#but also I was counting on him FINALLY being dead and if he's some ancient immortal being chances are the crash did fuck all to him hhh

[gravityrulez]

pls ffs just STAY DEAD OLD MAN

[insanityclause]

Over the past 13 years, Tom Hiddleston has died more times than he can recall. “Let me think about this,” the actor tells us, pausing to count in his head. “I think, officially, there were two big ones.” 

He’s referring to his many exits from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, the blockbuster franchise in which he’s played shape-shifting Norse god Loki Laufeyson since Kenneth Branagh’s 2011 film “Thor”—the son of Asgardians Odin (Anthony Hopkins) and Frigga (Rene Russo), and the half-sibling of Thor (Chris Hemsworth), the god of thunder. 

The character has since bounced between villain and reluctant antihero across five films, a handful of post-credits scenes, and Michael Waldron’s Disney+ spinoff series “Loki,” which Hiddleston also executive produces. The show wrapped its second—and supposedly final—season last November. The finale presents an end for the character, but not one of the aforementioned “big ones.” 

Hiddleston’s first “official” farewell came in Alan Taylor’s 2013 sequel “Thor: The Dark World,” which saw the god of mischief take a sword to the chest to save his beefy brother. “As written in the first script, it was a true sacrifice,” Hiddleston says. Unfortunately for Marvel’s long-term plans, the actor had done too good a job playing the trickster.

“When Marvel [executives] were testing the movie, they’d given [viewers] questionnaires that said, ‘Is there anything you didn’t understand?’ ” he remembers. “Literally every single audience member said, ‘Well, obviously, Loki’s not really dead.’ ” 

In classic comic-book fashion, the character did return, gallivanting alongside his brother in Taika Waititi’s 2017 follow-up “Thor: Ragnarok.” He died again one year later (“big one” number two) in the Russo brothers’  “Avengers: Infinity War.” There were no smokescreens or questionnaires this time; audiences watched as Loki’s neck was crushed by the purple fist of intergalactic warlord Thanos (Josh Brolin). 

Hiddleston remembers arriving in Atlanta to shoot his final scene and immediately bumping into Brolin. “He came up to me, gave me this huge hug, and said, ‘I’m so sorry, man.’ ” 

He meant it, too; everyone meant it. The sun, it seemed, had actually set on Hiddleston’s MCU journey. “At the end of that scene, I got a big round of applause, and everybody was so sweet and kind and gracious,” he says. “I got notes and emails saying, ‘Tom, you’ve done so much for us—what a journey. Come and see us anytime.’ I really thought that was the end.” 

And it was, for real, right up until it wasn’t—when the time-traveling shenanigans of 2019’s “Avengers: Endgame” blasted a younger version of Loki out of the established canon and into his own series. Over two seasons, the multiversal storyline envisions the title character as a figure who exists outside time and space. Across all there is, was, and may come to pass, there will always be a Loki, in some form, wreaking havoc. 

Hiddleston has long since accepted what this means for him as an actor. Maybe “Loki” Season 2 really was his last time in the role; or maybe he’ll play him until the sun burns out. “I’ve realized that, in human consciousness, that’s who Loki is,” he says. “Loki is this ancient, mythic character, who, in our collective mythology, represents the trickster, the transgressor, the boundary-crosser, the shape-shifter—somebody who’s mercurial and spontaneous and unpredictable who will always confound your expectations and wriggle out from underneath your certainties and convictions. Someone who we need and [who] is necessary.”

Hiddleston pauses, getting emotional. “Maybe Loki escaping death a couple of times is sort of an emblem of who he is in our culture,” he says, grinning at his own gusto. The actor has a habit of being self-deprecating about the depth of the character’s lore. “I spend a lot of time thinking about Loki. You can probably tell.”

You can tell, and it’s incredibly endearing. Talking to Hiddleston about Loki feels like discussing Shakespeare’s Richard III with Laurence Olivier or Tennessee Williams’ Blanche DuBois with Jessica Lange. They were actors who put their definitive stamps on those roles by returning to the well and constantly digging deeper. 

In conversation, Hiddleston is equally as likely to reference comic-book arcs as he is the ancient, anonymous Old Norse scribes of the “Poetic Edda” or Richard Wagner’s epic four-cycle opera “Der Ring des Nibelungen.” He speaks reverently of actors who embodied the trickster god before him, like Jim Carrey in Chuck Russell’s 1994 comedy “The Mask” and Alan Cumming in Lawrence Guterman’s 2005 sequel, “Son of the Mask.” He also heaps praise on those who played the part after him, such as his “Loki” costars Sophia Di Martino, Richard E. Grant, Deobia Oparei, and—in one very surreal Season 1 moment—“some alligator they found somewhere.” He cites legendary Marvel creators Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, and Walter Simonson alongside the likes of English essayist Walter Pater and Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw, who once wrote of life as a “splendid torch” to keep burning for those who follow.

“Loki is ‘a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment,’ ” Hiddleston quotes, “and I want to make it burn as brightly as I can before passing it on to future generations.” 

This level of study started before he even landed the role. He recalls the 24 hours leading up to his “Thor” audition, when he was 28 years old. After graduating from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in 2005, he quickly earned small-screen and stage acclaim—but he hadn’t yet achieved a major breakthrough. When he received the script for “Thor,” it felt familiar. “I remember thinking, This is almost Shakespearean, this language,” Hiddleston says. “What’s the best example I can [look to] of an actor who managed to humanize and make real this elevated world of myth?” 

He found the answer in Christopher Reeve, who played the title role in Richard Donner’s 1978 blockbuster “Superman.” “He’s masterful in that film,” Hiddleston says. “In a way, it’s a similar premise: He’s a god or he’s a being from a different realm, and it’s not naturalistic in the way that we might expect. He does it so truthfully, and it’s so clear and clean and open and honest. I thought, If I can even approximate or get close to the kind of clarity that Christopher Reeve had in those films, I’ll be lucky.” 

And then, the morning of his “Thor” audition, Hiddleston went for a run, “which is my habit before doing anything unusual,” he explains. 

Running has remained a constant throughout the actor’s MCU tenure. At any given moment over the last decade, the god of mischief was likely doing laps around Marvel’s go-to shooting location, Pinewood Studios (now Trilith Studios) in Atlanta. “Life is movement; I really believe that,” Hiddleston says. 

“I find when I’m running or walking, the repetitive nature of it relaxes the mind and allows ideas and inspiration to come from a deeper place. I see my work as an actor—especially in preparation for a project or a scene—as almost preparing myself to be open and ready to receive ideas, to receive energy from other actors, to receive energy from my imagination.”

Hiddleston found the technique particularly helpful when he was filming a scene for the “Loki” series premiere that he calls “one of the most thrilling challenges I’ve ever had as an actor.” In it, Loki has been poached from the flow of time itself by the temporality-policing Time Variance Authority and forced to watch what is, essentially, a highlight reel of his entire MCU arc. It’s one of the most deeply existential moments you’ll ever find streaming alongside the likes of “Bluey” and the “Cars” movies. Here is a man watching the sum total of his life—his hopes, his dreams, his failures, his own death—play out in a 30-second clip that ends with the cold, clinical words: “End of file.”

“I just kept imagining: If you were afforded the opportunity or forced to watch your own death as a bystander, it would bring about an existential shock and crisis unlike any other,” Hiddleston explains. “It was a scene where I thought, I don’t have a reference for how to play this. I just have to allow shock, disgust, disgrace, shame, disbelief, acceptance, incredulity, and sorrow to exist in the center of me.” 

As an executive producer on the series, Hiddleston had a say as to which of Loki’s many misdeeds would play in the sequence. He chose clips like Frigga’s death in “Thor: The Dark World” and his father’s final words in “Thor: Ragnarok”—moments Hiddleston knew would most fill the character with regret. As production was preparing to shoot the scene, he asked first assistant director Richard Graves for a 20-minute warning.

 “I decided to jog around the stage and internalize as many of those memories of those people, those characters, those actors [as possible]—to try and find the center of my own vulnerability,” Hiddleston says. “Part of the joy of it was just going back to basics, trying to simplify this very complex thing…. Go for a jog, get into your body, allow yourself to be open, and just be there; just feel it.”

One “Loki”-like time jump later, Hiddleston found himself in a similar situation as he was preparing to shoot his final moment of Season 2—a scene that effectively caps Loki’s 13-year arc. Across 12 episodes, the show guided its title character toward a truly heroic end: With all of existence on the verge of collapse, he steps out of time to tie the strands of every reality together. As the credits roll, Loki sits at the center of time, holding in place all that is—alone. 

It’s a lot for any actor to internalize, especially one who’s performing solo in front of a blue screen. With 45 minutes to cameras rolling, episode co-director Aaron Moorhead made a suggestion. “He said to me, ‘Why don’t you go back, if you can bear it, and watch some of your work [over] the last 15 years?’ ” Hiddleston remembers. “ ‘Take it in, see what it means to you, and then carry it when you step out onto the stage.’ ” 

The actor took Moorhead’s advice to heart. And suddenly, without meaning to, he was mirroring the moment that started the series: absorbing the sum total of Loki’s MCU run. But this time, his regret had been replaced with gratitude. Hiddleston watched clips from “Thor,” remembering a time when he and Hemsworth had yet to ascend to the A-list. He recalled working with powerhouses like Hopkins and Russo, and the bonds he forged with the “original six Avengers” in 2011. He thought about how fun it was to film “Thor: Ragnarok” with Tessa Thompson and Jeff Goldblum, and of the more recent friendships he found with his “Loki” castmates Di Martino and Owen Wilson. 

“I thought, What Loki is doing, he is doing for his friends. And so, Tom, why don’t you do it for your friends?” Hiddleston says. “That’s where the two of us met in that moment. And then I was so grateful I had this most amazing crew, and we did it together.”

The actor is, of course, noncommittal as to whether this is actually the end of his MCU run. The franchise is scheduled out until at least 2027, and Hemsworth has mentioned his desire to make another “Thor” film. And if Loki’s past has proven anything, even the most official endings can be undone. 

Either way, it seems to Hiddleston that something significant has ended, even if it’s just Loki’s full-circle arc. “I hope it feels redemptive because his broken soul is partially healed; and you see that this character, who is capable of love, has made a decision from and for love,” he says. The actor cites the “beautiful prologue” of the first “Thor” film, in which Hopkins’ Odin tells his two sons: “Only one of you can ascend to the throne, but both of you were born to be kings.”

“At the end of Season 2, Loki is sitting on a kind of throne; but it’s not arrived in the shape he expected, and there’s no glory in it,” Hiddleston explains. “There’s a kind of burden, and he’s alone. He’s doing it for his friends, but he has to stay there without them. There’s a poetic melancholy there which I found very moving.”

For now, Hiddleston “can’t even conceive” of his life without Loki. He only hopes that he’s lived up to his guiding ethos as an actor, which he sums up with a plea from E.M. Forster’s 1910 novel “Howards End”: “Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height.”

“The feedback loop for actors is that we get to inhabit a fiction,” Hiddleston says. “But hopefully, that fiction bears the shape of a truth that we recognize about life—that what we do reflects the ups and downs, the peaks and troughs, and the breadth and profundity of all of our lives.”

Hiddleston exists in that space between fiction and reality, the work and the resulting art, the prose and the passion. Long after we’ve moved on from our interview and started casually discussing the cherry blossoms blooming in New York, his eyes light up. He’s made another connection, remembered one more thing—just one last thing he’d like to impart about Loki. 

He spends a lot of time thinking about Loki. You can probably tell.

“I’m so aware that the reason I’ve been able to play him for so long is because of the audience’s curiosity and passion,” Hiddleston says. “I’ve been delighted to find that for a character of such stature, he’s remarkably human. Many of the characteristics that people connect to in Loki are deeply human feelings. That’s been the pleasure, is infusing this elevated character with humanity.”

Even then, honestly, it feels as if Hiddleston, like Loki, could go on forever. Unfortunately, outside of the MCU, time moves in only one direction. Once again, he has to run.

This story originally appeared in the June 6 issue of Backstage Magazine. Subscribe to In the Envelope: The Actor's Podcast to hear our full conversation with Hiddleston (out 6/6). 

[hellodarling1357]

Battle Wounds (Cassian x Reader)

I didn’t realise how busy Christmas would be but I’m finally back on track with finishing/starting some of my WIPs and requests.

This is just a reader-insert / little rewrite of chapters 56 - 61 of ACOWAR

Enjoy 🥰

Word Count: 3,600

Standing along the edge of the field of tents, you watched alongside Feyre, Mor, and Nesta as the battle raged across the floor of the valley below.

Your eyes were keenly fixed on the armoured figure of your mate, breath quickening with each clash of a sword and shout of pain as Cassian led and held the lines of soldiers fighting against Hybern’s forces.

As much as you hated him being in the thick of it, you couldn’t deny the fact that he was damn good at what he did. It was like a dance, the way he moved with and against both your own and the enemy soldiers, never faltering as he somehow managed to keep an eye on every stage of the battle.

You cursed under your breath at Keir’s lack of control over his own soldiers, forcing Cassian’s attention away from what was going on around him as he roared above the sounds of battle for Keir to fix the lines.

You could sense Mor’s growing frustration as she shifted from foot to foot from where she stood on the other side of Feyre. That feeling of helplessness and being ordered to stay up here, to protect Feyre and her sisters, while she could be raging a battle of her own below ran through her.

The sound of Mor’s groan as Keir’s forces caved in response to Hybern cavalry surrounding them was a distant sound as you watched on in horror as Cassian leapt into the air and flew straight into the middle of the onslaught. The stream of arrows and spears just barely missing him as his Siphons dimmed. You furiously tugged on the bond, begging him to get out, but you knew it was no good as he unleashed himself on Hybern, further ignoring Rhys’ roared orders to fall back.

You barely registered Feyre squeezing your hand, breath stuck in your chest, as you watched Azriel lunge into the fray, desperately fighting his way towards Cassian who was completely surrounded. The red flare of your mate’s Siphons only allowing him a moment of reprieve as he panted in the midst of a circle of dead soldiers before more moved forward to take their place.

Too fixated on the battle and Cassian’s sputtering Siphons, you were oblivious to Feyre pulling Mor aside. But you quickly caught sight of your friend’s stream of golden hair appearing beside Azriel as they edged closer and closer to Cassian who was beginning to slow in his assault against a Hybern captain.

You whipped around, tearing your eyes away from your mate for the first time since the battle started. Nesta was still standing feet away from you, eyes frantically moving across the battlefield as if she didn’t know where to look.

But Feyre…

Turning on the spot you scanned the space around you but found no trace of your friend.

You raced towards the sea of tents, senses heightened as you tried to track her down; Rhys would be furious enough at Mor for abandoning her post in favour of the fight, let alone when he realised you had been too distracted by your own mate to notice that Feyre had also left your spot overlooking the valley.

Heartbeat quickening, you frantically searched tent after tent, but there, exiting the one Elain resided in…

You winnowed towards her, grabbing hold of Feyre’s arm, not realising it was the exact moment she also decided to winnow, taking you alongside her as she headed towards the Middle.

*****

“Feyre, what are you doing?”

Still breathless from the unexpected journey, you furiously stared at her before taking in your surroundings, quickly zeroing in on your mating bond to make sure nothing had happened to Cassian in the minutes you had been gone.

“Y/N,” she seemed just as shocked. “I… I have a plan, I think it will help but you need to go.”

A disbelieving laugh left your throat but your words were quickly swallowed down as an ancient, rasping voice filled the clearing.

“Have you come to kill me, or to beg for my help once again, Feyre Archeron?”

Shooting you an apologetic grimace, Feyre turned towards the Suriel.

***

Alert and on guard, you stood in silence as Feyre spoke with the Suriel. Your mind raced as you tried to be present and focus on what was occurring in front of you, but you couldn’t stop yourself from fixating on the bond and the adrenaline, laced with fatigue, that raced through it.

“…Tell the silver-eyed messenger that the answer lies on the second and penultimate pages of the Book. Together they hold the key.”

You tuned back in with a blink, aware you had missed the conversation but still daring to ask, “The key to what?”

The Suriel studied you closely, causing a chill to run down your back, before replying, “The answer to what you need to stop Hy—”

But the sudden spray of black blood that covered both you and Feyre as the arrow made impact with the Suriel’s chest had you pulling out the Illyrian sword Cassian had given you as you scanned the darkness of the trees for the assailant.

More arrows shot through the trees, causing the Suriel to stumble and scream, and then a lilting female voice crooned, “Why does it talk to you, Feyre, when it would not even deign to speak with me?”

Ianthe.

It had been centuries since you had last seen the High Priestess, but the sight of her still had your blood boiling. The encounter you stumbled across involving her and Cassian, so soon after you had been mated, had not ended well for the blonde haired fae. The fact that she had tried similar tactics on Rhysand and Azriel, only furthering the anger coursing through you.

“Y/N, what a pleasant surprise. How is that gorgeous mate of yours?” But her attention was already focused back on Feyre, prattling on and on about Hybern and Tamlin and how she had captured the Suriel with a sickly satisfied smirk.

“I should have slit your throat that night in the tent.” Was all Feyre deigned to give as a response.

An arrow shot through from one of Hybern’s soldiers which you quickly deflected, edging closer with your blade angled, ready to pounce.

Ianthe’s face tightened as she glowered at Feyre. “You’ll find you want to reconsider how you speak to me. I’ll be your best advocate in Hybern.”

“I suppose you’ll have to catch me first,” And with that, Feyre was hurtling into the woods, Ianthe close on her trail.

You took the momentary distraction as a chance to engage both guards.

They smirked at you, edging closer as though tracking their prey. To your delight, it seemed they had no idea who you were. Had no idea that you had trained alongside Illyrian warriors for centuries, that your mate, the General of the Night Court, had overseen your training to an almost gruelling manner until he was satisfied that you could hold your own.

So you smirked right back as you leapt towards them, blade raised and ready.

The fight didn’t last long.

*****

After ensuring the two Hybern soldiers were well and truly dead, you raced after Feyre but the trail blurred and darkened the further in you got, causing your sense of panic to rise as you let out a frustrated yell.

The silence of the woods was abruptly broken by the sound of an unending scream. Without a second thought you raced towards it, hoping that it wasn’t Feyre and that you hadn’t been too late.

But there she was, flying through the trees towards you as she grabbed you by the arm and pulled you back, racing towards the clearing.

“Feyre…,” You gasped as you caught your breath. “What was that?”

“I figured I owed the Weaver an apology and decided that acquainting her with Ianthe would suffice.”

You were both stunned and impressed by your friend’s quick thinking but Feyre was already heading towards where the Suriel lay, kneeling down beside it and grasping its bony hand in her own.

Staying a respectful distance away, you watched on in silence, tears filling your eyes as you watched the Suriel’s chest stop moving, Feyre weeping over it. Stepping closer, you put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Feyre…” You started, stopping as your senses heightened in on another presence.

You raised your blade and cautiously turned, letting out a sigh of relief when you found Helion hurriedly striding towards you.

“Come. It is not safe. I’m here to bring you back, both of you.” A panicked look in your direction had your brows furrowing but you pushed it aside as you helped him pull Feyre to her feet, watching on as Helion’s flame burned the cloak-covered Suriel to a pile of ash before taking his hand and allowing the warm light to whisk you away, straight into Rhys’ war-tent.

*****

You knew something was wrong the moment you took in Rhys’ pale features, splattered with blood that was not his own. He pulled Feyre into a crushing embrace before fixing you with a heavy look that told you enough.

“No…” You felt yourself begin to hyperventilate. “Rhys, is he…? Where is he?”

The encounter with Ianthe had distracted you enough that you failed to miss the disturbance that flowed down the bond. But Cassian couldn’t be dead, you would know if he was dead.

Your body started to shake as you stared back at Rhys, seeing nothing.

Then you were moving. Racing out of the tent, following the faint trace of your mate that the bond provided.

A sob escaped you as you shoved through the tent’s entrance. Mor and Azriel, standing in front of the cot, blocked your view of who lay atop it.

“Y/N—“ Mor’s tearful voice was a distant echo as she reached for you, but you pushed past, falling to your knees beside the cot as you took in the sight of Cassian, covered in both mud and blood, unconsciousness not allowing any escape of pain as his face contorted under the healer’s glowing hands, breathing laboured and weak.

There was no chance of stopping the vomit that violently urged up your throat once you noticed the too-deep slice curving up Cassian’s navel to the bottom of his sternum. All you could see was Cassian, pale and bloody, not giving you space to even be aware of your sobs and the violent shaking that coursed through your body.

The healer kept working, someone knelt beside you, pulling you into their arms, you didn’t know who, didn’t know how much time had passed as you sobbed, and shook, and stared at the male in front of you who meant everything to you, who you couldn’t imagine life without, who now seemed as though he were mere moments from death.

The gaping slice across Cassian’s middle grew smaller and smaller, the blood easing to a slight trickle. Still, you refused to look away, even as the commotion of Rhys and Feyre rejoining you slightly pulled you away from your racing thoughts.

“Is he—is he going to—“ Feyre’s unfinished question loomed, forcing you to momentarily drag you bloodshot eyes away from your mate’s body to the healer who had been tirelessly working on him.

“No. He’ll be sore for a few days, though.”

You started to cry again, not sure if you had truely stopped in the first place. This time it was Azriel who knelt beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder as Feyre, again, asked, “How?”

“He wouldn’t wait for us,” Mor said flatly. “He kept charging—trying to re-form the line. One of their commanders engaged him. He wouldn’t turn away. By the time Az got there, he was down.”

Azriel’s face was stone-cold, even as his hazel eyes fixed unrelentingly upon the slowly healing wound.

Blood rushed to your head, blocking out Mor’s questioning of where Feyre had gone, and why you had needed to chase after her.

The sudden fluttering of Cassian’s eyes had you loosening a breath as you hurled even closer to his side, carefully grasping his calloused and scarred hand, watching unblinkingly as he finally opened his eyes and let out a groan of pain.

“That’s what you get,” the healer chided, gathering her supplies, “for stepping in front of a sword.”

She frowned at him. “Make sure he rests tonight and tomorrow.” A brief nod in your direction, “I know better than to insist on a third day after that, but try not to leap in front of a blade anytime soon.”

Cassian just blinked rather dazedly at her before slowing turning his head to face you.

“How bad?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“How bad was your injury,” Rhys said mildly, “or how badly did we have our asses kicked?”

Cassian blinked again. Slowly. Turning his gaze away from you and towards his friend. As if whatever sedative he’d been given still held sway.

“To answer the second question,” Rhys went on, Mor and Azriel backing away a step or two as something sharpened in his voice, “we managed. Keir took some heavy hits, but … we won. Barely. To answer the first …” Rhys bared his teeth. “Don’t you ever pull that kind of shit again.”

The glaze wore off of Cassian’s eyes as he heard the challenge, the anger, and tried to sit up, hand tightly squeezing yours at the pain he felt. He hissed, scowling down at the red, angry slice on his chest.

“Your guts were hanging out, you stupid prick,” Rhys snapped. “Az held them in for you.”

You did a double take at that, flinching once you finally noted the blood - Cassian’s blood- caking Azriel’s hands.

“I’m a soldier,” Cassian said flatly. “It’s part of the job.”

“I gave you an order to wait,” Rhys growled. “You ignored it.”

You felt your breath quicken again, heart skipping a beat at the fight playing out in front of you, your own anger at his recklessness beginning to appear now that you knew for certain that Cassian was going to be okay

“The line was breaking,” Cassian retorted. “Your order was bullshit.”

Rhys braced his hands on either side of Cassian’s legs and snarled in his face, “I am your High Lord. You don’t get to disregard orders you don’t like.”

Cassian sat up this time, swearing at the pain lingering in his body, your arm quickly wrapping around him to offer some support. “Don’t you pull rank because you’re pissed off—”

“You and your damned theatrics on the battlefield nearly got you killed.” And even as Rhys spat the words—that was panic in his eyes. His voice. “I’m not pissed. I’m furious.”

“So you’re allowed to be mad about our choices to protect you—and we’re not allowed to be furious with you for your self-sacrificing bullshit?”

Rhys just stared at him.

Cassian stared right back.

“You could have died,” was all Rhys said, his voice raw.

“So could you.”

Another beat of silence—and in its wake, the anger shifted.

Rhys said quietly, “Even after Hybern… I can’t stomach it.”

And the way Rhys spoke, the way Cassian leaned forward, wincing again, as he let go of your hand and gripped Rhys’s shoulder…

The others quickly left, you hesitated, torn between letting them talk and remaining by your mate’s side.

Rhys’ voice broke through, deciding the matter for you, “Stay, you being here will help.”

You silently remained by Cassian’s side as they spoke, brother to brother. Still in shock by the state you had found your mate in, the previous conversation was only just catching up to you. And with the realisation of what Cassian’s excuse was, as well as his apparent lack of care for his own safety, you were overcome with white hot anger and finally snapped.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Both males abruptly looked at you, silenced by your first words since seeing Cassian bleeding out on the medi-cot.

“Y/N—“

“No. Are you fucking kidding? I’m a soldier. It’s part of the job,” You mocked. “Well what about your job outside of this war. As a friend, a brother, a mate? Did you ever once think about anyone else, about me, when you decided to jump at the first chance of playing hero?”

Rhys remained silent during your outburst, wishing he didn’t have to witness the fight that was about to break.

Stiffly turning to face you, Cassian observed you as you took in a few deep breaths, eyes still wide from panic and fear.

“Y/N,” he said slowly, grasping your hand in his. “I’m General of the Night Court, I can’t just sit back and do nothing while our soldiers take the fall—“

But you were shaking your head at him, vision blurring through a sea of tears.

“I know, trust me, I know, Cassian,” You let out a humourless laugh. “But you promised. You promised you would stay here, with me. Cauldron, we even spoke about properly trying for a child after all this was over. And then two seconds later you’re throwing yourself into the middle of it and almost dying in the process.”

Rhys silently left the tent, any words he had saved up to say to his brother as a way of reprimanding would hold zero weight compared to what you had to offer.

Despite himself, Rhys couldn’t help but smile fondly at the idea of the two of you having a child. He knew your plans had been put on hold after everything that happened whilst he was trapped Under the Mountain; and knowing this now, he swore to himself to subtly relieve Cassian of some of his more demanding and dangerous duties. It was the least he could if it meant the happiness of two of his closest friends.

Ignoring the pain that ricocheted through him at the slightest of movements, Cassian turned to properly face you as he guided you to sit beside him on the cot.

“Sweetheart, all I could think about was you,” he gently cupped your face, wiping the tears away. “You heard Rhys, we were so close to losing everything today, and if that had happened…” he took in a deep breath to collect himself. “If we had lost, and I hadn’t done everything in my power to prevent it, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that whatever happened afterwards, what could have happened to you, if Hybern won… It would’ve been my fault.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, gently caressing his thumb over your cheek.

“You almost died, Cass.” Your voice was barely a whisper as you grasped his hand.

“I’m not going to apologise for trying to protect you. If me getting hurt meant any of us getting a shot at a future after this, then it was worth it.”

“A future without you in it isn’t worth it to me.”

“Y/N—“

“No, Cassian, please. I thought I had lost you. How would you feel if it was me where you are right now?”

Cassian let out a sigh, unable to fathom how much seeing you split down the middle would tear him apart.

Gritting his teeth in pain, he moved over to make more room on the cot before pulling you into his side. You snuggled closer into him, cautious of not jostling him too much as you eyed his injury.

The pair of you lay side by side in silence, Cassian’s breathing eventually evening out and growing heavier as he drifted off to the feel of your fingers running through his hair.

Still feeling on edge and needing to do something, you detached yourself from his arms, careful not to wake him. Scanning the tent, your eyes landed on a few clean cloths and a bowl of water that the healer had left behind.

With a sigh, you started to carefully wipe the blood away from Cassian’s body, the bowl of clean water fast becoming a murky red mess.

Cassian stirred once you reached his wound, your fingers gently dabbing away the caked blood, leaving the newly healed split across his middle as the only evidence that he had been injured in the first place.

You felt his eyes on you as you finished cleaning him up, letting out a sign before finally lifting your eyes to meet his.

“I’m still so mad at you.”

“I know you are.” The slight tug on the bond you shared left you with a weary smile as you placed the dirty cloths in a heap beside the bed before lying down beside him again.

You laced your hand with his as he murmured, “I think I know a few ways I can make it up to you.”

You rolled your eyes, a light laugh escaping your lips.

“Yeah I can think of a few ways too, starting with you not acting like a baby for the next week and actually staying in bed.”

“The healer only said two days.”

“Yeah, well, I’m saying seven.” The look you fixed him with told him there would be no changing your mind.

He let out a huff of a laugh as he brought your hand up to his lips, placing a soft kiss to it before holding it against his chest.

“Fine. But only if you’re staying in bed with me.”

The shit eating grin that lit up his face had you shaking your head, your only response was a flick to his nose followed by an overwhelming surge of love that flowed down the bond.

[legacygirlingreen]

Part 4, Chapter 7: Repository III (the final) // Sebastian Sallow x Reader

AN: I apologize for this unedited mess. I am also so sorry I’ve been swamped and haven’t uploaded. I have a lot going on right now in my real life and writing has taken a backseat to it. I plan to finish this series soon. Thank you all for holding out with me. This is mostly just filler. Again, sorry.

Pic belongs to @99luka9 on Pinterest! (Not sure if they have a blog here as well but I found in on there)

Warnings: mention of blood, death, violence

Word count: 3,800

Link to Masterlist

The more Sebastian dug into the stone the more blood began to pool in his palms. Sweat dripped down his brow and down the sides of his neck, as well as down his nape, before trailing into his shirt collar. As he went to push yet another piece of piled up rumble to the cave floor, the slick of his palm caused him to lose traction, resulting in him slamming his fingers into the harsh surface as he let out an expletive.

Frustratedly he wiped his hands on the surface of his pants in an attempt to once again gain traction before resuming his efforts to push the stones. The more rubble he cleared, allowing him to gain more information as to what was happening on the other side. More loud taunting, more loud crashing, and thankfully more spell casting. He couldn’t quite make out what she was shouting from wherever this opening would lead, but he could hear the distinct sound of a spell hurling through the air followed by the occasional roar or groan of Ranrok. Everything about this reminded him of how broken she had felt when he rushed into the house with Solomon hot on his heels while he gripped her bleeding body to his chest.

Solomon. That was the strangest part of the ordeal. The more he continued to dig, the more he could hear her sole voice calling back against the goblin. He knew that Solomon had been trapped inside the cavern with her, and a part of him hoped that at the very least the man was alive to help keep her safe, but given the lack of hearing the man’s gruff voice or simultaneous casting there only left a few options for his uncle’s fate: the man was knocked out, the man ran, or he was already dead.

And as callous as it seemed, Sebastian didn’t really care which of three it wound up being.

In fact, Sebastian knew that if he got inside with only the ability to save one of them, he would save her with no hesitation. Solomon may be blood, but that didn’t make him family. Especially after finding out what he had done to Anne, and leaving his love to die at the hands of Rookwood, he had no love left in his heart for Solomon Sallow. That - and years of abuse at the man’s hands didn’t exactly bode well. In some small ways it might be better if Solomon was already dead, he thought. That way he wouldn’t have to kill Solomon himself.

Eventually he pushed aside just the right stone to cause the majority of them to fall away, opening up a small hole which he could see lead into a tunnel. Seeing it as the only way forward he crouched the best he could, pushing through until the tunnel allowed him to once again stand to full height. Inside it appeared similar to San Bakaar’s fourth trial and the location in which he witnessed the memory of the keepers confronting Isadora.

Sebastian felt a chill run up the entire length of his spine before it settled against his nape as he shuddered remembering what he had seen. In some ways he respected San Bakaar more than the others - as the man seemed to understand his policy of using whatever means necessary when your life's on the line. Even during the keeper’s time at Hogwarts the killing curse was forbidden. Knowing all four of them agreed to use it on Isadora in order to protect the wizarding world from her demented actions of corrupting the purity of ancient magic with human pain, made him more inclined to trust their judgment. It also made him glad that he taught the girl how to use it in extreme circumstances.

“Sebastian I am not so sure about this…” she spoke as they rounded that all too familiar staircase of the restricted section. The weight of the books he was returning pressed into his forearms. This was not to do with Anne that he had come back here. In fact he’d given up searching months ago after she finally convinced him they would find a way with ancient magic. But for some reason, after a night where she’d stumbled back even later than his shift with Sirona, covered in blood from poachers, he decided maybe raiding some of the healing spells would benefit her.

“We are just returning what I borrowed. Not taking anything else, I promise” he told her with a sigh.

“What did you take?” She asked cautiously, worried he’d have slipped back into old habits.

“Healing spells they just don’t teach at the school. I wanted to be able to teach them to you. I’m sick of seeing you stumble back broken and bloodied.” He explained, finally coming back to the spot in which he’d removed a few tomes on advanced healing.

“Oh. I thought - nevermind” she said, coming forward to help place the books back on the shelf near him.

“You thought, what? That I was messing with dark magic again?” He asked playfully, not concerned about her response because he genuinely hadn’t. Sebastian had no reason to be embarrassed or start a fuss over something he wasn’t engaging with any longer. And if he was honest with himself… he felt better. His head felt clearer. His back, less weighted.

“Well… why else would one sneak into the restricted section…?” She asked as she peaked open one of the books seeing it did in fact have very complex healing spells before putting it back on the shelf.

“Pornographic material” he said with a shrug.

“What?!” She shrieked and he laughed at her response as he pointed back to a dimly lit alcove all the boys at school had heard about. It was true that several boys always found a way to sneak in and raid it. On occasion he’d grabbed a few on his way out to make the trip more worth it…

“Yeah some of them even moan and make noises and such-“ he started and she smacked his arm as he chuckled.

“Stop being a brute and just put back the healing books you stole. Merlin, why am I courting such a delinquent?” She asked.

“Because you love me?” He teased stretching his hand out, which she graciously took.

“I do. And I’m also glad you stopped looking into dark magic. I know there’s been circumstances your knowledge has come in handy but… overall I prefer not using it as a first resort”

“I agree. I admit, I might’ve started getting a tad loose with some spells I shouldn’t have. I do still think it’s important to have knowledge of dark magic. And there are times I think the ends justify the means…”

“What are you talking about?” She asked, feet stalling as she looked at him.

“Well, if you do face Ranrok, and he has you pinned down without a moment of your life or his, I would prefer to know that you at least knew the killing curse. At that moment I believe it would be a justifiable means to kill him. And I don’t think the ministry would care either given goblins and human rights aren’t the same. But either way, I would like to know you would do anything to keep yourself safe if it came to that. Not as a first choice but a last resort” he explained, somewhat timidly. He knew she didn’t love the use of dark magic, but she never discouraged him trying to gain understanding of it. She saw past the black and white nature of it all, and it was something he deeply loved and admired her for.

“Oh… I hadn’t really thought about it.” She said nervously.

“You don’t have to-“ he tried to explain he wasn’t demanding she learn one of the three unforgivable spells on his account purely, but she cut him off.

“No. You’re right. This is too important. This magic is too dangerous to leave in Ranrok’s hands. I should at least know what to do if it came to that. Not necessarily for my sake but everyone else’s” she explained leaving him stunned.

“I’m really surprised you are so quick to want to learn an unforgivable curse” Sebastian told her honestly.

“Like you said, this mission is important and killing him may be the only way to protect it. Come on down here. I’ll show you the athenaeum. It’s where I went that day you took the fall for me. You can teach me in there how to use it” she said, dragging him along further into the restricted section.

Sebastian had been surprised at her willingness to see the greater good and now he just hoped that she had both paid attention and was alive to make the call if it came down to it.

Finally having a plan seemed to help. The more she continued to use the attack strategy suggested by Sebastian, the more Ranrok began to absorb the pain as the magic separated from the toxicity contaminating it. This strategy seemed to be the solution, however the more desperate Ranrok became, the more she continued to be knocked down with his futile attempts at preventing her from removing his power.

Each fall felt worse on her already aching body. But at the end of the day, she knew that she would need to stop the goblin, even if it was the last thing she did. This was too important to give up now.

The swirls and conflicting magic surrounded them both as he drew smaller. And then with the most deafening scream of pain did the blast of red and black magic surround them as Ranrok once again returned to his original state.

“You are… but a child…” he grunted out in pain as he stared up at her.

“You shouldn’t understand anyone on account of being young” she spat as he quickly moved to his feet once again, only to be shoved down by her usage of the ancient magic around them.

Watching in horror as the last of the pain entered the goblin, he rose from the ground, screaming in agony as the pain she removed became too much. In horror she watched as she slowly began to glow, breaking apart into thin ash like parts before suddenly he was gone.

A gasp left her lips as she fell to her knees, shocked that it was over. It was finally all over.

Loud banging filled the space before the cavern lurked, loud sounds of falling rocks once again filling the space as she looked above. The chamber she was in began to collapse, as she struggled to rise. Energy depleted from the fight with Ranrok, she wasn’t sure she would be able to stand long enough to search for a way out.

And in her heart she found comfort in knowing at least everyone would be safe. The world at large had been saved. The likelihood of her walking away was low. And yet, she simply wanted to be granted the opportunity to say goodbye to him. To the handsome Slytherin boy, who had taught her so much. Who had shown her great care. Who had loved her beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Laying down, she simply closed her eyes, accepting her fate. Perhaps her mind's eye could recall his big brown eyes one more time. Or imagine all his adorning freckles. If she really concentrated she almost felt as if she could hear his voice shouting her name. What she wouldn’t give to feel him hold her one last time.

But then she felt it. A dirty trick of the mind to shift to the afterlife is what she assumed, but when she opened her eyes and saw the cavern collapsing just behind his head she gasped.

“Bash” came the hushed whisper before she was desperately pulled into his arms as he stood.

“Hold on, we are getting out of here. Just hold onto me” he spoke before whistling loudly, the sound of loud flapping filling the space as her eyes drifted closed. Flashes of feathers, falling debris and his worried face filled her mind before it all faded to black.

“Mr. Sallow set her down on the cot so the nurse can look over her injuries!” Professor Weasley shouted as the rag tag team of staff and students bust into the hospital ward.

The girl, having lost consciousness somewhere on the journey out of the repository, was still perched in Sebastian’s arms. The boy damn near growling earlier when someone tried to remove her. Lurching forward he set her down, unaware of the wards existing students.

Their friends and educators all coming around to stare down at the battered girl who had saved them. Well, all of them except one.

���Sebastian…” whispered behind him and when he finally tore his eyes from the girl he saw Anne.

“Annie…” he said in shock, having forgotten until now that poppy spoke about his witch find a cure.

“What happened? Where’s, where’s Solomon?” She asked, looking around.

His mind flashed back to the cavern, seeing his uncle crushed on the floor no longer breathing just as he had fled. She had whispered something akin to Solomon before she had fainted but he already knew the man was gone.

“He didn’t make it Anne” he spoke softly as his sister begun to wail loudly. Ominis coming forward to remove his sister from the already chaotic scene, he turned back to his love who still had yet to wake as the nurse began to try and heal some of her injuries.

“Is she going to be alright?” he asked softly as the nurse turned to him.

“I’d say so. Diagnostic spells show most of the damage is external, not internal.” The nurse spoke mending gashes and wiping away blood. As she did so, he took note of the already pink forming scar along the girl's face, now running through the middle of it. It wasn’t the kind of mark that happened by accident, the way it looked was deliberate. Poppy’s cries in the room of requirement were all he needed to know that it had been the result of Rookwood.

“Merlin…” he whispered as Professor Fig tugged him aside.

“It’s best to let them clean her up first. I need to speak with you” the man spoke and all he could do was nod. Deep down Sebastian knew the man was likely playing the events in December over in his mind, recalling how awful the boy had reacted to seeing her injured. Sitting at the edge of a separate bed he sighed.

Soon he found himself in front of the professors. Sebastian hadn’t noticed that Professor Weasley had escorted out all the other students, leaving only Leander who sustained a slightly sizable gash on his leg. But when the adults stared down at him as they refrained from talking he grew confused.

“Mr. Sallow you need to remove your shirt” Professor Sharp said sternly as he looked up confused.

“What?” Sebastian asked as the man harshly pointed at the wound on his shoulder. “Oh. I forgot about that…” he said gritting his teeth as he tried to unbutton the shirt with his non dominate hand.

“Adrenaline can make the body forget the trauma it’s experienced. It doesn’t look as bad now but still shouldn’t take too many chances with it.” The man said as he finished using spells he knew from his time at the ministry to examine the wound. Knowing the nurse would likely be too busy, helping the young Sallow man fell to him in responsibility.

“Is everyone decent?” Came a voice behind Professor Sharp who simply nodded as Matilda Weasley came forward.

“Mr. Sallow. I am going to need much more information this instance.” She demanded.

“Alright.” He spoke grumpily.

“Do you have any kind of idea the danger you put yourself, and your classmates, in?” She asked.

“Did you? Because from what I have come to realize, is that only Professor Fig and I were aware the danger everyone was in this whole time. I was likely more prepared than most of you to handle this”

“That doesn’t excuse your actions-“

“I will not apologize for wanting to make sure she walked out of there alive. Give me detention for the rest of the year. Expel me. Lock me in Azkaban. I don’t care. She is alive and going to be okay. That is all that matters to me” he spoke with exasperation.

“Matilda, perhaps given none of the students were in danger we should consider thanking Mr. Sallow for his assistance. Has they not arrived I am not sure even we all would have walked away” Professor Sharp spoke up.

“The distraction provided by Mr. Sallow and the other students allowed us to gain the upper hand during the battle.” Hecat pointed out.

“Yes but, they could have been hurt. How would I have explained it to their parents or the headmaster?” She questioned.

“Considering Sallow and I are the only two who got hurt, new fifth year excluded, I’d say it’s not something we need to be concerned with Professor Weasley. Chalk it up to some Slytherin resourcefulness and Gryffindor bravery.” Leander grunted as a house elf finished wrapping his leg.

The woman sighed before looking around. Eyes landing on the floor network as two figures emerged.

“Everett found me but when we made it back to the cavern everyone had left” Andrew Larson spoke walking forward with Officer Singer.

“What in Merlin’s name happened here? What is this I hear of a goblin attack?” She asked looking around at the battle worn professors and few injured students.

“Yes. And it appears several of our students mounted a counter offensive” she said with a frustrated sigh.

“Students?! The minister-“

“Will be delighted to know that Hogwarts has such brave, resourceful, loyal and intelligent students that they would be willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Going so far to go against the measure we took to ensure their safety” Professor Weasley spoke.

“I will need to contact the minister and start a full investigation into the matters-“ Officer Singer began before Matilda once again cut her off.

“Tomorrow. These students, and us for that matter, have been through a great deal. Let them rest. Recover from their injuries before we go bringing up such events again.” She said sternly, nodding to Sebastian that his witch was alert.

No longer caring about the logistics he ran forward, sliding onto his knees as he took to her bed side.

“Sebastian?” She asked gently as he grabbed her hands in his own, kissing the skin along the back of her hand firmly over and over again.

“You are alive. Merlin be praised, you are alive!” He said excitedly as he no longer cared about the hospital ward full of people as he reached his hand out along the back of her neck and brought her into a kiss. It conveyed all the fear, anger, love and pain he was dealing with at all that had happened.

Breaking away to catch her breath the sighed in pain before looking back up at him sadly. “Sebastian… Solomon he…”

“I know” he told her, not really finding it in his heart to care about it at the moment.

“No. He saved me. I was falling. I - I would’ve died had he not saved me. And then he fell to his own death. Sebastian, it was horrible…” she said as tears began to well up in her eyes. He reached forward, hoping to provide comfort as she sobbed. Inside, the boy knew it was rather callous to not feel bad about his last remaining adult relative being gone, but after what he did to Anne, what Solomon did to him and most importantly what he had let Rookwood do to her, he didn’t care.

“We don’t have to discuss it now… you are alive and that’s all that matters” he told her gently as he wipped the tears from her face and she nodded. Reaching towards the table beside her bed, she produced Solomon’s wand and handed it to Sebastian.

“I managed to grab this before everything happened. I thought Anne might want it. But Sebastian-“ she started to speak as the girl in question ran forward.

“Why do you have our uncle’s wand?!” She shrieked.

“We got separated and he was with me when Ranrok-“

“So it’s your fault.” Anne spoke harshly as a gasp fell over them.

“Anne, I’m not sure we have all the information to make claims like that-“ Ominis spoke but the girl interrupted.

“No. She walked out. Solomon didn’t. That’s all I need to know” Anne responded.

“Anne. You have no idea the vile things Solomon did to even you. He-“ Sebastian started only to be interrupted by the witch at his side.

“You are right Anne. Solomon sacrificed himself to save me. And there’s nothing I can do to bring him back or make it okay. I’m sorry.” She said sadly.

“Maybe if you weren’t so careless he’d be alive. It is all your fault.” She spat before standing up.

“Anne! She saved you-” Ominis said standing up and rushing after the girl who was fleeing the hospital ward, leaving Sebastian and her to sit in silence over what had happened.

“Poppy told me what happened. Don't worry. Anne doesn’t know what Solomon did to her. We will talk to her-“ he spoke after a moment and she stopped him.

“No. Let Anne grieve him. She deserves that. I won’t take that away from her” she told him.

“She deserves to know she was dying because Solomon is a coward.”

“Sebastian, I will not be the reason your sister loses the image of her protective and loving uncle.”

“He was anything but that. I won’t have her speak to you that way. You saved her. For heaven's sake, you saved us all '' Sebastian told her sternly.

“And right now she is a girl who is sad over her Uncle’s death. She should be allowed to do that.” She replied.

“Not at the sake of your good name” he told her.

“We will tell her eventually. Right now I really just want to rest.” She said sadly.

“I have talked to Officer Singer. Tomorrow you will all report to discuss the events of today first thing in the morning. Classes have been canceled. For now you are released to go rest.” Professor Weasley spoke before turning on her heels to discuss with the other professors.

“Let’s get you back to the dorm-“ he spoke and she shook her head.

“Room of requirement. I can’t… I don’t want to face anyone right now” she spoke and he nodded, helping her rise to her feet and start down the stairs to their private sanctuary.

To be continued…

[cosmerelists]

Candidates if Honor One Day Gets a New Vessel

[SPOILERS FOR STORMLIGHT THROUGH RHYTHM OF WAR!]

So, there is a popular theory that even though Honor is Shattered, he won't be down for the count forever. In particular, people theorize that in the final stages of a Bondsmith's evolution, they'll be able to reforge Shattered shards. And in that case, Honor could be reborn anew! Let's say that there's merit to this theory, and that one way or another, Honor is reborn. Which of our current characters are the most likely candidates to scoop up that Shard?

1. Kaladin

I mean, not only is Kaladin Mr. Honorable himself with his Honorspren and Sense of Honor, but there has also been some possible foreshadowing of Kaladin becoming Honor's Vessel. There's his name, which means something like "Born Unto Eternity" (hmmmm...). There's the fact that he's referred to as the Son of Tanavast (Tanavast being the prior Vessel) and that Sanderson said there was a reason for that. 

So just imagine Kaladin saying something like, oh I don't know, "Honor's dead but I'll see what I can do" before Ascending. You see it, right?

2. Dalinar

In the theories I've seen, people expect it to be Dalinar, if anyone, who decides to Reforge the Shard (with some theories positing that he may one day try to reforge Adonalsium, as suggested by @imtheseventh here!). If Dalinar does go that far, then he may just take up the Shard himself, becoming Honor. Again, there is some potential foreshadowing of this, mainly when Odium says something like "He wasn't supposed to Ascend!" with a capital A when Dalinar gets a power-up. Plus, Dalinar is bonded with the Stormfather, the current Avatar of Honor. So not only does Dalinar have that close connection to Honor, but he always knows the guy who current possesses the remnants of Honor's power.

3. Syl

I've not seen this posited, but I could see it making sense. Syl often refers to herself as a fragment of god--she's the Stormfather's Ancient Daughter and a literal Honorspren. If spren can go through some sort of superevolution into a Shard, then I could see it being Syl. Then Kaladin would have Honor as his spren, and that somehow makes sense too.

4. The Stormfather

Let's say Dalinar does figure out a way to reforge Honor. What if he just uses Honor's existing Avatar, the Stormfather, and makes him into Honor? The Stormfather is already a piece of Honor's power, after all. And then Dalinar's bond would be with Honor, which again makes sense. It just feels like it's gonna involve Dalinar or Kaladin somehow.

5. Taln

Or maybe not. If we put aside Kaladin and Dalinar...what about Taln? If anybody embodies Honor, it's that guy. And if say, restarting the Oathpact has anything to do with needing to get Honor back into a non-Shattered form, I'm sure Taln would be the first guy to volunteer for the job. It doesn't seem like holding a Shard is a good gig, overall, but bad gigs happen to be  Taln's specialty.

6. No one

Or we could all be theorizing into the wind, as it were. Perhaps Shatterings cannot be undone, and Honor is just...gone. Kaput. I could honestly very much see this being true, but it sure is fun to speculate otherwise!

[dearmantis]

Heart to Heart

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x sick!Reader

Summary: Your weak heart has kept you up all night once more and Aleksander is forced to face the fact that the person he loves is still mortal.

Warnings: sick and insecure (and slightly self-sacrificing) reader, conversations about death, the rest is just fluff, I think

Word Count: 1.5k

Authors note: I'm still alive. I'm sorry for taking such a long break without explaining why. I didn't really go online at all for a month because some things came up at the end of december that didn't really leave me alone until very recently. I'll try my best to not repeat this and start working my way through my missed notifications soon.

I'm not a native English speaker, and this isn't really edited at all. The title is from Heart to Heart by Mac DeMarco

When Aleksander wakes in the morning the first thing he notices, before he even fully realizes that he is awake and has to get up, is that he is alone.

Your side of the bed is cold and he curses quietly, fully aware of what this means. He can feel his heart rate shoot up, adrenaline rushing through his body as his thoughts take the worst turn. Quickly standing up he gets dressed for the day, trying his hardest to calm his mind. You're alright. Someone would've notified him if something bad had happened while he was asleep. One of his guards would've woken him up.

He knows this like the back of his hand, yet he pauses as soon as his hand wraps around the cold metal knob of the door that leads into the living room of your shared quarters. His mind is trying to prepare him for the worst. Prepare him to find your dead body curled in on itself on the sofa in front of a cold fireplace, all alone.

He has always hated this habit of yours. This obsession with keeping his day as peaceful as possible, of never bothering him with anything, has led to you refusing to tell him when something is wrong. You've been sick for almost your whole life, your heart a bit weaker than it should be, and every time you have issues with it during the night you leave your shared bed to hide away in a different room to make sure you won't disturb his sleep.

Many times has he asked you to stop, to wake him up so he can help make you more comfortable or call a heartrender to help you in case something is seriously wrong, but you just won't listen. You're trying to protect him from the pain of seeing you suffer, he understands that, but it makes no sense to him. Why are you, a mortal little otkazat'sya, so obsessed with protecting him, an ancient being who most people would argue has lost his humanity centuries ago if they truly knew him as a person?

Most... except you. You have found out about his true nature, about the darkness sleeping in his chest in the place where his soul should sit, and decided that he was worth loving. You saw and embraced all of him, the beautiful and kind, but also the cruel and ugly.

You. A small, mortal otkazat'sya with a sick heart.

The closest thing to a soulmate he thinks he will ever get.

With a last deep breath he finally opens the door and lets his eyes glide through the room, and he can feel his heart jump when he finds you carefully sipping on a cup of tea while sitting in front of a warm, burning fire, gaze focused on the snow silently falling outside.

Your head turns when you hear the door open, eyes lighting up when you see your husband.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you're awake. I sorted your folder for the meeting with the king and his advisors today. I hope I didn't mess up one of your weird sorting system though. I know you have your own way of doing things, but I thought this could-"

Your voice cuts off as soon as he reaches you on the sofa, quickly kneeling down in front of you before pressing his head against your chest. He knows your heart is beating, but he has to hear it right now. Has to hear the soft, familiar rhythm to calm his own heart and reassure him that this is all real, that he isn't dreaming.

You don't continue speaking after the surprise of his sudden movement dies down, instead mowing your hands up to run softly over his head while he listens to your heart pump blood through your body.

It still speeds up when he's close. You're glad it does.

You sit like this for a while, your fingers carefully moving to comb through his thick, ink black hair and loosening any knots that may have formed while he slept alone.

"I told you to stop disappearing." You finally hear him whisper after a few quiet minutes, arms still wrapped tightly around your middle while his head stays pressed against your chest.

"I know, Sasha... but it just wouldn't stop. I wanted to stay with you, but the pain wouldn't go away. I couldn't breathe right because of my own fear, so I kept coughing and it was so loud. I didn't want to wake you in the night before your meeting. I promise, if I felt like things were going to end last night, I would've woken you up."

You can feel the way his arms clench around you. You know how much he hates thinking about your death, how helpless and weak the simple fact that you will die makes him feel.

"Stop talking about it. It won't happen."

"Sasha, please, I know you don't want to think about losing me, but we have to make plans for-"

"No. I've created the fold, milaya. I will not let you die. I won't let it happen, even if I have to break the laws of nature once more. I will not let you leave this world without me. I refuse to lose another person. I can't be alone again, can't lose you too. I will not watch as the universe takes another person from me and leaves me alone to pick up the pieces of my broken heart. Not again. I can't do it again. You can't ask me to. You can't."

"I don't care about the king and I don't care about my rest." He hisses before finally lifting his ear from your chest, dark eyes looking up at you. "And I'm starting to hate your heart for keeping you up at night, for hurting you like this."

A soft smile finds its way onto your lips as you map out every freckle on his skin, every small wrinkle and every pore on his eternally beautiful face.

He never says it out loud but it's clear that it frustrates him more than anything that he can't fight the thing that is harming you. There is no enemy to slay, to throat to slit, no king to overthrow. He can't rip your heart out of your body and give you a painless, happy life that way. All he can do is hope that the medicine prescribed to you by the best doctors he can pay for will help and that the corporalki order will keep an eye on you.

This is entirely out of his control, and it's probably the worst feeling in the world for him.

"Hey, this heart is filled to the brim with love for you, don't be mean." You chastise playfully, grinning when you see Aleksander roll his eyes before moving to sit next to you on the couch. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you breathe in his familiar smell and let it soothe your soul. He still smells a bit like the soap the servants use to clean your bedsheets, with an underlying sweetness that comforts you like nothing else ever could. He smells like home, like belonging.

"I need you to swear that you will get me no matter what is wrong. Even if it's just a weird feeling in your chest, you need to wake me or come to me, please. That's all I ask of you, my love. All I want. I can't do my job as your husband and make you feel better if I don't know that something is wrong."

You think about it for a few seconds, mind replaying every other time you've had this conversation with him. This time is different though. He's not mad or upset, there are no tears in his eyes, he isn't even shaking. He just sounds calm, with a hint of pain in his voice, as if an old wound is giving him issues again.

Slowly you nod, arms wrapping around him as you snuggle closer to him.

"I promise I'll wake you Aleksander. I swear it. No matter what it is. I will wake you up or go find you."

Looking up at him you see the way his eyes shine at your words before he leans down and presses a soft kiss on your lips, movements careful as if he thinks you might break if he kisses you too forcefully. The only thought you have is how much you don't want to lose this. How much you want to stay with your husband.

You've accepted that you will die early years ago. Born into a simple family, you had no chance to truly survive long. You've already made it further than you should've. But being with Aleksander has made you greedy, his own ambition leading you to play with your own what-if scenarios. He convinced you to start dreaming again.

And the only dream you have is one of a world where you will never have to leave him behind, even if that means breaking the laws of nature.

Taglist: @snowkestrel

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

tags: ghost!gojo x f!reader, mentions of death, manga spoilers, mentions of character death(s), mentions of sick parents, reader being nurturing, satoru being intruiged by reader, reader talking to herself even though she knows she's being listened to, slight fluff at the end, gojo feeling some type of way word count: 2.2k a/n: someone help me name this series. this is the quickest time I've written a pt. 2 after a part 1. also, shout out to mitski's my love mine all mine for the extra kick to finish the end. I was supposed to sleep 2 hrs ago, so here's the unedited chapter. here is part 1. some inspiration to the gojo clan home: photo 1,

5 months into your arrival as his nephew's tutor, satoru thinks you've finally accepted his presence, yet he never plans to outwardly reach out to you because what if you told his family in the estate?

he should feel relieved over this, but bringing his clan in this issue would surely bring more problems than he'd like to admit. if he were 'dead' now, imagine what his clan would do once he really died?

shortly before finishing his fight with kenjaku, satoru was blindly cursed. "I may not be able to bring the strongest with me, but I will curse you, satoru gojo," the words still echo in the back of his head.

"your spirit will remain the same, your being remains, but you will be here no more, in the presence for others to see. you shall remain invisible, a ghost to all, and you'll be lucky to be noticed by anyone who does not already know your inherit value as a sorcerer. known by all, but never remembered."

satoru thinks back to that fateful day, ending the life of a stranger inside the body of his best friend, the epitome of his youth, hopes, and aspirations. satoru remembers the look on his student's faces, blank disappointment. either at him or themselves, but he knows it's geared towards him. shoko's knuckles barely turn white as her lips press into a tight line, while yuuji chokes on air as he's on his knees, other students at his side, attempting to console him while megumi lays unconscious several feet away. he turns out okay in the end, with a minor concussion and a few injuries he'd like to thank shoko for fixing up, the boy lives.

and on that day, gojo satoru died from the face of the earth.

he doesn't know how or why he ended up in his estate. a large, but quaint home with endless scenery and a garden right out of a movie. the house still holds traditional japanese elements, but the peony shrubs his mother had planted stick out like a sore thumb.

just like her.

young, beautiful, and once full of life. hopeful to marry into a family that would one day accept her albeit she was a foreigner, marrying a man whom she thought was serious and sophisticated enough to handle marriage.

but oh how foolish we are to assume the best in others when it comes to matters of the heart.

when he was alive, satoru would regularly check in with the old nanny, ensuring that the shrubs were trimmed and water just right. he knew just how much those flowers meant to his mother. a pretty housewife who no matter what she did was never enough to impress the clan.

until satoru was born. her pride and joy, holding no mind to the comments of his white hair and how he held ancestral resemblance to an ancient sorcerer from within the clan. all his mother knew was that she was head over heels in love with the peaceful human she was able to carry for nine months. no concern for the future, only hope that his son would see and be treated with the humanness he deserved to have. but oh how fate twists. one thing leads to another and his mother now requires a blanket everywhere she goes. she still hangs out in the gardens, spending what time she can with her son who is now 5, nearly 6. and then she's bed bound, finding solace in the brush stokes against the canvas and the warmth of her son.

sometimes, satoru carries the bitter reminder yet anger towards his father. he never saw them happy, only formal and curt, almost as if being together was a chore for him, and his mother's smile would falter when he would avoid a hug from her. the smell of cheap vanilla perfume stained his coat, hanging by his arm, and satoru's mother would simply look towards the ground. almost in shame.

he never loved his mother, satoru then realized as an adult. not even bring her up in the lonely nights, reminisce her life, what they shared, it was as if she was a long-forgotten chapter in his life.

you arrive in august, cheerful and kind. he thinks you won't last long because his family demands unreasonably long hours and surely your boyfriend back home would not approve, but he was surprised, 3 months in your stay that you continued to tutor his nephew. you seemed much more genuine than any other temporary nanny he had when he was a kid, satoru thinks, but then again he and hotaru are completely different in terms of cursed energy.

when november is nearing it's end, you decide to stay a few extra minutes in the garden. hotaru has now joined his family for dinner, and he watches the estate nanny walk towards you and hand you a mug. he can't quite hear what you're both saying since the leaves rustle a little too loudly for his liking, but he notices the 'oh' you make is serious, followed by a nervous chuckle after the nanny had said something.

satoru wonders what you must have said as the nanny suddenly rises from the garden stone bench, looking at his direction as he leans against a tree. she tells you something before departing, and you sigh moments later.

"I can feel you're around, you've been watching us for some time, and I know it." you speak almost so knowingly that it makes satoru swallow the lump at the back of his throat, but the feeling quickly dissipates as soon as the white housecat, mochi, startles you.

you leave shortly after.

12 days of your normal routine pass when satoru notices something is wrong. hotaru doesn't eat as much and at night, he calls for you. "you'll spoil him if you keep letting him be around that commoner," a distant aunt of satoru, one who he wasn't particularly fond of sneers at the nanny, "now he's calling her before bedtime,"

"he's 5," the nanny says, almost defensively. if anyone were to speak to his aunt like that then the staff would have surely been fired, but after working in the estate for nearly 30 years, satoru's father would have prohibited the dismissal of a staff member with this much seniority over something like this. "his mother is ill, and the boy's tutor has been his only maternal rock at this point. he doesn't open up to anyone but her, so we would be doing the nephew of gojo satoru a disservice by treating his nephew the way you treat him." satoru watched at how furiously the woman's brows furrowed then softened, speechless and at a loss for words before she gives up and leaves.

within an hour, you are quick to make it to the estate with a much more informal set of clothes. a pair of joggers and loungewear ideal for the nearing winter. it is past 10 when you hold the boy in his arms, talk to him about his problems, make a pinky promise (not just any promise) with him, and read him a bedtime story you had so thoughtfully decided to bring in your bag.

within minutes, the boy instantly falls asleep tucked to your side and the look you hold in your face makes satoru stare in admiration as he sits from one of the rocking chairs across the room. gently placing the book down, you kiss hotaru's forehead. "I'll see you on thursday," you promise the sleeping child before heading outside where hatoru's nanny greets you. she bows her head momentarily.

"we cannot thank you enough for your work, miss." she says, hands formally clasped together at her front. "we have made sleeping arrangements for you to stay the night. we insist, as a commute back home at this hour is late," she adds, "we have set up nightwear and can even prepare dinner for you miss."

"thank you," you say simply, politely, "I... I really don't mean to intrude nor cause any-"

"oh you could never," the woman says, "please, allow us to be your host for the night. and do not worry about waking up at an hour in fear of inconveniencing us. we have multiple guest bedrooms and would be honored to let you stay."

satoru notices the expression in your face soften as he knows that you can't possibly say no know, so you accept. choosing to spend the night. the staff set you up in a nice, private room with your own exit to the gardens. and the estate chef sends you his best soup and side dishes to fill your stomach on this cold night.

"you clearly don't have to worry about anything in here," you speak lowly but loudly enough for satoru to hear. you sit and lean against your slide shift door, facing the garden as satoru sits on the wooden surface of the 'sidewalk' (referenced in photo one). and he nearly wants to laugh at your comment, swaying his feet that he almost kicks some of the pebbled stones.

"but... hotaru still worries," you definitely have his attention now as you sigh softly, troubled, not knowing the spirit of hotaru's uncle listens to you.

"sometimes... I don't know what to do. sometimes... I feel like I can cross a boundary, but I'm an employee at the end of the day. how can I act as his therapist without... being this motherly to him?"

there was clearly a problem that satoru didn't know the answer to, but he sympathized with you trying to take on as many roles as you possibly could. he knew how complicated his family clan was. how you would always and forever walk on eggshells around them and no matter what you accomplished, it was never enough.

"I try, I really do..." your murmur to yourself, and a long silence passes as you sit in the quietness of the room. "I..." you chuckled, "I'm sorry, I can't believe I'm doing this- talking to myself, hoping something or some spirit is listening when in reality I'm just speaking to myself like a complete fool, or a japanese spirit is here right now truly mind boggled as a girl speaks in english," you stand to your feet and chuckle, heading to your bed. as satoru hears yourself bickering, the corner if his lip tugs ever so slightly upwards.

he wants to say something. thinks about what the possibility of you talking with him would be like. and as you're making your way to the bed, you still go off on a tangent.

"...no, I bet they do understand me." you argue with yourself, lecturing as if you had your own personal podcast, "if feelings are universal, so are energies and vibrations... meaning one of two things." now you're walking back and forth, concentrated on your own footsteps. satoru wants to chuckle, scare you off even, but this entertainment was the best thing he's had since he could remember. so he decided to wait this one out.

"1- the spirits must think I'm an idiot, I mean I already look like one here, but... 2, they can sense my energy." satoru feels his figurative heart drop to his stomach when you instantly look in his direction, did you know he was here all along? he thinks for a split moment, your eyes sharp with knowing.

you shudder, as your hairs stand on the sides of your arms. not unpleasantly, but enough to know some energy besides your own was here. after a short consideration, you speak.

"move a pebble if you're here," your eyes don't leave his direction, and satoru sits motionless, almost afraid you could see the real him, break all notions of metaphysical theories and curses, and then, you walk towards him; sitting criss cross applesauce.

"I know you're here," softly, you whisper, and satoru can see how you're cold, hugging your frame as your jaw slightly tenses. "I just don't know if you choose to ignore my attempts because you want to or because you genuinely can't communicate," your energy warms him, he doesn't know how else to describe it as you lean closer and closer. he thinks that if he were still alive, then you'd probably make fun of his faltered composure.

I don't know how, he wants to say, but deep down, if he wanted to try he could. he just didn't have the guts to do it.

a long minute passes, you wait patiently before you sigh, but not in defeat. "but either way, I'll be here. and your nephew will be okay. I don't know if that's the reason why you're here, but..." you trail, eyes fixated on the garden as your brows furrow and unfurrow, "...he's going to be okay." shortly after, you stand up, closing the conversation, and satoru senses he shouldn't be here anymore as you make your way to the bed. taking his cue, he leaves with a fuzzy feeling in his chest, remembering your words that oddly felt like a promise. one he hasn't been made to in forever.

he could learn to trust you.

[robodove]

SHOW US THE PIRATE STUFF DO THE MERMAID STUFF ALKNASDAS

OKAY I FINALLY HAVE A LITTLE TIME ARRGAGRG I hope this aimless infodump is readable

so! Their designs and junk are a mess rn but I do have some stuff of them!!

Ignore the little dragon in the last I'm still working on Lloyd's whole... business. And! Don't mind the text in the pink one, I was just tryna think up silly nicknames!

Anyways! They aren't really... Traditional pirates? Y'know.. cause their crew size is like 5 + a child and ancient beast.

Under division is a small ramble

Cole's the "captain" and is a selkie (although I know they're usually seals I accidentally chose a sea lion)! He's the sea lion in the pictures and I'm desperately trying to work his skin into the design. I thought it'd be silly since he was raised in dance and entertainment.. and hey! Sea lions are known for that too!

(he wasn't meant to look so forsaken here, sorry Cole)

Jay is a mermaid (thing?) When in the water, he has the lower half reminiscent of an electric eel (I saw reminiscent as there are some major differences)! No one really has powers in this but he can still shock like that,, Ed and Edna are still human in this and I'm trying to remember if they still lived at a scrapyard or a shipyard.

Both Kai and Nya are only half mermaid! Nya ended up inheriting way more mermaid traits than her brother, who doesn't even have a tail in water, but still has a lot of human drawbacks. She can only breathe underwater for so long and ironically Kai can last down there longer. He just chooses not to since I thought it'd be funny to still let him be scared of water in this 😭 sorry Kai. He still has the recognizable sharper teeth and has bits and flashes of shimmery scales but is overall the most human of the bunch once you count out Cole's unskinned form.

I couldn't resist myself on Zane and ended up making him a siren. Mainly because.. bird! And also if he was going to be organic, I wanted to isolate him from the other sea related creatures. He has the wings and feathers of a gyrfalcon and can't swim as well in the ocean! He ends up bonding with Kai over this Kai originally hadn't liked him too much! Reasonably so since.. y'know.. sirens eat people. And mermaids in this.. although Zane eats human things as he was raised on it by a still very human Dr. Julien (who I guess is more of a bird-oriented wildlife scientist in this? ornithologist?). insert joke about him being a hand raised bird.

I don't have my sketchbook with me right now so I'm scrambling for pictures but ! Like all their designs, he's still a work in progress. Will most likely make his legs longer or something but this is just my ideas LOL

And anyways! Onto Lloyd! (And the others?)

I was struggling to decide what Lloyd should be,, like? A dragon could still very much work and his normal version is already so cool?? However, I ended up on leviathan.. a baby one. The serpentine aren't decided but Lloyd's still pretty much not taken seriously by the town. Still winds up being taken in by the "ninja!"

Garmadon is still locked up, although now at the bottom of the ocean! The Skulkin are drowned/dead pirates?

Wu is who I've been struggling to decide on as well! For whatever reason I've been contemplating making him like just some statue in the Destiny's Bounty that speaks to them.

There's plenty of other things going on,, Kai and Nya come to them on accident and Jay is over the moon to see other moons and wants to show them their "ways" despite having never even met others before. Cole is desperately trying to keep everyone in one place as they've accidentally made the perfect collection of the world's most valuable pelts.

Kai still raises Nya at the forge (which in this, is beachside), but years later there's a rise in pricing for the scales of mers and the boy decides that they need to leave in effort to protect her. Nya is devastated because this is their home! Where else would they even go?? They barely have any cash! Kai's decision is further inland AND with the money they get from selling the forge. Yadda, yadda, the buyer turns on them and they wind up in the ocean near their home! Kai's knocked cold, which is for the better as Nya swims them further and further into open ocean.

For the first time, Nya meets another mer as she tries to save her brother, and he helps them aboard a ship! The Destiny's Bounty! (Or perhaps a ship before it? It's all still up in air)

I'd expand more but I'm out of time </3 please give any suggestions if you'd like to! I'd always appreciate criticism

[lesbiansforboromir]

After the war. (dndrabble)

Well the poll said to throw it down raw but it turns out I'm incapable of doing that so just a few notes;

Sataro and Vekna are of an ancient race of high elves whose civilisation was entirely obliterated about 3000 years ago by a great cataclysm. This civilisation had had a historical tradition of nomadic life and worship of a primal god of fire (kossuth), but that was being suppressed by it's leader's own imperialist designs that valued a static population and military conquest. Sataro was a field-marshal in the army and from a middle-class family, Vekna was a Paladin of the old religion and came from a sub-section of society that still held to entirely nomadic life.

During a sudden attack upon their capitol by giants, Sataro sacrificed herself in order to give civilians a chance to evacuate. She would have died of her injuries but Vekna used some amalgamation of purpose and divinity to preserve her in stone, alive but still and barely conscious. This statue was placed in an old monastery and eventually forgotten.

Sataro awoke properly 3000 years later and was inducted into a dnd campaign. She believed all her people long dead, including her wife, and had been internally struggling with what her life could even mean to her when everything that HAD ever meant anything to her was gone.

During the campaign, after returning to the last remnant of the continent that Sataro's civilisation used to be on and, finding an abandoned dwarven kingdom called Bane Anvil, the Party ALSO found the dwarven king of the place preserved alive in it's vault. He had paused time somehow, awaiting the moment he would be needed again. And with him, Sataro found Vekna too. Apparently, unable to move on, Vekna had befriended the dwarves and it's king and helped them with this stasis contraption just for the small possibility that she and Sataro might find each other again in this time (my DM did this to me without me knowing a single thing I was so normal about it you've no idea)

This drabble takes place after they have finally returned to the party's base of operations, a dwarven city that gives them a house as a reward for the king thing. It is the first time Sataro and Vekna had properly had a moment of real privacy and rest since they were reunited. o7

Oh pps addendum, this ancient race of High Elves lived in the frozen north lands and averaged 8ft tall. It was a running joke in my brain that Sataro, whom is 7'7, was actually considered short in her time but is now surprised to find that she dwarfs most people in this era.

After taking one look at the utterly unprepared bed in the room they had chosen, Sataro and Vekna had quietly sought, and found, three of the unclaimed mattresses throughout the house. All three mattresses joined their original single one on the floor and made up a wide bed that would have been luxuriously spacious to anyone but Vekna and Sataro.

"Big enough, you think?" Sataro asked without much faith.

"Of course not. There is no bed big enough in this sodden era."

"We made do in Redbite."

"You were on me like a fool clinging to a fight the night in Redbite."

Sataro quirked a brow at her wife, "And you were not?"

"Well, you are so little," Vekna drawled, "I was worried you might freeze to death without our… four quilts from home." She made a great show of counting all the layers Sataro's trancing once demanded and mirth quirked at her lips once she was done.

Sataro sent her a typically unamused glare, and Vekna responded to the call accordingly; with a shameless grin.

They sat in their stalemate for a moment before Sataro conceded a silent defeat and grunted, "Dekash.. But it is too warm here for clinging."

"We don't need covers." Vekna offered immediately, quicker than Sataro had expected.

"… I suppose the open window and sea breeze should keep it icey enough," she said, smiling.

"It will." Vekna assured decisively. And then continued in a grumble, "Beggars belief how quickly snow is left behind in the south. At least in Bane Anvil I could find relief on the surface."

"You lived there then?"

"A little while." She replied, though immediately turned on Sataro as if knowing the thought that caught in her mind, "Ack, of course the cows were long dead before then Rybka."

The centuries-old 'little fish' nickname hit them both gentle and harsh and without discussion they stepped closer, shoulders brushing as they began unbuckling their armoured layers. "Yetty and Etta survived the war?" Sataro asked in a lower tone.

"Mhm," Vekna rumbled, matching her pitch, "I swear, too clever by half for just pulling burdens. I did not even go looking for them, they just came back to the yurt by themselves after the dust settled."

Sataro snorted, "What a perfect way to annoy you," she smirked back, flashing her teeth.

"They did it on purpose, I had thought for sure I was finally rid of them," Vekna growled.

"They weren't easy animals, even for the two of us. You could have sold them on." Sataro set her splint mail aside.

"No, I couldn't have."

They allowed that admission room to breathe and by the time they could speak again Vekna was rid of her heavier layers.

"The kits helped." She continued, eventually. "With the cows."

"They made migration with you?"

"Yes, but they cared for them in Mithlond too."

Sataro's head tilted curiously, a soft look coming to her eyes. And Vekna gave an irritable sigh of something before answering her silent question, "Your brother's family made their settling in the city for a few seasons, after."

"Gnestat hated Mithlond."

"So did I."

"… Did it help, to have them there?"

"Mm, for a time. In the beginning."

"And after?"

Vekna paused before turning her massive bulk fully towards Sataro and looking down at her with a hard stare.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Of course."

Vekna sucked her teeth in frustration, sarcasm bleeding into her tone, "Fine, let me say that differently, are you going to brood over ancient history just for the sake of feeling guilty if I tell you?"

Sataro grimaced.

Her nose scrunched with a displeasure that dug the scars around her eye even deeper and she bit her tongue against any rebuttal. Instead, looking for retaliation and reassurance both, she reached for the heavy blue cloth bound so particularly around Vekna's waist. She felt more than heard her inhale at the contact but Sataro did not pause, she stroked once over the wedding fabric before digging two fingers into each knot and beginning to gradually prize them free.

"Probably," she conceded, though she clearly did not like the admission, focusing on the patterns of metal thread woven in the familiar garment. And then in an even lower tone she admitted, "It is not why I asked."

Vekna's brow cocked curiously as Sataro finally pulled the long scarf away and let her hands act out the careful muscle memory of folding it over her palm. The colour was more faded than she remembered it, but it still held. Vekna said nothing for a moment as she watched this action with eyes full of something unspeakable.

"Why then?" she finally asked and Sataro seemed to writhe at the question.

Vekna held her breath as she watched Sataro struggle with what she wanted to say. Her shoulders tensed, her brows knitted and a muscle bounced in her jaw in a way that looked painful under the scar tissue. Eventually the look of conflict, ferocity and scarlet that had been growing was directed Vekna's way.

"I do not know how to say this."

"The look on you…" Vekna said in a release of breath, tracing her hand over Sataro's brow and following the scars down her cheek, a touch Sataro pressed into like a cat.

"Thinking too hard again, as always," Vekna chided, "It is not like you to falter though."

That won her weary smile and Sataro's ears wilted a little as she let her forehead drop to rest against Vekna's chest. "Mph, my head has been full of wool since I awoke. Makes giving up on thought very appealing."

Vekna clicked her tongue once again, her hand coming to rest over the back of Sataro's neck. "That is because you don't 'think', you agonise."

"And you arbitrate."

"And you are dodging my question." Vekna gave a single tug on Sataro's braid and drew her eyes back up. "It is me. Just say it."

Sataro thought she heard the rarest note of a nervous plea in Vekna's voice and, real or not, her blood rose to meet it fiercely. For her, she would beat her thoughts into words. She dug one hand into the fabric of Vekna's shirt at her collar, breathing out through her nose once, before, "Fine. I think I am too… uh.. ravenous."

Vekna's beautiful brows rose. "Ravenous?"

"Yes. It- ah… it is too much. It makes my hands and my voice shake."

"For what?"

"You, obviously."

"You have me," Vekna hummed warmly, but Sataro was not reassured.

"No, even telling you this, I feel as though I am trying to tear pieces out of you."

"Maybe you should."

"No, listen-" Sataro urged, trying to shake her for emphasis, "I want to lock us in this room and hear you talk for a hundred days, or however long it takes until I have heard it all-"

"That doesn't sound so bad, a little dull."

"-Especially what you don't want to tell me, I want to-.." her free hand clawed the air in her effort to explain herself, "-dig it all out of you. It is a brutal feeling."

This does give Vekna pause, "… Wanting me?"

"Or missing you. Maybe they are the same. Either way it is too much, it feels like I will break something."

There was a silence between them for a while, Sataro weathering Vekna's usual unreadable but intent stare with a durability grown from centuries of practice.

"Mm," Vekna began at last, "so my standing here is not enough, you want to tear out everything new about me that you do not know, even the secrets I find hard to explain, just to wet your thirst of me after so long apart? It all must be yours?"

Sataro's expression pulled towards rueful and raw annoyance at having been so concisely laid bare and she opened her mouth to fluster a response, but Vekna's eyes were raptorial when she interrupted her, "And what have I just done, Rybka?"

Sataro frowned, then blinked, eyes widening with a surprise that soon folded and broke into an emotion so potent it gagged her. It made her reach for Vekna's face, cup her near manic canine grin with hands that dragged at her skin as she pressed her battered nose into Vekna's cheek. As arms enveloped Sataro's chest she pushed and Vekna laughed through those canines as her back collided with the wall, a warm but sour sound that made Sataro's torn ear twitch and her chest burn.

They breathed as one for a while, until their hearts calmed and the burning tempered.

Sataro's hands were still greedily running over Vekna's grinning features that nuzzled into every touch when she finally sighed and her gaze sharpened with renewed purpose.

"What happened between you and the family, after?"

Vekna grunted, rueful amusement showing on her face as she realised what she had encouraged. Still, she did not try to deny her a second time, her expression as she held Sataro's gaze pinching with something like melancholy, or pain.

"They were there. When I was told nothing could be done and you were taken away."

Sataro did not blink. "They grieved with you?"

"Yes, in a way," there was a pause before Vekna pushed away from the wall in a huff and concluded darkly, "-then they moved on without me."

She looked away, down, to fix upon Sataro's waist sash. Her short in and out breath was sharp and her fingers touched the fabric almost nervously at first, before sinking into it's softness as if to savor it. "They said your name again, as though you were dead. I could not be there for that."

"Did you stop seeing them?"

"They came to find me a few times, they tried to bring it up with the Order too."

"They did?"

"Yes!" Vekna said with a hollow laugh. "Went crying to the Mother-Superior, something about my needing help, to stop going to see you, needing to 'let her go'. When I told them you were conscious at times they thought I had gone mad I think." Vekna's manner of prizing the knots of the fabric free was decidedly slower than Sataro's had been, giving her wife time to slide arms about her shoulders as she worked.

"Gnestat did not come to visit?"

"Not when you were awake." Vekna muttered.

"… but I am sure I remember speaking to someone else.."

"The kits would make the journey with me, even after their father stopped."

"Oh! Yes," Sataro chuckled fondly, "Jurnat left flowers…" Memories of her niece and nephew seemed very sharp suddenly, jagged and bloody with a grief she had yet to grow around.

"I'm surprised they were so dogged," she said with a hoarseness that Vekna lovingly ignored.

"Busybodies all of them, I preferred it when they barely tolerated me."

Sataro's closed her eyes, swallowing around the bittersweet lump in her throat.

But Vekna's frown only grew and her lip curled venomously. "And then there was your fucking mother."

This was all but spat, making Sataro flinch in place, though Vekna quickly halted her efforts and let go of the scarf to instead just cradle Sataro's ribcage in her hands.

"I hadn't meant to say that."

"I'll forgive you." Sataro said in a sardonic but tight hum, "… so even she felt compelled to finally speak to you?"

"When she could not help it, and I couldn't escape."

Sataro settled her back and torso into Vekna's confident hold with a weary and resigned sigh, running her hands up and down Vekna's shoulders throughout the silence. It seemed to soothe.

"Gnestat and I would complain about her together, now and then…" Vekna mused with a distant look.

"And what would you say?"

Sataro's attempt to make the question sound casual failed abysmally and Vekna growled back at her. "Why ask me something I want to tell you but I know you do not want to hear?"

Sataro gave a frustrated shrug. "I will have to know eventually."

"Who says so? I think I will take it to my grave."

"If you must, let's see…" Sataro's eyes wandered to the ceiling.

"… See what."

"What's the worst thing I can imagine my mother doing…"

Vekna leaned forward and bit her ear, hard, worrying at it's cartlidge as she pulled her closer whilst Sataro chuckled and tried to shake her free.

"You really are ravenous." Vekna growled through her teeth.

"You're the one consuming me ear-first."

"I could start elsewhere-"

Sataro kissed her. Vekna's hands at Sataro's back shook just a little so that, when she pushed, the monolith of a woman went down easily to sit on the mattresses below. Sataro followed her, dropping into her lap and her waiting arms.

"Luuchik," Sataro burred, arching to make space at her still-tied waist as Vekna gripped her tighter, "Finish your work, and tell me what happened."

The command was fruitful. Vekna returned to her methodical untying.

There was a quiet between them as they waited for Vekna's 'sunbeam' petname to stop choking her at it's invocation. But, eventually, she began in a croak;

"… She wanted to parade you through the plaza."

Sataro was still and quiet.

"Just take you, as you were, up the city. Set you there, like any other monument. She would not stop calling you her 'martyr-daughter'. It started the moment she returned to the rubble, I only ever saw her weep about it in front of someone important."

Her words were burning and she looked to the side with a bitter, gritted laugh that left Sataro cold.

"I had to- we spent days in the district court just to keep you from her scheming hands."

"Gnestat?"

"Mm, and Yurtar too."

This was a surprise, to which Vekna only nodded a confirmation. "Yes, even Yurtar. It was their words that got you sent to the monastery, in the end. My protests were nothing in comparison."

"Did they say why?"

"Something foolish about, 'whatever you were, you did not deserve to be a toy'. But they still did not visit you after the fact."

"I never expected it."

"You should have."

"Their convictions were noble."

"As noble as they were flaccid."

"Vekna."

"What was ignoring you ever going to do, hm? Force the Titah to strip the 'Marshal' title from a statue, all because a cross-dressing seditionist sibling disapproved?"

Sataro butted their heads together, "You were a cross-dressing seditionist."

"I had more backbone about it."

"Are we still having this fight even after they are so long dead?"

Vekna gave a deep, long sigh, and a sudden aching weariness seemed to come over her. Sataro felt, perhaps for the first time since their reunion, that this was something new in her wife she had never seen before. She held her tighter on instinct, her severe shape somehow still finding it's perfect fit around Vekna's full curves. In silence, Vekna pulled out the last knot, letting the scarf lie still and loose about Sataro's waist.

"They did not deserve you," she croaked, "None of them did, but their kin-rights were paramount in the end."

Ah.

Vekna looked down at the gold fabric in her hands. "The binding was literally set in stone, and still no one's claim of you was in doubt but mine."

Sataro made an animal sound, "Our vows were recorded in that court, did that not-.."

"What worth are a pagan barbarian's promises?" Vekna grinned through gritted teeth.

It was a look so hateful that some cautious reign about Sataro's heart snapped and steel wrapped her spine. Perhaps she needed to break something, what was a little brutality between them, after all? Sataro had always known what to do.

She wound her fingers into Vekna's long locks of greying red hair and pulled her gaze back, like it was hers to take. (And wasn't that true?) It wiped the awful grin from Vekna's face at least.

"Take it off," she ordered and Vekna, unblinking and transfixed, obligingly pulled the scarf away from Sataro's narrow waist and set it aside.

"The records are gone and no one alive remembers what that scrap of cloth means," this did hurt, it hurt them both, but Sataro drew Vekna's hands back around her as she continued, "but we are still here."

Vekna listened, and Sataro kept going.

"You conquered my death, and then you conquered time, no claim over me has won more of a right than yours. It outlasted empires and all meanings but ours."

In the stillness after, Sataro still worried for the three hundred years of a Vekna she had not known. There were new lines she could not see, new borders that might consider her trespasser, a distance of time that might prove so wide she'd lose her in it. She felt more a coward now than ever before in her already long life, but still, she had learned how to face a fear at some point in that time, she would still reach across the distance anyway.

And, apparently, Vekna had love in her for a new, ravenous, weary coward too. The words had lit a fire and slowly Vekna's eyes began burning a dangerous red and her breath against Sataro's mouth grew supernaturally hot as a touch of the old world's divinity purred in approval. Her smile returned, vile and hungry, but Sataro liked this one much better.

"That is true, isn't it." Vekna affirmed with a lion's satisfaction.

"Mhm," Sataro sighed, slumping back into Vekna's hold and giving into weariness once more, "and I hope I am a worthy prize for the effort. I am far more battered than before."

"Worth doing it all again," was snarled into her ear.

"Even worth my mother?"

Vekna gripped Sataro's jaw and she went limp into it, "No more talk about your mother, besides the crone died barely ten seasons afterwards."

"She did? H-"

Vekna slid her free, still burning hand under Sataro's remaining loose tunic and pressed into the skin of her back, making her hiss pleasantly.

"No more about your mother."

Sataro obeyed and chuckled fondly as Vekna so easily hefted her and rolled them both into their makeshift bed, undoing the past year of experience that had begun to make Sataro feel big and heavy.

Vekna kissed her this time, which felt new in some ephemeral way, and let her full body press Sataro into their makeshift mattress that barely softened the hard stone floor. Tension left the both of them, even softening Sataro's thin ligaments and tight chords as the weight of Vekna's breast pulled creases into her shirt and came to rest against Sataro's sternum. Their legs tangled, Sataro found the crease of Vekna's hip with her fingers and they both sighed.

"I still have more to dig out of you." Sataro murmured, as warning.

"So do I." Vekna promised in kind.

[howaboutcastiel]

I’ve been Angry and Sad

Summary: (6) Steven is grieving his mum, and finds himself back in Dr. Harrow’s office. FWMS Masterlist 

Word Count: 7.2k

Content: Medical talk, talk of being drugged (like in the show). Grief, medical terms. Derealization. Verbal abuse. Depersonalization a little. Use of ableist language. A little bit of allusion to SH and to canon-typical violence. It’s also sweet in spite of that. Is it stupid? Yes. Is it angsty? Yes. Would I eat this shit up if someone else wrote it? Also yes. Enjoy. 

“Steven? Are you listening to me?”

The voice was muffled as it made its way through Steven’s head. It had happened again—he had found himself somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, with no recollection of how he arrived there. He thought that this wouldn’t happen anymore. He and Marc had sorted it all out, right? They passed the body to each other gracefully. There wasn’t supposed to be any more confusion. No more lost time, no more mystery destinations. By that metric, he should have known exactly where he was. 

So where the hell was he?

Steven tried retracing his steps. Surely he could remember if only he could think straight. What was the last thing he did? Who was the last person he spoke to? He thought back to the start of his day—he’d been sorting his library out…

“Where the bloody hell did I put that pamphlet?” He muttered aloud as he pulled another stack of books onto the floor to organize. Steven had finally promised to go through his collection and pack some things away. Or…at least put things back on the shelves where they belonged. 

Now, though, he was searching for the psychiatrists’ pamphlet that HR had given him the day he was fired from the museum. Marc refused to talk to a doctor—aggressively, violently refused—but Steven assured him that he would change his mind if only he’d look at the nice posh faces on the slip of paper. 

“I’m sure that I used it as a bookmark in one of these textbooks…” 

He dug through the half-read books on his desk, pulling every type of paper from sticky notes to unused Kleenex from the pages that he’d marked for later. No pamphlet. He kept going, dead set on proving to Marc that therapy wasn’t the tortuous ordeal he’d been convinced of. The last book in the stack was a history textbook on the ancient Mayans. He pressed his finger against the tiny bump in the pages, opening the text to the page where his placeholder was. 

It was a polaroid. Faded, worn. A picture of Steven—or probably Marc—at his bar mitzvah. His dad on his right, and…

His mother, on his left. Smile wider than ever. 

He didn’t expect the photo to have the effect on him that it did. It was just a photograph, wasn’t it? One that he’d seen a million times before. But it was different now. This was the first time he’d actually seen her since… well… 

Steven was gasping for air before he knew it. He hadn’t seen his mother in months. He would never see her again, either. His mother was gone. Dead. He would never hear her voice, never see her face again. He couldn’t call her when he got lost or when he was having a bad day at work. She would only live now in his memories, ones that he couldn’t even trust to be real. How many of his interactions with her were even real? 

“Steven?”

He didn’t remember anything after that. He should be in his flat, then, shouldn’t he? He should be staring at that polaroid. The voice was clearer this time and Steven tried to focus on it. The lights were too bright, the noise too far away. 

“I know this is hard, Steven,” He recognized that voice. That grating voice, “but it’s been so long since we’ve spoken to each other. You came to me asking for help, do you remember? I want to help you, but I can’t help anyone who won’t help themselves.”

Yes, he definitely recognized it.

“Dr. Harrow?”

Steven’s eyes focused for a moment. It stung, but the image was clear as day. White brick. Glass table. Arthur Harrow with a mustache and glasses. “That’s right, Steven. We have an appointment. Are you ready to talk to me?”

“I don’t… remember…” He blinked a few more times, trying to ground himself. Dr. Harrow wasn’t real. He knew he wasn’t. He was sure of it. So then, why was he also certain that he was sitting in front of him now? If he tried, Steven could reach out and touch him. Couldn’t he?

Did he even know what was real anymore?

Harrow continued as if he’d gotten an affirmation. “In our last session, you told me that Khonshu had finally stopped talking to you. Has he still been absent from your life since the last time we spoke? And what about the new character—what was her name…Taweret? You had some interesting things to say about her, particularly concerning her new relationship with Marc’s ex-wife.”

Not ex-wife, you donut. WIFE. 

“No…that’s not what I want—” Steven felt like his tongue was cotton. Had he been drugged? He felt the faint sting of a wound on his neck. Was he imagining that, too? Or had the nurses injected him with something? His limbs were heavier than lead. He must have been drugged. “I want to talk about—something—not that—”

“With all due respect, Steven, I think that it’s best that you let me guide our sessions—”

“—My mum.”

Dr. Harrow stopped speaking long enough to take in those two words. His eyebrows raised, but his expression was patronizing more than it was curious. Steven tried to swallow around his dry tongue. 

“I want to talk about my mum.”

“And what about her?” There was venom in his voice. Well-concealed, but there all the same underneath the veil of patience. Steven felt his blood run cold. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

What kind of doctor—?

Steven opened his mouth to speak. To yell, actually. Of course she was dead. That’s why he wanted to talk about her. But the moment he tried to make noise, Steven realized he was no longer in the office. He gasped for air, opening his eyes to find himself on the floor of his flat. 

“What the fuck?!” He blurted, bringing his hands to his chest to press against his heart. The cotton was gone from his mouth, as was the weight in his limbs. His face was wet with tears.

“You with me?” Marc chimed. Steven glanced around the room, making sure he was really there. He was there, right? It certainly felt real. But just a second ago, he was somewhere else. And that had felt real, too. 

Steven shook his head. “What just happened?”

“Dunno, buddy,” Marc hummed, “you tell me. You pulled that picture out of the book and had a…a panic attack or something. You gave me the body.”

“I did?” He rose shakily to his feet. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I guess it was just too much. That’s what we’re here for, right? To take over when things get too much.”

Steven furrowed his brow. He made his way back to his desk. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“What’re you doing?” Marc asked, watching from behind as Steven pulled his laptop from the drawer and turned it on. 

“I just,” Steven paused to type in his password. “I want to look something up.”

Marc didn’t even try to hide his concern. “Are you okay? Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

“I don’t really know,” he admitted. “And… I don’t really know. Do you remember Dr. Harrow’s office?”

“Wh—yeah. Did you go there? What happened?”

“Again, I don’t know.”

The computer took a few moments to boot up, both because the building’s wifi was shit and because the laptop was on its last leg anyway. It had been considered an out-of-date model even before the Blip. Both Marc and Steven could feel how their nerves were on-edge. Steven tapped his fingers anxiously on the desk.

“What are you looking up, bud?” Marc prodded. 

“I’m gonna find out what the hell’s wrong with us.”

“You—what?”

Steven was as flustered as Marc had ever seen him. “Marc, don’t pretend you’re not curious. Something is wrong with us. Starting—starting with the fact that there’s an ‘us’ in the first place! We’re sharing a body! Not to mention, five minutes ago I thought I was in an office with a sociopath dressed like Ned fucking Flanders—”

“Okay, buddy. Calm down.”

Steven wasn’t calm. “That’s not normal, Marc. We’re not normal.”

“I know. I know! I need you not to freak out, Steven.”

Steven took a deep breath as the computer finally loaded. He thought about the fact that none of this was new to Marc. It was only new to him. No wonder Marc was so calm about it. He tapped his fingers some more, using his other hand to pull up a search tab. 

He sighed. “What’s wrong with us, Marc?”

“You want a list?” He chuckled humorlessly. Steven’s breath evened. 

“Do you have one?” It hadn’t occurred to him that Marc would have a name for any of this. He didn’t seem like the type of man to seek a diagnosis. 

“Well, I don’t know. If I can remember… some of it, at least. Let’s see,” Steven was stunned as Marc took a moment to think about it. “I know that it’s not called multiple personalities anymore… that’s what dad called it, though…”

“Dad knew?”

Marc avoided the question. “I think it’s… dis-associative….something.”

Steven typed the word ‘dissociative’ in the search bar. The first phrase suggested was ‘Dissociative Identity Disorder,’ which Steven selected because it was the only option with the word disorder. And whatever the hell was wrong with them, Steven thought, certainly caused a lot of disorder. 

He spent the next hour reading every webpage he could find. Steven took note of the vocabulary—switch, alter, front, trigger, host, system—and sought everything from scientific journals to online forums with anecdotal stories. A lot of people were like him, it turned out. More than he ever could have anticipated. He kept searching and reading until his eyes were sore from staring at the screen for so long. Steven only paused his endeavor after coming across a webpage that addressed the reason he’d started looking in the first place—

Dissociative Identity Disorder: Internal Worlds.

“Many DID systems have an inner world where alters may manifest and interact with one another. These worlds can range in size and complexity, and may feature static characters that act as imaginary constructs rather than alters or fragments.”

“...huh.” Marc hadn’t been listening up until that point, but Steven’s excitement had brought him back toward the front. “So that bastard’s like an NPC in our head?” 

Steven wasn’t entirely satisfied. “That makes the most sense, don’t it? But why him? Why’s our inner world even a hospital?”

“I guess—maybe it was the easiest answer?”

Steven thought about it. The first time they had been to that office was while they were in the Duat. Marc had gone first, right after he’d been shot. It was either he dealt with the Duat—and the fact that he was dead—or come up with another answer. A more relieving answer. It was a relief to be crazy. Crazy was better than dead. 

Then he’d gone again when he saw Taweret. A talking hippo? Pretty overwhelming. Then again, when he’d been triggered—Steven knew what that word meant, now—by Steven yelling at him. It’ll be all your fault. Right back in Harrow’s office. Then Steven himself. It wasn’t too hard for him to imagine how he’d landed there, in hindsight. He’d even asked for it explicitly, after he’d heard the news that his mother was dead.

Let me out. Let me out! Let me out!

Yeah. Being crazy was better than being dead. But now, they were no longer dead. So maybe the inner world didn’t need to be crazy. 

“Do you think we can change it?” Steven asked.

“What?”

He backtracked. “The hospital. D’you suppose we can change it to something more nice? Something cozy.”

Marc shrugged. “Dunno. It’s not like I made it a hospital on purpose. I would have at least added some color.”

“Yeah, why was it so white?” Steven hummed. “Surely that’s not what they really look like.” 

Marc uttered an answer before he could think. “That’s what I remember them like.”

Oh. 

He didn’t mean to say that.

He wasn’t ready to talk about that. 

“We’ve been in a psych ward before?”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Yeah, listen buddy, I don’t really want to talk about that right now. Let’s go back to what you were talking about. You said we could change it, right? What would we change it to?”

“Now hold on a minute,” Steven jabbed. Marc rolled his eyes, cursing himself. “We’re meant to be opening up to each other, aren’t we? At least tell me when. When were we institutionalized, Marc?”

“Which time?”

Excuse me?

“Which time?” Steven scoffed. “There were multiple?”

“Okay! Don’t get defensive.” Marc drew a breath. “The first time, when we were twelve. That was for a few days, but nothing really happened. Then there was… we were fourteen. I think I was there for over a month.”

“A month?” Steven was astounded.

Marc winced. “Don’t ask, Steven. Just, please. Not right now.”

“Is that all?”

He shook his head. “There was another one, right before I ran away. Pretty sure we were seventeen. Then the Marines made me do a psych eval when they discharged me. They said that I should go to one then, but they couldn’t commit me or anything. I would have had to do that myself.”

Steven waited expectantly. There was shock and anger in the body. Marc cleared his throat.

“That’s all.”

“So three separate times, then? We spent all that time in a psychiatric ward?” His voice was resigned, disbelieving. 

“Yeah. Three times.”

Steven’s anger dissipated a bit. “Can’t believe I don’t remember that.”

He didn’t expect Marc to say anything, but he spoke up again with a hesitant voice. 

“You don’t want to remember.”

~~~~~~

Finding his way to Harrow’s office was much easier when he wasn’t looking. 

Now, though, Steven couldn’t shut off the outside world long enough to go back to that place. His goal was to change it, or at least, to see if he could. The internet had told him that some people were able to control their internal worlds. He wanted to try. Steven didn’t want his place of refuge to be an endless labyrinth of white brick hallways. 

He sprawled out on the couch, trying his best to empty his mind of any stray thoughts. He pictured the office as best he could—white brick, glass table. White brick, glass table. But he couldn’t conjure the imagery. 

“Why’s it so important to you anyway?” Marc questioned, earning a shush from Steven. “I’m just saying, it’s not like either of us plan on going back there.”

“And what good is that?” Steven countered, “We have to spend the rest of our lives inside our head, don’t we? I reckon we’ll spend a lot of time in there, considering how much shit we still have to sort through. I’d rather it be someplace nicer than a pediatric psych ward.”

Marc hummed. “So what are we changing it to?”

“Dunno yet. I’ll figure it out once I actually get there. Which I can’t do until you shut up.” 

“Rude.”

For another half-hour, Steven tried to retreat backwards. He tried everything he could think of, from playing white noise to crossing his legs and listening to a meditation guide. His mind wouldn’t stop racing and, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus on the big, bright office. A gust of wind made an extra large creak run through the place. Steven opened his eyes, running his hands through his hair frustratedly. 

“Why’s it not working?” He groaned, mostly to himself. “The one time I actually want to go there, I can’t.”

“It’s not about what you want,” Marc quipped. Steven let out a dry laugh. 

“‘Course not. That’d be too easy.” He lowered his face into his hands, groaning again. 

Marc’s tone was serious, though. “Think about it. When you give me the body, where do you go?” 

“…nowhere, I guess.”

“Right. Because you don’t need to go anywhere. You don’t have a reason to go to Harrow’s office. You’re too comfortable to go there. You’ve only been there when—”

“When out here was too hard.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Steven wanted to argue with Marc, but they both knew that he was right. Going back to Dr. Harrow’s office probably wasn’t going to happen by meditation, or even by napping. He would have to go there to get away from something on the outside. At least, at first. He knew that he would never stumble upon the place now. Not without being sent back there first. 

“Shit,” he scoffed. 

“What?” Inquired Marc.

“I know how to get there, then.” Steven rose to his feet. His hands started to shake. “Fuck.”

“It’s a lost cause, buddy,” Marc interjected. “It’s not gonna work. The only way to go back there is—”

Oh. “—Oh.”

“Yeah,” Steven quipped. He started to rummage through the desk drawers. “Seems counterproductive, don’t it?”

Marc pushed for control of the body. “No. It’s not worth it. We’ll deal with the office later, alright? Let’s just take the win for today.”

“The win?” Steven scoffed. “What win? I don’t want the next time I have a panic attack to be made worse by the fact that the man who tried to kill us is holding us hostage inside our own mind.”

Marc was at the edge of taking control, held back by Steven’s stubbornness and nothing else. “That’s not exactly what’s happening—”

“Well I would bloody know that if I could just get back there again.” He continued rummaging, growing sloppy in urgency. 

“Steven, stop!”

He paused his movement, barely holding onto himself. The body was still in Steven’s control, but Marc had caught his attention. 

“What’s your plan here, buddy?” His voice was patronizing, but worried. “You’re gonna look at more pictures of mom until you can’t breathe anymore? Is that really how you want to spend the day? Don’t do this to yourself.”

He persisted. “I need to go back there.”

“It’s not that important.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Steven insisted. His voice was low. Angry. 

Marc didn’t like the tone. “Oh yeah? And what don’t I get about this?”

“You’ve been crazy your whole life,” Steven jabbed. It wasn’t how he meant it, and Marc knew that, but it was still cold. “You’ve had time to adjust. I haven’t. My whole life is a lie. I feel like I’m out of my mind.”

“You are!” Marc hissed. “Can you listen to yourself? You’re literally about to torture yourself so you can fight the voices in your head.”

Steven curled in slightly on himself. “Just the one voice.”

Marc laughed, shocked. “Just the one?—Steven! Come on, man. Don’t do this.”

“Yeah?” He pulled himself upright. Marc felt a twinge of something from Steven. Spite. Whatever had made him so adamant about this, he wasn’t changing his mind now. “What are you going to do to stop me?”

Marc pushed himself forward at full force, nearly reaching the front before stumbling back, out of breath and stamina. He used to be better at this. Steven wasn’t budging, though. That was clear. 

“Don’t be stupid, Steven.”

“Just shut up.” Marc had never heard that tone of voice in Steven. Not ever. Not with him, not with Layla, not with Donna or JP. Not on the Earth and not in the Duat. It was seething, decisive. He knew from the snap in Steven’s tone that there was no more arguing. Not without a screaming match to follow. He’d made up his mind, now. Marc could only watch from there, and be ready to pick up the pieces of whatever he did. 

Marc forced the bite from his own voice. “What’s your plan then?”

Steven shook his head. 

“There’s a scrapbook in here. Somewhere.”

“It won’t be enough,” Marc chimed. It was sincere. “I know the one you’re talking about. It won’t be enough for what you’re trying to do. Doesn’t even have that many pictures of her.”

Steven gritted his teeth. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Honestly? I don’t think it’s best that you take any of my ideas.” 

He shut the desk drawer with a shaky, resigned hand. It wasn’t enough that Steven couldn’t trust his reality, but now he felt like, in spite of the strides he had made, he had less control than ever over his life. He couldn’t sort through his thoughts long enough to figure out what was real and what wasn’t, and he couldn’t do much of anything without Marc peeking over his shoulder. He felt stuck. Powerless. 

“How bad do you want to do this today?” Marc asked after a few minutes of quiet. Steven perked up enough to think of an answer. 

“Bad enough.”

“There might be one thing,” he offered. Steven immediately nodded, prompting him to spill. “But you can’t say I didn’t warn you. There’s a reason that I hide this shit from you.”

“What is it?” He demanded. 

“Just—wait a second, bud. If we do this, you gotta listen to me. And you gotta understand.” Marc went rigid and Steven pushed harder. 

“Whatever! Just out with it.”

Marc sighed. “There’s a voicemail I think you should listen to. It’ll work, I’m sure. You wanna fucking torture yourself then go right ahead, but Steven…”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Steven!”

“What, Marc? I don’t need any more warnings. You know it’s not always your job to protect me. I’m a grown man.”

“I know. I was just gonna say,” Marc stuttered over the words, bashful suddenly. His hesitance gave Steven pause. “I can’t listen to it with you.”

Steven was silent. Marc urged him toward the tray beside the door where he kept his phone and keys. “Just tell me what you find when you get there, okay? And I know he’s not real, but… give Harrow hell when you see him.”

“…Marc?”

“Go on, Steven. It’s the oldest message in the inbox.”

Marc nudged him forward. Steven grabbed the flip-phone, booting it up as his alter sank down into nothingness. That’s what it was, Steven supposed. Nothingness. That’s where Marc must have gone.  Either that, or he’d be finding a bloodied up Harrow when he got to that office. 

He scrolled to the end of the voicemail box. 

Wendy - 11 years ago. Duration 2:54.

Steven swallowed hard, his thumb hovering over the button. He hadn’t heard her voice in…

He didn’t even know how long. 

His heart rate spiked before he even pressed play. He knew from what Marc had said that it wasn’t going to be the familiar voice he knew. Not the one he remembered. Not the dripping with honey, unconditionally-loving, soft nurturing voice. Steven wasn’t sure that her voice ever really sounded like that, anyway. 

He gritted his teeth. 

Click. 

“I knew this would happen.”

He could tell from the first second of sound that Wendy’s voice was coated in liquor. Her speech was slurred, tone self-righteous and wandering. “They sent your shit in the mail, Marc. The Marines. It says you got discharged. Hah. Took them long enough, didn’t it? I thought they’d have thrown you out—hic—years ago.”

Steven hadn’t managed to breathe since the audio started. The lack of air burned in his throat, but he knew that he’d choke on his breath if he tried to take air in now. His vision was glassy and a stabbing pain stuck between his ribs. Wendy paused for what Steven assumed was long enough to take another swig. 

“What’d you do this time, kid? They find you talking to yourself in the barracks?” There was humor in her voice. It made Steven feel sick. “Or are you still just that bad at following directions? They finally cut you loose when they realized you’re dumb as a rock?”

Steven couldn’t believe his ears. He had known, in theory, that she was like this, but… hearing it for himself was something else entirely. 

“Anyway, son, this is the address that they have for you. Come and get your shit. Or text your dad where you are and he’ll send it to you. Whatever. I’m tired of staring at this box of junk on my counter. If you don’t do something with it, I’m throwing it out.”

She paused again, and Steven could hear the alcohol jostling around in the bottle as she brought it to her lips. 

“Let me know when you finally find something you’re good at. And don’t call your father this time if you need someone to bail you out. God knows you’re getting yourself into some kind of bullshit. Always are. Our money’s tight enough as it is and, frankly, I’m tired of saving your ass. You keep bringin’ trouble everywhere you go. It’s embarrassing for both of us. What kind of Rabbi’s son—”

He couldn’t listen anymore. Steven couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How was this what Wendy Spector was like? How had he never heard this version of her before? It wasn’t enough that his image of his mother was wrong. It was downright delusional. How could this woman be the same person he’d called every morning? The same person he confided in when no one was there for him? 

Hot tears streamed down his face and his throat constricted around short gasps of air. How could he have gone his whole life without seeing this? Why couldn’t he see the holes in the image of her? Was everything that he knew about her just a lie? 

Is this what it was always like for Marc?

Steven’s breathing picked up until it was short and stunted. Quick, shallow breaths increased in speed until he wasn’t sure he was breathing at all. Steven wrapped his arms around himself and leaned backward against the door. He sunk down, slamming the phone shut and chucking it somewhere to his side. 

Now she’s gone. She’s dead, and he can’t even mourn her the right way because he doesn’t know what he can mourn. Should he even be mourning at all? She wasn’t ever real, was she? Not the version of her that he knew. The real her didn’t deserve his anguish. 

What was he meant to do?

“Are you ready to talk some more, Steven?” He snapped his eyes open to find the light blinding him. The voice, however, was unmistakable.

He’d done it. 

“Is that what you want me to do?” Steven mumbled. He felt the same sluggishness he had before, but he focused this time on every little thing his senses could muster. Steven could wiggle his fingers, if he tried hard enough. He could keep his eyes open, but only while listening. Talking took too much of him. He couldn’t do both. 

“That’s what I’m here for,” Harrow responded. Steven squinted at him. He took a deep breath, then another. His vision grew clearer and his eyes less heavy. “It’s interesting, though. So often you fight with me. Now, you’re accepting my help without quarrel.”

Steven shifted in his chair. “Where’s Marc?”

“He’s resting, for now. It’s you I want to talk to, Steven.”

Dr. Harrow didn’t have the impatience in his tone from before. Steven focused as hard as he could on the feeling in his limbs. He tried to remember. He had come here for a reason. It was on the tip of his tongue. He was looking for Marc. He was looking for—

“Steven?” Harrow prompted again. “We were doing so well, don’t get distracted on me now.”

What was it that he was doing? 

“I need to leave,” Steven blurted. “I’m supposed to be… doing something…”

“Our appointment’s not over yet.” Harrows knuckles pulsed around his cane, as if he was ready to rise to his feet at a moment’s notice. “We have more work to do.”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Steven insisted. He pushed himself up from his chair—were his limbs always this heavy?—and balanced himself against the desk. “I have to get somewhere…”

Safe. I have to get somewhere safe. 

“I can’t let you leave a session early.” Harrow stood against the cane, slowly making his way around the desk. Steven had an unparalleled hunch that he had to get out. He had to go elsewhere. He had to find Marc. He had to get them somewhere safe. 

“I’m not staying here.”

Steven’s knees buckled underneath him, but he successfully made the first step toward the door behind his chair. His vision was blurring again. He didn’t stop moving forward. 

“I’m trying to help you,” the doctor insisted. He approached Steven slowly. Gently. Steven wasn’t fast enough to get ahead of him. Dr. Harrow placed his hand squarely on Steven’s shoulder, beckoning him to sit. He turned him around, so they were face-to-face. 

Steven saw red. 

He gritted his teeth and pounced forward, head-butting the psychiatrist and knocking him backward into the table. Harrow brought his hand up to his face and Steven grabbed his cane. He drew it backward, bracing himself, and Harrow looked up at him through his fingers. Steven’s hand was around his throat. 

His face was patronizing. Self-assured. “Don’t be stupid, Steven.”

Oh, it’s far too late for that. 

Steven stumbled backward, regaining his balance on his own two feet. He lifted the cane, flipping it in his hand, and struck the doctor in his chest. The hit landed unlike wood on flesh. It was more like…

…

Like sand. 

He swung again, hitting Arthur square in the jaw. He tumbled to the ground unceremoniously. He didn’t cry or beg for help. Harrow simply toppled, but Steven didn’t let up. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

Not until it was safe. 

He brought the cane above his head, wielding it steady in both hands. It made a dull, flat sound as he brought it down at full force. Again. And again. and again. Steven kept going until his arms wouldn’t swing anymore. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the gruesome aftermath of what he’d done, but there was no body in front of him. There was no poor Dr. Harrow, whether dead or alive, by his feet. 

There was, however, a pile of ashen sand. Not golden, but gray. Steven dropped the cane and a puff of dust rose from the impact it made on the mound. 

He walked steadily out of the office. 

Steven didn’t know what he expected to be on the other side, but he was greeted with what he could only imagine was the field of reeds. That is, a literal field of literal reeds, spanning miles in each direction. It was a warm, colorful, peaceful contrast from where he’d just been. 

And he could do with it whatever he pleased. 

He rather liked the field as it was. He wanted to keep it. A field wasn’t exactly a home, though, Steven contested. It needed a bit more structure than that. And what better shelter to accompany a field of reeds?

A farmhouse. 

Steven didn’t have to think too hard about building the place. It was as if his mind was just waiting for the chance to conjure it. The porch wrapped around the front and the side, connecting to the exterior walls at either end. He pushed through the front door—a deep mahogany, by the way. Not white. Inside was a full living space with a kitchen and dining table, not unlike the one from his childhood, but far brighter. The room opened into the den, where a couch and two chairs met a wood-burning stove that Steven could feel the warmth radiating from as he approached. There was a singular bookshelf against the wall, with what Steven assumed was every book he could ever want. Beside it, a bulletin board. 

He knew immediately what it was for. Communication. Steven looked around further and came across a door to what he intuitively knew was his bedroom. He placed his hand on the knob tentatively, still quite in disbelief that he’d gotten himself here in the first place. He turned his palm, just a fraction of an inch, and a shuffle behind him drew his attention away. 

“Looks like you were right.”

He turned around. The image in front of him was…puzzling. 

“Marc?”

When they were separated in the Duat, Marc and Steven had looked for the most part just like the body. Sure, Marc was wearing a different shirt and his hair was slicked back the way that he always preferred, but they were otherwise the same. Same face, same stature, same body, same everything. 

This was not the case here. 

Marc looked, for lack of a better term, dreadful. His face was the same, in terms of shape and proportion, but almost everything about him was different in some way. For starters, his eyes were hollow and sunken. Not like the dark circles that Steven had gained from lack of sleep. This was something much deeper. More permanent. Marc looked like he’d never slept a wink in his life. 

He also looked smaller. Younger. Less like a warrior ready to defend himself and more like a kid who’d been drafted and given speed for performance. Marc’s muscles were sprung, his body ready to pounce at any sign of distress. His posture was straight and his chin was lifted, no doubt a lasting effect of his Marine training. Steven had the half-inclination to yell ‘at ease, soldier,’ but he figured it wouldn’t be as funny out loud. Or funny at all. 

Steven stepped closer to Marc, realizing now that Marc was looking up at him, and Steven down at Marc. He was taller than him, by a few inches at least. It occurred to him then that Marc wasn’t the only one who looked different on the inside. 

Marc’s hair was much shorter than the body’s. Not a buzz-cut, as Steven would have assumed, but short enough that his hair didn’t reach his eyebrows. The style was familiar, though, slicked back and brushed down just as Marc did normally on the outside. His hair wasn’t of interest to Steven, however. As he stepped forward, there was only one aspect of Marc’s appearance that he could manage to focus on. His heart dropped into his stomach. Or at least, that’s what Steven felt was happening as he took a closer look at Marc’s face. At his neck, at his arms. 

He was covered in scars. 

Small nicks, large gashes. Lines and holes and what he could only assume were welts from burns long healed. Marc was littered with them. A long, thick line ran across his face along the bridge of his nose. His top lip was permanently split. An indent on his collarbone resembled a ring, and a line of crescents on his neck left very little to the imagination as it replicated the texture of a half-inch metal chain. 

“What are you looking at?” Marc mumbled, uncomfortable. Steven hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring or how close he’d gotten to Marc. He went in for a hug, gripping Marc tightly for a moment. Once he reciprocated, they stayed like that for a while. Then, Steven shook his head and retreated a few steps back. 

“You look different in here,” he explained. Marc nodded in understanding. 

He gestured down at Steven’s body. “You too.”

Steven looked down at himself, noticing the way that his frame was so different from the one on the outside. He was tall, unusually tall and slender as well. He must have been at least 6 foot, a solid five or more inches taller than the body he was used to inhabiting. 

“You mind if I go look in the mirror?” Steven asked. Marc raised his eyebrows and shook his head. 

“I’ll join you. Wanna see what all that staring was about.”

He followed Steven into his bedroom. It was decorated just like a teenage boy’s room from the mid 1990s. Band posters plastered to the ceiling, Nintendo console connected to a bulky television in the corner of the room. Steven’s bed was a single, sheets covered in hieroglyphs. Marc chuckled at the contrast between the nerdy sci-fi knickknacks and the items that were unmistakably linked to Egyptology. 

Steven pulled him into the en-suite bath, which was simple and clean. 

They both froze at the images in the mirror. 

Steven’s hair was longer and thicker, somehow curlier than it was on the outside and much more unruly. He ran his hands through it, trying to calm down the odd directions that it sprang outward, but getting nowhere with the effort. His cheeks were rosy, contrasting Marc’s ashen skin, and his facial hair was grown into a shortly-kempt beard. He wore a thin, round pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. When he tried to take them off, he found that the world was not so much blurry as it was swimming in his vision. He elected to keep them on. 

Marc didn’t do much to adjust himself. He just stared at his image, his eyes darting to each scar that wasn’t covered by his clothes. Next to Steven, he looked like a walking corpse. There were so many scars on his body that an average onlooker would wonder how he survived it all. He hated to look at himself any longer. He thought he might be sick. 

“Marc?” Steven’s voice was soft. 

“Yeah,” he choked out. His gaze still didn’t waver. It was like his eyes were glued to his skin. 

Steven raised his hand to Marc’s neck, pointing his finger at the line of circles on his throat. “What are those?”

Marc’s voice was surprisingly steady as he answered. 

“Dubai.”

He brought his hands to the hem of his shirt, pulling up the fabric to reveal a deep indent in his v-line, unmistakably a bullet hole. 

“Gabon.”

He turned away from the mirror, facing Steven head on. His hand rose to his face and he touched his index and middle fingers to the bridge of his nose. 

“New York.”

Nausea rose in Steven’s gut. He took Marc by the arm, pulling the both of them out of the bathroom and back to the den. Marc didn’t argue. 

“Are you saying you got all of these on missions for Khonshu?” Steven’s voice wavered as he sat on the edge of the couch. It was as if, on the inside, Khonshu’s armor had never existed at all. Each blow Marc had taken in battle had stuck with him. Each mortal wound he should have suffered, painted on his skin forever. 

“Some of them,” Marc answered. Steven shook his head, like he didn’t understand, and Marc lifted his shirt again. A bullet wound on his abdomen matched the lower indent on the opposite side. “This one’s from Bushman.”

“You took all of these hits?” Steven felt like his head was spinning. There were so many scars. 

Marc huffed. “Yeah, at some point or another.”

“My God.”

“It’s not so bad,” Marc countered. He could see how much Steven was affected. “I wouldn’t have gotten most of them if I didn’t have the armor. I would have never been in those fights in the first place. And it’s not like I was actually hurt that much.”

“I beg to differ,” Steven choked. His gaze fell to one particular gathering of scars, which Marc quickly hid from him by turning away. 

“Don’t even start,” he warned, covering them. 

“We’re gonna talk about those later,” Steven insisted. They sat in silence for another moment or two, taking in the new space. The architecture and furniture was vintage—out of the 1950s at the very latest. It truly felt like the two of them were on a homestead together. Safe, cozy, away from danger. The living space reminded Steven of the one in the Waltons, only smaller and without the half-dozen children constantly stomping through the place. 

“I’m gonna go find my room,” Marc finally said. Steven rose to go with him, but Marc held out his hand to gesture to him to stay behind. He retreated back into the couch, and watched as Marc disappeared behind the door on the other side of the dining table. 

Marc’s room was nothing like Steven’s. It was spacious and orderly, clearly designed for an adult. The suite reminded him of a hotel. Double doors in front of the bed led out onto the porch and the sheets a dull pattern of white and beige. The queen-size bed sat in the center of the room, not pushed to the corner like Steven’s had been. Model cars sat parallel on Marc’s chest of drawers and a thin, sleek lamp on his bedside table. The door to the en-suite bathroom was open. 

He didn’t understand why the bathroom was the way that it was. His bedroom, sure. He’d stayed in a million hotels ranging from the cheapest to almost-comfortable. Marc couldn’t understand, though, why so much care had been given to the bath. The vanity was long and glamorous. The walk-in shower was expansive and sleek. It dumbfounded him that he’d conjured a place so expensive in his mind. So luxurious, and for what? He didn’t even need to eat or sleep or shower in here, did he? The cherry on top, though, as he step forward into the spacious bathroom, was the large picture window and stand-alone tub. 

It was almost offensive how beautiful it was. The tub was big enough to swim in, it seemed. The claw-foot exterior resembled a vintage tub, same as the rest of the architecture in the place, complete with a golden faucet and knobs at the top. It was deep and wide, squeaky-clean and smooth to the touch. Marc imagined that, seated with his feet facing the faucet, the view out the window would be unparalleled. It was remarkably gorgeous. But why was it in his room?

Marc hadn’t taken a bath in more than thirty years. Only showers. He hadn’t seen the appeal since—

—since that day in the cave. 

Marc slammed the door behind him on the way out. He made his way back to the den, where Steven was warming his hands by the fire. He sat down in the chair across from him, and they sat together in peace. In quiet. 

It was better than lounging on the outside, for all it was worth. There was no busy street traffic or creaking air conditioning. Marc’s back didn’t ache like it did outside and Steven’s chest wasn’t permanently tight, either. There was…plainly stated…so little on the inside. Nothing loud or bright or overwhelming to deal with. It was just quiet. Warm. Safe. 

It lingered on for a while, almost so much that they could have felt timeless where they were. That was, until Steven jolted forward out of nowhere, prompting Marc to stand on edge just the same. The expression on Steven’s face was halfway between worry and curiosity. 

“Marc?” He timbred. 

“Yeah?” 

“We’re both in here.” He stated plainly. 

Marc was confused. “…Yeah?”

“Both of us are in here.” Steven enunciated slower. Marc shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. 

“I can see that.”

Steven huffed. “Don’t you get it?” 

“Get what?”

“If we’re both in here, then who’s controlling the body?”

Oh. 

That was a good question. 

~

~

A/N: Jonah has never proofread anything in their life. Also, I started this off by paying way more attention to whether it was accurate to real DID systems, but I don’t know if I accomplished that in the end. Bully me about it on anon. 

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[asa-do-your-thing]

Hi! Here on your blog for the first time!

I saw your fic idea list and I am amazed by the range of your ideas.

I would like to know more about the following fics -

• Aemond falling in love with a female ghost

• Criston x greek mythology reader or was it Criston x reader but make it greek mythology

Sorry, my memory is too short!

Thanks for writing and sharing your fanworks with us!

Hi dear! Thank you so much for your kind words! Sorry for the delay, we're currently in an intense heatwave and I couldn't bring myself to write. Here's the first story - keep your eye on my blog and the second one should appear soon as well. I'm sorry if it's OOC or feels weird - I have never been able to master the craft of writing scary stories.

"Princess of Sorrows "

Aemond Targaryen x F! OC - 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: death, supernatural beings, ghosts, slight angst, mentions executions, mentions suicide, also MAEGOR (although not explicitly).

The room was hollow yet imposing, as if the walls were made of solid stone and stretched for leagues. Flickering candles illuminated its contours, adding an eerie quality to the opulence of the mahogany furniture and heavy tapestries. In areas where shadows lurked deepest in the chamber, mythical creatures seemed to move like ghosts in a faint fog, ever out of reach. At the far end, an ornate fireplace filled the room with warmth, while in the center lay Prince Aemond Targaryen's bed. It was large and majestic, boasting fine silk sheets and a down-filled mattress, surrounded by exotic objects that glowed like spectres in the night.

A painting of a woman with long white hair and crown stars perched atop her head hung on the wall like a menacing reminder of days long gone. She was draped in a rusted wine gown and stared out from the painting with an emotionless, yet weary gaze. Her white eyebrows were knitted together as if she were about to unleash some indescribable fury on whoever had painted her. He had never heard any tales about the painting; but he swore, it seemed to have been there even before he was born. It watched him intently, like a dark sentinel guarding his chamber. He had taken to referring to the woman as the "Princess of Sorrows".

As he sat there in the shadows, pouring through ancient books telling the Targaryen family's stories, Aemond felt a frosty chill ripple down his spine. Occasionally he had the sense that secretive eyes were watching him, and then he'd have to hold his breath until the sensation faded away. Even though his dread was mounting, Aemond never spoke of it out loud. He feared doing so would only manifest its presence further. It was on one of those nights when the moon shone brightly, that Aemond swore he saw a silhouette in the corner of his eye turning the page of a book. His heart skipped a beat as he jumped to his feet armed with a sword, but the figure had suddenly vanished, leaving behind the whisper of skirts. He stayed still waiting for its return, but nothing stirred. Was it all just his overactive imagination? No one could tell.

The next morning, he hesitantly dispatched one of his guards to scour the palace. But not a single one among the thousand women living there resembled the figure he thought he had seen. He was now more certain than ever that his chambers were haunted, yet still afraid to accept it and acknowledge his fear of the dead. Evening after evening, he sent the guard back again and kept his hand firmly grasping his sword. Days passed, yet nothing changed: Alone in the chamber, the Princess of Sorrows seemed lost within her thoughts...and then suddenly, as soon as he started feeling at ease, he'd catch a glimpse of her again. He was determined to unravel this mystery that was plaguing him, but didn't know how to proceed. He kept his guard close by and searched for any other signs of her presence - all in vain.

Finally, after weeks of haunted nights, Aemond had had enough. He gave the silent command and all his guards began their search anew, combing every inch of the palace for any sign of something out of place. But nothing emerged. Defeated and discouraged, they returned to Aemond but he seemed unfazed by the lack of results. He still felt that something was lurking in the dark shadows, hidden from his sight. He kept a keen eye on every corner as he patrolled with his sword, when suddenly one night he spotted something strange darting away from him. Instantly he leapt into action and charged after this mysterious being, running through the darkened halls in pursuit.

As he ran, he felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He had no idea what he was chasing, but he was determined to catch it. The sound of his own footsteps echoed through the halls, and he felt the cool night air whipping past his face. His mind was racing, trying to anticipate his prey's moves. It was then that he saw her again: the Princess of Sorrows, darting ahead of him like a wraith, her crimson gown fluttering behind her.

He took off like a raging bull, stampeding through the castle without regard for consequence. She ran with grace and agility, always managing to stay one step ahead of him. His lungs burned and his heart pounded as he pressed on, determined to catch her this time. Time seemed to stand still as he lurched around corner after corner, hearing nothing but her echoing laughter in response. Eventually, she came to a dead end near his chambers and before she could turn tail and flee, he had her cornered.

He charged towards her, sword swinging. Stopping just short of her, he could feel the heat radiating off her. Her long white hair framed an angelic face, illuminated in the orange light of the torches. Her eyes were like galaxies, dark and deep with a sorrow that seemed to tear through him. She wore a gown of blood-red silk, and in her hands, she grasped a rose as white as snow. Aemond stood frozen in time; mesmerized by this beautiful apparition.

Aemond stood there, his breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon her beauty. He had been taught to fear this entity, but she seemed almost...human. He reached for the sword at his side and found it forgotten. "My... Lady?" he said, not sure what title would be appropriate for such a mysterious figure. The Princess of Sorrows met his gaze with a small, yet pained smile before disappearing back into the mist. Anger boiled within Aemond's veins as he marched back into his chamber, eyes fixed on the portrait of this wretched princess - her face still contorted in pain and anger.

The days seemed to fly by in a frenzied fever, yet the nights crept past with an agonizing slowness. Aemond yearned for the darkness; unable to sleep as he waited for her to appear. He was up before the sun, lost in thought in the shadows of his chamber, desperate for any sign of her presence. Though scared and uncertain, she had him in an unbreakable spell - he couldn't shift his gaze from her as they shared their clandestine tete-a-tetes.

He started to notice delicate shifts in her gestures - the way she'd linger in front of a painting as if it were speaking to her, or gaze out of the window with an enigmatic expression. He realized then that this mysterious creature had feelings like his own, and emotions and thoughts he could barely comprehend.

Aemond found himself captivated by the woman's delicate figure, her perfectly coiffed hair and petite features. Every time he saw her from afar, his heart raced as he walked closer to her in order to get a better look. He opened his mouth each time, but his courage failed him and she seemed to sense it; she quickly faded away like a phantom into the shadows, leaving Aemond perplexed and dejected.

In desperation, Aemond ventured out into King's Landing’s most notorious street - Flea Bottom - seeking out mystical knowledge from an old witch who gave him a spell that will trap any ghost in place if used correctly. Armed with newfound knowledge Aemond returned back to his chambers determined to get closer to the Princess of Sorrows and uncover the secrets that surrounded this captivating creature who had stolen his heart without even uttering a single word.

Aemond cast the spell within his chambers and sure enough, the Princess of Sorrows appeared before him looking less translucent than she had been previously. Her features were clearer, her skin more visible and her eyes filled with a mysterious and deep emotion. Aemond was taken aback at this new transformation; he had never seen the ghostly figure looking so lifelike. She stood there in her usual red gown and her touch was cold and clammy. It made Aemond's skin crawl whenever she got too close to him.

The Princess turned to Aemond, her gaze filled with sadness as if something inside of her was crying out for help "Why did you trap me?" she asked him. He could not bring himself to answer, instead he asked: "Why are you haunting me? What do you want from me?" The princess’s expression softened and she replied: "Your death is near, I only wanted to warn you."

Aemond felt his heart break at those words - the ghostly figure seemed almost too familiar now. He took a step closer to her, desperate for answers yet still wary of what he might uncover. The Princess watched him curiously but said nothing - it was clear that she would not offer any more information until Aemond answered her own question first.

Aemond inhaled sharply, his face grim. "I trapped you because I wanted to find out your secrets," he uttered darkly, his voice like a whisper in the night. His hungry gaze bore into hers and her heart raced. Slowly she nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes," she murmured softly. "There is much more hidden underneath my surface than meets the eye - mysteries only time will unravel. But I cannot tell you now."

Aemond felt his heart breaking as she uttered the words. He had been so certain that she would be able to bring him the answers he so desperately sought. Yet here she was, still refusing to tell him what it was that she seemed to know. How could someone be so secretive and why? His voice betraying his emotion, Aemond asked again, "Please, just tell me what you're keeping from me! What are you hiding?"

The Princess of Sorrows sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging, tears welling up in her eyes. "There are things in this world that are better left unsaid," she replied cryptically. "Things that would only bring more pain and heartache if they were revealed."

Aemond frowned, not satisfied with her answer. He took a step closer to her, his eyes searching hers. "Please," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Help me understand. I am willing to listen, no matter what the cost."

The Princess of Sorrows hesitated for a moment before finally nodding her head. "Very well," she said, her voice eerily calm. "But be warned, you might pay dearly for it, dear Prince."

Aemond felt a shiver run down his spine at her words, but he didn't falter. He was determined to learn the truth, no matter what it might cost him. "I'm ready," he said, his voice steady.

The Princess of Sorrows sighed as she prepared to tell her story. "We had a love that was forbidden," she said, her voice quivering with emotion. "It was passionate and fiery, yet we managed to keep it hidden from those who would have forbidden us. But our luck did not last. They found out and I was forced into marriage while he...he was put to death." Her voice trailed off as tears spilled down her face.

Aemond listened in stunned silence, his heart breaking for the pain and suffering this woman had endured. He could see the pain etched into her features, the sorrow in her eyes. "Who was your husband?" he asked softly, knowing that he was treading on dangerous ground.

The Princess of Sorrows hesitated before finally replying. "He was your ancestor," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was a Targaryen prince, just like you."

Aemond felt his world come crashing down around him. He had always been proud of his family's history, of their legacy. But now...now he felt tainted, stained by the sins of his ancestors.

"Who was he?" he asked again, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Princess of Sorrows looked at him with a sad smile. "Maegor was my brother," she said softly. "And my husband."

Aemond felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

He stumbled back, his mind reeling with the revelation. "How...how could this be?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "And what of you?" he asked, his voice soft. "What happened to you after you were forced into marriage?"

The Princess of Sorrows let out a bitter laugh as she wiped away her tears. "I was never truly alive after that," she said, her voice hollow. "I tried to make the best of my situation, but every day was a struggle. My husband was cruel and abusive, and I spent most of my days trying to avoid him. But eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. I wanted to be free, to escape the pain and suffering that had become my life. And so, I did the only thing I could do - I jumped from my dragon and ended it all."

Aemond felt a lump form in his throat as he listened to her tragic tale. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her, to have lived through such pain and torment. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I had no idea."

The Princess of Sorrows gave him a sad smile. "It's alright," she said softly. "You couldn't have known. But now that you do, you must pay the price."

Aemond felt a chill run down his spine at her words. "What price?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Princess of Sorrows looked at him with a steely gaze. "You must be my lover," she said, her voice cold and firm. "And you must die."

Aemond felt his entire being freeze. Time seemed to stop as he heard her words. He couldn't process the meaning, but before he could act on his confusion, he felt the Princess of Sorrows grab him and pull him close. Her eyes were intense and mesmerizing, trapping him in their embrace. Slowly, she leaned towards him and pressed her lips against his. Aemond felt an indescribable sensation course through every inch of his body. It was a strange combination of pain and pleasure, as though something was being taken from him, some essence that he had never known existed until now, flowing gently from him into her.

Early next morning, two guards stumbled upon the lifeless body of Aemond on his grandiose bed. His mouth was agape, his eyes still open in horror as if he had seen a ghost. The maester pronounced him dead due to a mysterious heart failure that was brought about by some unknown force. Despite performing several tests, the maester could not find any clarity as to what had caused Aemond's demise.

Viserra's portrait hung above them, no longer frowning angrily but grinning widely instead. Despite the cheerful canvas painting, the mood in the room was somber as they all mourned Aemond's death; a death that had brought about by one woman's hard-fought desire for freedom after years of agony and servitude. No one noticed the strange smile cast down upon them or how it seemed to cast an ominous feeling around the gathering. Shrouded in grief, each person gathered in this chamber lost in their own sorrow and despair; unable to comprehend what had happened and why it had been allowed to occur.

[twothpaste]

hey can i get uhhh 25 for claus please 🎤 🎤🎤 🎤

HIYA DANA

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

When I first played Mother 3 I cried about him. I've done like 5 playthroughs since, and cried about him every time. My actual very first impression of Claus was some fanart of him dying in Lucas' arms, which I encountered in someone's signature banner on an old Pokemon forum in like 2008 - as you & I know, that's just the kinda shit we all did back then! Some of his last words were quoted on it, basically spoiled the entire game in on fell swoop. I was so mystified & captivated by this image that it lived rent free in my head for a few years until I finally played the game myself. Being spoiled had no bearing on the immersion or emotional impact. I still got my brains irreconcilably scrambled, and have been suffering from Long COVID-Clausteen ever since.

For a while I was blackpilled like "ok there's not actually much in the game itself to go off of, Claus is more a piece of symbolism & extension of Lucas' internal turmoil than a whole character in his own right, also he has to stay dead, otherwise it's disrespecting the story," and I was so fucking wrong on all counts. The shit going on between the lines with this kid is like The Bible 2. Ancient Greek philosophers could not begin to unpack the layers of grief and trauma and hope and love and allegory that Mr Itoi packed into this fucked up little redneck child. He is endlessly fun & fascinating to pick apart and analyze and deconstruct and reconstruct, almost like a cybernetic chimera or something, or maybe a model dinosaur, idk. If you make him twenty he becomes the funniest sweetest saddest guy of all time. If you make him thirty I need to go take a walk about it. Why is his hair orange. I didn't ask for blxrpy (nonbinary form of blorpy) but now I'm stuck with him forever. His full name is Doctor Claus Jackson "Billy Dinner" Westwood Motherthree and I should probably take him out back and shoot him already before the situation grows any more dire (read: I will never do this).

[magicjesuscup]

Yu-Gi-Oh thought

I'm in a Yu-Gi-Oh mood for some reason and just watched a really neat video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mArpqqJi58A) that argues that Thief King Bakura might not have been been Egyptian.

It's super cool and I love the theory, but I'm wondering if maybe there's another reason why he looks so different and has a name that isn't Egyptian. Although, I am taking a few liberties here. I'm counting being trapped in jewelry for 3,000 years as something of an afterlife since his physical body is definitely dead.

According to Egyptian mythology: "The name was regarded as an essential part of an individual, as necessary for the survival of the deceased in the After-life as the ba, akh, and the preserved corpse. The name of an individual was preserved by its inclusion in funerary texts, either on papyrus or on the tomb walls. Should they wish to do so, later generations could destroy the existence and memory of a deceased individual by removing their name from their tomb." (https://factsanddetails.com/world/cat56/sub403/item1949.html)

Bakura probably wouldn't have had any kind of funeral rites done. He didn't have any family to have taken care of that. He may not have thought ahead to do it himself if he thought he was going to win his fight with Atem. And nobody around him would've wanted him to have access to the afterlife; they probably just dumped his body somewhere to rot.

There's also this moment in the anime:

During mumification, "They left only the heart in place, believing it to be the center of a person's being and intelligence." (https://www.si.edu/spotlight/ancient-egypt/mummies#:~:text=They%20left%20only%20the%20heart,jars%20today%20called%20canopic%20jars.)

Since Bakrua's heart and name weren't preserved, it makes sense (in my head) that his soul wouldn't remember what his name was or what he looked like. So what he does is take on the name and appearance of his host.

It's been a while since I've seen/read the series, but if I remember correctly, the last season doesn't actually take place in ancient Egypt. It takes place on an rpg board created by Ryou under the direction of Bakura.

What's on the board is going to be what information Bakura and Zorc have. All the major players aside himself were high ranking individuals and most likely given good enough burials that would've granted them access to the afterlife. (Which is supported by Atem seeing all these people after Yugi beats him in the final dual of the series, but not Bakura.) So Bakura would've had information on them, but nothing about himself.

Nothing except things that Zorc remembered. Which is liberty number two. Zorc may have only remembered things to keep this fight going like Bakura's motivation, the fact that he lost/didn't get his revenge the first time he and Atem faced off, and what happened in their last fight (so he could learn from it and maybe win this time).

TLDR:

Video theory: Bakura's non Egyptian appearance and name are due to him not being Egyptian.

My crazed ramblings: Bakura's name and appearance were borrowed from his host because he doesn't remember either of those things due to not being given the necessary funeral rites.

[minnierevercez]

SPOILERS BAD BATCH SEASON 2 !

Since we're all agreeing on Tech NOT being dead - and need some fluff to cope until season 3 - here is a one shot I wrote a while ago !

In which Tech AND Crosshair live and are rescued from Mount Tantiss, and Tech has matters to settle with a certain Liberator of Ancient Wonders.

Things to Consider

Tech x Phee

Word Count : 4,048

Summary : A successful rescue mission on Mount Tantiss leads to a happy reunion on Pabu.

The birds were chirping outside, and a light breeze warmed his skin. It had been a long time since he hadn't heard or felt such things, and he briefly wondered if he was dreaming ; but the ache in his head and the underlying nausea told another story. Slowly, Tech wiggled his fingers, then his toes, as though experimentally. Nothing impeded the movements ; he wasn't restrained. His breath hitched at the realization.

He fought against his heavy eyelids, trying to determine where he could be, to no avail. Further analysis of the state of his body had him noting his dry lips and throat, and he tried to swallow, but all it did was send him in a coughing fit that felt like punches to his ribcage ; the pain seemed to wake him further, and he finally managed to open his watery eyes.

The world around was blurry, as he could have expected ; he couldn't feel the weight of his goggles on his face. The expanse of grey on his right, just beside him, was certainly a wall ; but when he tried to touch it, carefully sliding his hand on the covers of the bed he'd found himself lying in, it moved under his fingertips, soft to the touch. A sort of fabric ? On his left, someone was groaning softly ; a human form, slowly sitting up on a second bed.

"They're awake !" came an excited cry, some distance from the foot of his bed, and alarm coursed through him for an excruciating second, before his brain caught up with the situation : he knew that voice.

"O – Omega ?" he managed to rasp, after swallowing once more. A familiar blond head came into view near his face, all blurry lines of pinks and yellows.

"Tech !" she exclaimed, and from this close, the sound sent a sharp spike of pain through his head. She didn't seem to notice his wincing as she went on with a level of enthusiasm only children could achieve. "You were gone, and then I was gone, but Hunter came and got me and Crosshair also and then you were there -"

A deep and well-known laugh cut through her ranting – a fate usually reserved to him only, he couldn't help but note – before a Hunter-y shape appeared next to their sister.

"Let him breathe for a minute, Omega. Here", he added, seeming to address Tech, "I had them fixed for you. Should make things better."

Something cold landed on his left hand, and he gingerly closed his fingers around it, feeling the shape and materials : his goggles.

He put them on slowly, grimacing the whole time ; he found his arms ached too. Finally, the world around came into focus.

What he had first assumed were walls were in fact long parcels of fabric, draped as separations for the many small infirmary rooms in which clones were sleeping, eating, talking. Azi was buzzing around the place, giving instructions as citizens of Pabu went from room to room and gave medical care to the residents. In front and around his bed were his brothers ; Hunter, Wrecker, and of course, right next to him, Omega. But it was the other bed that caught his attention.

"Crosshair", he whispered.

If you liked that beginning you can check out the rest of the story here on Ao3 =D !

[megafaunatic]

idk if ur like open to randos in ur asks giving u media recommendations, but i would give anything in the world for u to try and give the k-novel 'return of the blossoming blade' by BIGA a chance... UR MY FAVE CONTENT CREATOR SINCE THE YE OLDEN TGCFMDZS DAYS SO I WANTED TO AT LEAST TRY LOLLL its like my favourite novel of all time and ive been trying to force it upon everyone with little avail, which i dont understand WHYY cuz its SOO GOOOD like it definitely deserves to have the same level of popularity w international fans as MDZS and TGCF had, but for now it remains a hidden gem.......... it's an insanely long novel i will nawt lie (1.5k+ chapters and updating everyday but only like 500smth have been tl'd into english on the fantl site Sky Demon Order[who also post semi-daily]) but its sosososo worth it i prommy..trust me..:smiles: it's a classic 'hero from the past who died a tragic and preventable(?) death reincarnates a hundred years into the future hiding his identity to teach the youth in order to keep the future generation from following in his footsteps and making the same mistakes he did' but without all the stale, predictable, boringness u'd typically expect from that specific genre... it's an incredibly comedic action novel that takes place in ancient china wuxia setting & focuses primarily on found family and those close familial bonds between the main cast behind all the sword fighty action (dont know how to fit this in anywhere else, but its important to me that u know the mc, chung myung, is the main casts grandpa.. hes their peepaw.. he shows affection by beating them on their heads). theres no romance at all, but i would argue that is a SELLING POINT for this novel like i swear it is so refreshing, the found family of it all means soo much to me, so much so i am now going to force it to mean so much to you too(this is a threat).... if u do gaf abt ships tho then maybe the doomed, tragic, best-friends-to-almost lovers tangchung yaoi and the love at first sight iseolsoso yuri might catch ur eye *LOOKS AT YOU* i genuinely really really feel like it would be straight up ur alley, like its definitely smth i feel would at least peak ur interest imo (chung myung, the mc, is probably my fave mc of all time..at eighty two years young, he IS the next peoples princess and i want to hit him with my car and then nurse him back to health just to hit him again.. i feel like u'd enjoy him like that as well).. im so desperate for more eng fans of this novel u cant see me rn but i am biting into a leather belt trying not to sob and cry out loud as im typing this this is so long im so embarrawsed so ill leave u here.. i hope my pleas have touched ur heart in some way and if the novel chapter count is too intimidating, ROTBB also has a webcomic on webtoons by the same name (season two of the webcomic just started ^__^ ) and the art is so good and funny and its a good way to get into the novel without being overwhelmed by the chp count methinks BUT i would definitely consider reading the novel mandatory cuz the webcomic only fills u in on so much.... ok. i hope u managed to get thru this insane wall of text, my bad.. until we meet again...*salutes* *revs up my motorcycle and disappears behind a cloud of smoke but when the dust settles i am laying dead on the floor*

ok so first of all i respect this so much 🫡 thank you for spreading your passion in the final moments before your motorcycle dirt death 🫡🫡🫡

second of all this does sound really fun !!! i have found it on sky demon order and i'll give it a try... BUT i gotta be real over a thousand chapters and only two hundred of them translated AND no romance is unfortunately killing me... i just dont know if i have the stamina for that... im a horrible little fujo if its THAT long theres gotta be some kissing!!!!! sorry 😭😭

for u i will give it a try but i can make no promises 🫡 i will consider chung myung my blorbo in law tho

[wanna-sleep-all-day]

GO RUSH DAMAMU-OTES THEORY

Because at this point everyone can be Otes. It isn't impossible though.

So, Yuga and Otes were sent to go rush world in a future rush duel (which happened in the ending of sevens)

We know Yuga is sent to earth and we see him throughout the story so it isn't a big deal.

However, it has been specifically pointed out that Otes' earthdama is sent to a long, long time ago world and become the valgearians' creator, while Otes himself is nowhere to see. Which will lead us to 3 possibility: 1)Otes himself is sent to the ancient time with his earthdama and is naturally d3ad now 2)Otes himself is just hiding in somewhere and hasn't showed up yet 3) Otes himself IS a earthdama

In first scenario, Otes no longer exists by the time go rush starts, so there's no point talking about him unless he left something important or undone, which we have not known yet and may potentially be third year plot.

In second scenario, the consequences may be the same as the first scenario, but we may see an living Otes from sevens jumping around in the future. However, I think Yuga would have known about this and won't talk like he does not exist anymore. In 100, Yuga said "I...am going to become Otes" (This is not an narrative sentence, but his resolution to decide to become Otes), as if Otes does not exist anymore and someone else has to take Otes' place.

In third scenario, this will mean that Otes is an earthdama all along, whether in sevens or in go rush. And his ending is to be absorbed by his own creation, Kuaidul(Not blaming Kuaidul though the poor bunny kid just wanted some love). Though we never see Otes uses superpower directly in sevens, it can be simply explained that Otes need to hide his power or he'll become Goha city's no.1 lab rat or something.

If Otes is a human himself, then there will be too many people as candicates. Yuga, Yuhi or Yuamu can all be him(I am not sure if Yuamu would change her voice or something, though)

However, if Otes is an earthdama, we have only one already-known character here: Damamu.

I know this sounds crazy, but think about it: Otes has to live long enough to know every secrets and everyone in Goha city from the ground. Otes has to be intellegent enough to be working in Goha incorporation or at least know someone working for Goha company. Otes is shown to be mischievous and values "joy and happiness" a lot. Most of all, he has to know where and when to show up to lead Yuga to start the events of sevens. The only person that can meet the "live long enough" condition is Damamu. Damamu is an individual himself so he may not be dead like Yuhi will. Yudias may also meet this condition, but we see neither of them are in UTS list that is shown in 62. Other aliens like Chupataro or Mitsuko also do not show up in sevens, so I think we can say that sevens world don't have alien, only assumed descendents. But Damamu is also missing, who should also be counted as UTS gang. Unless Damamu went out and left UTS for something else...

Though Damamu isn't shown to be a technology nerd, he may pick these up later in the future. Or he just brainwashes someone to do the actual work for him-

There are still some loose end, though. Why would Damamu want to go and start the events of sevens? This will cause a closed loop between sevens and go rush, and everything we have seen so far would be destined and Damamu will remember all of this, including him being absorbed by Kuaidul. But Dmamu stated that he doesn't want to diasspear as in the S1 final duel.

And how would Damamu know exact how to act in sevens? He doesn't share Yuga's memory like Yuhi or Yuamu does. Any of them can tell him but again, why would they do it? Yuhi won't want Damamu to become Otes for you know reasons, and Yuga and Yuamu would rather become Otes themselves.

Furthermore, won't Damamu do something beforehand for the valgearian disappearance? Damamu likes to play with people and rush duel, I don't think Damamu will do nothing to prevent valgearians from disappearing, not when he already knows Yudias.

I would like to type more but this is already too much for me. Anyways, thanks for watching these nonsense if you actually read through it.

Remember, it's just a theory, AN ANIME THEORY!