play, the Thief is also from a dark realm. I hesitate making the assumption that this guy is Irmin or Kaeya's pirate grandpa so I will refer to him as simply the Thief.

In the play, the Thief witnesses a shooting star falling from the sky and follows it. However, what he finds is not a star but a young woman. Well, we know Fischl was also a star that fell down. And we know Fischl visited the Kingdom of Eternal Twilight and got bodied for her efforts. Oz took her under his wings and saved her life.

If the Thief encountered the Mage this way it would explain why the Mage helped him as a way to repay him. Perhaps the Mage taught him Arcane arts or helped him protect the "Dark Realm", who knows?

If this Mage really was Fischl and the Thief someone connected or related to Kaeya it would explain why Fischl and Kaeya seem to be connected.

About Kaeya F: His nature is obscure, his fate a mystery, and his speech a vexing tapestry woven of both fact and fiction… Perhaps he and I share the burden of mystical sight…

About Fischl  Kaeya: Hmm? You think Fischl having one eye covered is very fitting given her title of Prinzessin der Verurteilung. Hahaha, if that's the case, that must also make me a descendant of some kind of former royal lineage, no?

Furthermore, in Legend of the Shattered Halberd, Fischl's partner in crime, the man who summoned her, is named Mir. This is a reference to Mimir, the severed head from Norse mythology who acted as an advisor to Odin.

Mr. Nine states Fischl was attracted to Mir… and that Oz was more of a familiar of Fischl.

In Wagner's opera Der Ring des Nibelungen, Mimir is known as Mime, the brother of Alberich.

....😮‍💨

Well, I have to say, even after all of that, I am completely stumped. If anyone knows what's going on, let me know, because I for one would love to know WHAT'S GOING ON FOR ONCE. GIVE IT UP FOR KNOWING WHAT'S GOING ON

[flowertrigger]

Pick A Book To Read

(aka judge a book by its cover)

Thanks for tagging me @a-noble-dragon @mostlyinthemorning @carolrain 📚💚

*I couldn't find my copy of Kitchen Confidential which is the one I wanted to use

Anyone have books they'd like to share? @ramonaflow @saraminia @stargazer56 @jesuisici33 @characterassassination-at-9am

[13eyond13]

How many of these "Top 100 Books to Read" have you read?

(633) 1984 - George Orwell

(616) The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald

(613) The Catcher In The Rye - J.D. Salinger

(573) Crime And Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

(550) Catch-22 - Joseph Heller

(549) The Adventures Of Tom And Huck - Series - Mark Twain

(538) Moby-Dick - Herman Melville

(534) One Hundred Years Of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

(527) To Kill A Mockingbird - Harper Lee

(521) The Grapes Of Wrath - John Steinbeck

(521) Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov

(492) Pride And Prejudice - Jane Austen

(489) The Lord Of The Rings - Series - J.R.R. Tolkien

(488) Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

(480) Ulysses - James Joyce

(471) Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

(459) Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte

(398) The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

(396) Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

(395) To The Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf

(382) War And Peace - Leo Tolstoy

(382) The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway

(380) The Sound And The Fury - William Faulkner

(378) Alice's Adventures In Wonderland - Series - Lewis Carroll

(359) Frankenstein - Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

(353) Heart Of Darkness - Joseph Conrad

(352) Middlemarch - George Eliot

(348) Animal Farm - George Orwell

(346) Don Quixote - Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

(334) Slaughterhouse-Five - Kurt Vonnegut

(325) Les Misérables - Victor Hugo

(320) Harry Potter - Series - J.K. Rowling

(320) The Chronicles Of Narnia - Series - C.S. Lewis

(317) Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

(308) Lord Of The Flies - William Golding

(306) Invisible Man - Ralph Ellison

(289) The Golden Bowl - Henry James

(276) Pale Fire - Vladimir Nabokov

(266) Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell

(260) The Count Of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas

(255) The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - Series - Douglas Adams

(252) The Life And Opinions Of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman - Laurence Sterne

(244) Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

(237) Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackery

(235) The Trial - Franz Kafka

(233) Absalom, Absalom! - William Faulkner

(232) The Call Of The Wild - Jack London

(232) Emma - Jane Austen

(229) Beloved - Toni Morrison

(228) Little Women - Louisa May Alcott

(224) A Passage To India - E.M. Forster

(215) Dune - Frank Herbert

(215) A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man - James Joyce

(212) The Stranger - Albert Camus

(209) One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey

(209) The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

(206) Dracula - Bram Stoker

(205) The Picture Of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde

(197) A Confederacy Of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole

(193) Mrs. Dalloway - Virginia Woolf

(193) The Age Of Innocence - Edith Wharton

(193) The History Of Tom Jones, A Foundling - Henry Fielding

(192) Under The Volcano - Malcolm Lowry

(190) The Odyssey - Homer

(189) Gulliver's Travels - Jonathan Swift

(188) In Search Of Lost Time - Marcel Proust

(186) Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie

(185) An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser

(182) The Book Thief - Markus Zusak

(180) Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse

(179) The Magic Mountain - Thomas Mann

(178) Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe

(178) Tropic Of Cancer - Henry Miller

(176) The Outsiders - S.E. Hinton

(176) On The Road - Jack Kerouac

(175) The Little Prince - Antoine de Saint-Exupery

(173) The Giver - Lois Lowry

(172) Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh

(172) A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess

(171) Charlotte's Web - E.B. White

(171) The Ambassadors - Henry James

(170) Infinite Jest - David Foster Wallace

(167) The Complete Stories And Poems - Edgar Allen Poe

(166) Ender's Saga - Series - Orson Scott Card

(165) In Cold Blood - Truman Capote

(164) The Wings Of The Dove - Henry James

(163) The Adventures Of Augie March - Saul Bellow

(162) As I Lay Dying - William Faulkner

(161) The Hunger Games - Series - Suzanne Collins

(158) Anne Of Greene Gables - L.M. Montgomery

(157) Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand

(157) Neuromancer - William Gibson

(156) The Help - Kathryn Stockett

(156) A Song Of Ice And Fire - George R.R. Martin

(155) The Good Soldier - Ford Madox Ford

(154) The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown

(153) I, Claudius - Robert Graves

(152) Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys

(151) The Portrait Of A Lady - Henry James

(150) The Death Of The Heart - Elizabeth Bowen

[preciouslandmermaid]

quiet fury in your head [vii]

Dream of the Endless x F!Reader!Goddess / Sandman Fanfiction

Note: I wasn’t sure how Dream’s manifestation into the waking world worked like—is he always visible? Or does he pick and choose? So for the sake of a certain scene, I made it so both Dream and Reader are invisible to mortals. Anyway, You and Dream go into the mortal world.

No use of Y/N. See part 1 for all the tags tbh.

Warnings: This chapter has mentions of child abuse. There is nothing explicit described, but it is mentioned.

Rating: 18+

(Read on AO3)    ||   (masterpost for other chapters)  

You follow Dream across the pier. His request for your help in the mortal—the waking world—is odd. He’s never asked this of you before. But, you are bound to the Dream Lords will. Your skin prickles. Your heart feels tight. The longing you feel when he is distant has doubled—no, tripled—as you admire the straight and narrow line of his shoulders. He is often stiff. Sometimes you wonder if you dreamed your first kiss, if you imagined the way his soft lips moved over yours like shifting sand and how his pale, large hands cupped and clung to you.

He stops and extends that same, large hand to you. His fingers long and slender and elegant. A Dream-Weaver’s hand. You step forward and take it. The mounds of his palm fit perfectly within your own. His long fingers interlace yours. He steps off the pier with you in tow and the spinning that occurs is less dizzying than the pleasure of Dream’s touch. Do not let me go, you think as the whirls of color expand and spin, because I will give myself to this vortex and be done with it. The ache to be closer to him is an acute, masochistic agony. If I took other lovers, then I would not feel this way toward the Dream Lord, but—I don’t want anyone else. I want only him. But I doubt he will ever take me as a queen—as an equal—and I will accept nothing less.

The world manifests around you. The air is warm and balmy. Dream is slow to release your hand. He settles his Helm onto his head, hiding his unkempt dark hair and fathomless eyes from you. Your palm and fingers tingle from the lack and you miss the comforting pressure, the warmth of him. Yet pride stops you from reaching for him.

Remember your place here. You are his servant, he is your keeper, and no matter what desire burns inside you—the Dream Lord is to be your ruin. Remember who you are. Remember your sisters.

“This way,” Dream’s voice is strange from within his helm. It’s like flint scraping against stone. He leads you through the warm, crowded streets. A group of men pass you wearing uniforms and smoking rolled cigarettes.

You feel the war and conflict thrumming through the threads of the world. A long conflict, no less. Saliva pools inside your mouth when you inhale deeply. The knowledge drops into your mind like a stone (for even a Goddess without worship is given information). Your presence in the waking world has opened your mind to all the history and knowledge you’ve missed since being sequestered in the Dreaming. You understand all the language, the history, technology and culture in seconds.

You go within yourself. You peer through the layers of history, the shifting timelines, the strings of Fate. You see thousands of battles—old and new—flick through like the fast-flipped pages of a book. This war will last another ten years.

You sigh longingly. If only this war could be fought in your name. You would return to power. This is who you are. A Goddess of War. Desire said you were forgotten. But that didn’t mean your essence didn’t sing at the sight of battle. The large galley ships within the ports, the men in uniforms carrying guns, the cannons, the crates of supplies and gunpowder.

“We will wait here.” Dream stands off to the side of the busy street and you use this moment to scan the area. You peer over the shoulder of a boy selling papers. The year is 1805. Meaningless numbers to a God. But, you heart aches for your sisters and fellow Gods that have been lost for eons now. They pray to something else now…

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” You ask. You lean your spine against the stone building behind you and fold your arms. The salty, bay air from the port floats between your legs and over your exposed arms.

“We’re waiting for someone…” Dream replies. You roll your eyes.

“Can I wait somewhere else?”

The ruby on Dream’s necklace glints in the hot sun when he turns toward you. The large, almost insect-inspired glass of his helm reflects your personage. You cannot see his eyes, but you feel them graze over your face, neck, and chest like the sharp ends of a thorn.

His voice rasps against your flushed skin, “I need you beside me.”

“To what end?” You challenge pushing from the wall and invading the Dream Lord’s personal space. You wish you could tear the helm from his head and stare him down properly. Morpheus does not flinch or step back at your approach. He stands, hands clasped behind his back, ruby and helm shining in the sun. Your impassive, imposing, and infuriating Dream Lord.

“I need you to incite a frenzy to draw out a nightmare that has escaped.”

Your face crumples, anger turning to disappointment, to shame. “I can’t.” The words taste like acid. “They leave no offerings to me, Morpheus. They do not sing. They do not memorize our stories. The powers I once had have weakened over time”

You swallow around the lump in your throat, “they have...nearly disappeared, in truth.”

Within the Dreaming, you can shape-shift, but you suspect the reason that power remained was because Badb gave it to you. It wasn’t connected to Desire’s gift. It wasn’t connected to the Mortals who once feared you. It wasn’t connected to your Dream-Weaving abilities that are trapped inside a ring that Morpheus wears on his pinkie finger. Dream’s silence stretches and chaffs like rough sand.

Maybe he will release me...now that I have no use to him.

He says slowly, “If I offer something to you,” He tilts his head, studying you through the dark lens of his helm, “will that be sufficient?”

You purse your lips. “You would need to do it properly.”

“Very well. What is it you would ask? If it is within my power, then I will give it.”

For a moment, your thoughts quiet and your heartbeat slows. You and Dream stand in a port city in Spain, heat and saltwater, the call of gulls and the rich, melodic Spanish language dancing through your eardrums. Something inside of you tightens like a winding spring. You think of your earlier desire—to remove his helm—to touch him. Desire once said to you: “Do as you desire, always. Forget honor, or cowardice, or shame. Become the envy of all other Gods.” You aren’t their champion anymore, but the truth they spoke lives inside your core.

You are Nemain of The Morrigan, the Goddess of war, and rage, fear, and destruction. You have lived powerless for too long. A shade of a woman. A wraith. A ghost. Not even powerful enough to call yourself a Banshee. Now, Dream is offering you a gift. Anything you desire so you can help him find his missing nightmare.

Yet, there is only one thing you desire right now—in this moment—beneath the hot Mediterranean sun.

“I would ask for a kiss, Dream.”

He lifts the helm from his head, his hair stuck in every direction like the ruffled feathers of a raven.

“That’s all?” He sounds dubious.

“Yes.”

You wait for him to reject you and ask for something else. Without the helm, you stare into his ageless face, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the universal depth of his eyes, and the soft pout of his lips. His stony expression reveals nothing. His thoughts and feelings remain a mystery to you. How infuriating...

Dream closes the small distance between your bodies. You inhale sharply. The dark, woolly fabric of his long coat brushes against your chest. His hand settles at the back of your warm neck. You crane upward to meet him. His face blocks the sun and the light is absorbed within the strands of his dark hair and forms a muted, yellow halo behind him. Your fingers clasp around the lapels of his coat for the sake of something to cling to.

“The incantation.” You remind him. Your words are a breathy whisper against his lips.

“I offer this to The Morrigan, Goddess of War and Rage, to the aspect known as Nemain of the three sisters. She who incites fear on the battlefield, whose scream foretells death, whose presence inspires courage to those who worship her.” His voice is husky, intimate, quiet for only you to hear—even though the mortals walking pass cannot see or hear you.

His long, pretty eyelashes slip closed as he inclines his head towards yours and your lips finally, blessedly meet. The lively sounds of the port become white noise in your ears. Dream’s kiss is intoxicating. You feel the burbling rush of power as it fills you like sweet rich chocolate. It feels like floating. The raw power is injected into your veins. Your heart pounds, your fingers tighten around his coat, and your mouth opens willingly to the gentle, probing touch of his tongue. You sigh into his mouth, winding your arms around the graceful curve of his bowed neck, and pressing your body flush and tight against his.Too long, too long...You lament. It has been too long since someone—a being of great power—gave anything to me.

Dream coaxes his tongue along yours in languid, teasing motions. What began as a simple offering, a mere singular kiss, has turned heady and intense. Your spine meets the sun-touched, warm stone of the building behind you. You drag your leg up, pressing your inner thigh against Dream’s hip, allowing yourself the pleasure and delight of feeling his body snug against yours. He holds your jaw, tender, your jugular exposed, and swallows the breathy, quiet moans that escape from the back of your throat. His obvious desire for you cannot be understated or imagined. He does want you.

But he will never take me as an equal. The thought is sobering and you drag your mouth away from his. Dream doesn’t move, nor does he break eye contact with you, and your bodies are pressed together as if bonded by melted wax.

His dark eyes roam your face, seeking answers to a question he hasn’t asked.

He releases his hold on your jaw and takes a pointed and deliberate step away. He returns his helm and indirectly (or perhaps directly you think) hides his face and expression from you.

“There,” He inclines his head toward of group of soldiers, “the nightmare had been following them.”

You square your shoulders. It’s time to get to work then.

The art of inciting fear is subtle like plucking the strings on a harp. You strum gently, your fingers are light, your brow is folded in concentration. Dream asked for frenzy. But there is more build up to it than one might. It’s akin to building a tower of cards. It requires a delicate hand as you follow the group of soldiers. Your concentration doesn’t waver…

Until you hear a familiar, bright voice.

“Stinky!” The child chastises and tugs on the leash of her white dog with crusty-gunk inside its eyes. You turn and face the child—I know you from the Dreaming, you think, and the little girl looks up toward you. She cannot see you. You know this. Yet, you stare into her innocent brown eyes and fear overtakes you. The memories and emotions are brief and fast like hard slaps across your face: Anger. A man’s voice screaming. His brown eyes brimming with rage. Shame. A broken vase with the porcelain pieces scattered across the floor like bone shards. Confusion. A dark place. Hunger. A dog’s paw scratching at the door. Fear.

Morpheus lightly touches your shoulder and draws you from the vortex of the girl’s memories.

“The child…” You wrestle the words from your throat, “her father harms her.”

“There is nothing we can do for her.” Dream says.

You look up at the Dream Lord, your expression and voice serious, and a simmering anger builds beneath your words. “You could send a nightmare to him. Scare him.”

“He would not change his ways.” Dream replies. “My nightmares are a reflection of the human condition. I give sleep, I give dreams and nightmares, and nothing more. I cannot interfere with the child’s fate.”

“Even if she called to you?” You ask hotly. “Left offerings and cried out for your aid?”

“I am not a God.”

You narrow your eyes and turn away from Dream. The little girl has scooped her grumpy-looking dog into her arms and is walking in the opposite direction of the soldiers you’re following. You clench your jaw and curl your fingers into fists at your sides.

The card tower falls.

A solider trips.

Their rifle misfires.

And the plaza erupts in a frenzy of alarm—fear that the enemy has crept up on them, fear that someone is hurt, fear that the bullet has hit them. You cannot even enjoy the sensation of terror. Your eyes linger down the street where the little girl went. You seek the knowledge within the fabric of the world and learn that the girl’s father is planning to get onto a boat soon.

If Dream won’t help her...there is no reason why I cannot.

************

“Dima,” You step through the cloudy mass of her homestead. “I have need of you.”

Dima places one hand over her heart and her blue skin crackles like lightening, “Anything.”

“I have need of a storm…”

Dima smiles widely and kneels upon one knee. “For you, I would conjure a hundred storms, my queen.”

You place your hand on her shoulder. It feels damp and tingles softly beneath your palm. Her loyalty is strong and welcome and you feel your lips twitch upward into the first smile in centuries.

*************

You use your connection to the child to find her father within the Dreaming. The Dream manifests as a galley boat similar to the ones you saw within the Spanish port, but the father is not alone. Corinthian sits on the bowsprit, his legs dangling and staring out at the dark ocean below. Did Dream send a nightmare after all? You approach Corinthian slowly.

He looks over his shoulder toward you, “There’s a sight I rarely see.”

“You tend to make yourself sparse, Corinthian.”

“Can’t help it.” The saltwater sprays against his dark glasses, “I think I make the other dreams nervous.”

“As you should.” You lean your hands on the wet wooden railing, “it is in your nature to be discomforting.”

“The nature built into me by Dream.”

“Did Dream send you?”

“No.” Corinthian scoffs. “This one…” His gaze trails to the father pacing the main deck below and wringing his hands together. “His darkness calls to me. His desire for wealth, his hunger for power and control, his pleasure in…” Corinthian trails his dark and reflective gaze back to you, “causing pain.”

The power Dream gifted you bubbles beneath your skin. I have the strength to cause madness again...You will need that power to deal with this disgusting pest of a man. You will eradicate him. You will ensure the child is safe and free.

“I would like some time alone with him.”

Corinthian tucks his legs beneath him, raising to his full height, and balances on the long bowsprit with ease. His blonde hair tousles softly in the warm, salty wind and the flaps of his coat flutter. He slides his hands into his pockets.

“You can have him for a price, Queen of Nightmares.” He drawls, “And I’m sure you can already guess my terms.” He tilts his head. You recall your first meeting with Corinthian and his desire to escape the Dreaming. Even at your current strength, you are bound by your duty to Desire. You cannot leave even if you had the power to.

You glance at the man pacing the deck and your righteous anger pushes you to action.

“I am bound until Dream frees me as decreed by Desire, my Maker.” You explain calmly, “But once I am free – I will be free from everyone. Gods. Endless. Mortals. If you allow me to be alone with this wretched creature then I will owe you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Anything you wish.” You say solemnly. “And if it is within my power then I will give it.”

Corinthian asks, “Even if I ask you to harm your precious Dream Lord to ensure my escape?”

You bow your head in the barest of nods. “Yes, Corinthian.”

He jumps from the bow onto the ship deck near the large wooden wheel. “It does not hurt to have an Old God in my pocket.” He grins, his smile lean and sharp and perfectly white. “Very well, you can have him.”

Corinthian vanishes. You are alone alongside the dreamer and a wave of nostalgia crashes over you. A dreamer trashing inside their bed wrecked with paranoia due to your influence as you desperately tried to save your family. You slink behind the man. He smells of booze and sweat. You place your hands delicately on his shoulders and bring your lips close to his ears.

“The ship is sinking…” You whisper, your voice low and almost seductive. “You must save yourself.” You weave your fingers around the man’s unease regarding the war and fill toxic paranoia into his nostrils. “The storm is too strong. You must jump now! You must swim to shore.” You hiss. Your voice melodic and guiding. The man’s heart echoes the thundering clouds above your heads.

“Hurry!”

****************

In the mortal world, the ship known as “Indomptable” is taken by a storm conjured by Dima. Her anchor chains are broken and she drifts toward the offshore rocks. The man—the awful, coward—jumps from his bunk with the bite of his nightmares on his heels and throws himself from the ship.

The storm drags him deep, deep, deep.

His body is never recovered.

****************

You lounge on the grass of Fiddler’s Green. The meadow is comforting, quiet, and calm. Your skin glistens with sweat from your exertion of using your powers on the mortal. A few colorful butterflies float over your head and you smile to yourself.

The child is safe. They can call me the protector of children now. The thought elicits a queer feeling in your chest. Something close to pride and excitement. This could be my calling once I leave the Dreaming. I can travel the mortal world and incite fear in those who harm others. I could make them regret ever abusing their power.

Your hand reaches up and plays with the sunbeams flowing like golden ichor through the clouds. For the first time since your sister’s deaths and Lugh’s betrayal, you feel a lightness inside your heart, a softness that did not—could not—exist before.

Dream’s thunderous voice cuts through the calm silence, “Morrigan.”

You sit up and brush the loose grass from your cloak. You peer up at him with a bewildered expression. Why has he come to find me now?

“What have you done?” He looms over you. The grass in the meadow sways away from his tall, imposing form.

Ah, he knows. You raise to your feet and regard him coolly. He cannot make a God, a Queen, bend no matter how much he huffs and puffs and glares.

“You could not intervene on the girl’s behalf.” You cross your arms, “But I could.”

“That is not your place.” He glowers, “And it was not my command.”

“I have my free will within the Dreaming, Morpheus.” You snap, anger rising to the surface, “I made the father pay for his transgressions.” You cannot hide the pride from your voice. You are proud of what you’ve done and Morpheus cannot take that from you.

“Your meddling has cost lives.” His voice is ice and you suppress a shiver. “As long as you are within the Dreaming, you are my responsibility and your actions reflect on me and all of the Dreaming’s inhabitants.”

“If you are seeking an apology, Dream Lord, I will not give it.” You lift your chin. “Regret does not eat my heart.”

“It will.” Dream replies cryptically, “when you learn what your actions have cost you.”

Your brows furrow. Morpheus lifts his pale, long-fingered hand and Fiddler’s Green vanishes from beneath your feet and the static taste of Dima’s home fills your mouth. Dima emerges from her hut at your arrival and her smile drops when she sees Morpheus alongside you.

“Dream Lord, what do I owe the pleasure?”

Morpheus’ gaze is hard and unyielding.

******************

“You are hereby banished from the Dreaming, Dima Storm-Weaver.” He says coldly, “For your actions in interfering with the waking world at the request of someone who isn’t me.”

“Wait, Dream Lord, please!” Dima prostrates herself at his feet. “I’m sorry!” Her blue cheeks dampen with a sudden burst of tears. Your expression tightens into white-hot anger and you throw yourself in front of Dima. He would expect nothing less. Your loyalty is to be commended, but your actions do not move him. He must restore balance within the Dreaming. He cannot have his subjects bending their wills to your whims. Your gaze pins him.

And Dima succeeded where you could not. A small voice nags in the back of his mind. She had the power to help while you couldn’t. Dream forcefully pushes the thoughts aside. No. That is not the reason. He must keep control and balance within his own Realm. He can’t have you undermining him.

“If you wish to punish someone then punish me.” Your lips curl into a snarl. You are ever-so-ferocious.

Dream replies flatly, “Be grateful I am not extending your time in the Dreaming.”

“Grateful!?” You shout and lightening cracks through the clouds beneath your feet, “You ask for my gratitude when you would rip my only friend from me?”

“Perhaps you will make a different choice next time.” He tears his gaze away from your grief-stricken and rage-filled face.

“Dima.” He addresses the creature that embodies storms and rain. Dima is pure elemental force at her core. She looks up at him from her kneeling position and clasps her hands in front of her chest. Her chest cavity flashes rapidly like a heartbeat made of lightening.

“Your banishment begins now.”

“No!” You yell, throwing your arms around Dima’s shoulders, as if your physical touch could tie her to the Dreaming. “Punish me, Morpheus. Not her. She did nothing wrong but listen to me!”

********

Morpheus stares blankly at you. There is nothing of the man who kissed you and pressed your back against the warm, sun-soaked stone wall. You grit your teeth and dig your fingertips into Dima’s soft, blue-colored shoulders. Morpheus says nothing. The wind pulls at the coattails of his long, dark jacket and Dima fades beneath your fingers.

You fall forward on your knees onto the soft, white clouds and stare at the Dreaming world below. Your throat burns with a familiar, painful prickling sensation.

This is the cost of love...the cost of friendship...that it could be taken away. You blink back the tears and are adamant that Dream does not see you cry. You inhale through your nostrils and look up at him as static discharge dances across your skin and pulls small pieces of your hair.

Your voice is clear and sharp, like a silver blade running through someone’s rib cage, “Never speak to me again lest to release me from my wretched service to you.” Your words hang heavy in the air of Dima’s absence.

Dream inclines his head slightly and disappears in a gust of rain-dappled wind. You bow your head and scream into the clouds. The thunder muffles the noise, but the Dreaming trembles at the raw, painful sound of your grief.