#but also the - run her fingertips across the cracked and fading paint / along the path of the falling star

[swordmaid]

It was more a picture than a proper coat of arms, and the sight of it took her back through the long years, to the cool dark of her father’s armory. She remembered how she’d run her fingertips across the cracked and fading paint, over the green leaves of the tree, and along the path of the falling star. - AFFC Brienne II.

[catofoldstones]

The Ashford Theory and my patience running thin

Welcome, welcome my guys, gals and non-binary pals, to another scream into the void that the Ashford theory is, in fact, very jonsa

On to the arguments!

1. The suitor has to have the correct last name, not family, look at Joffrey Baratheon, you stupid jonsa

Hypothesis - the suitor has to have the corresponding name, not family, and because Jon is a Snow he’s out of the running. The other prong is fAegon who is actually a Blackfyre and not Targeryen, who can also be the suitor.

Thesis - Joffrey is the only other suitor to have a different name. Joffrey and Jon have also been set up as foils from the start of AGOT. Joffrey is a bastard masquerading as the rightful king and Jon is the rightful king (thrice crowned) masquerading as a bastard. It makes sense that they are the only two suitors to have the wrong name as this establishes them as inverses in another way. The last suitor being the foil of the horrible first suitor thereby showing character growth, and plot progression and resolution? Count me in.

As for Young Griff being a Blackfyre, here’s a meta or two, maybe even an argument, for him being the real Aegon VI Targaryen but take my personal fav evidences of Tyrion figuring out that Young Griff is Aegon VI Targaryen and then, Varys literally telling a dying Kevan Lannister about the true Targaryen prince and why would you lie to a dying man? How does that serve your purpose?

This is literally grrm telling us who Young Griff actually is, though this does not count him I out of the contenders, it reduces the weight of him being the fifth suitor, due to story arcs and well, his doomed fate.

Conclusion - While Aegon VI is a strong contender, there is much, much more literary weight and nuance with Jon being the Targaryen suitor.

2. Lady Ashford was not crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by any champion!!! Take that jonsas

Hypothesis - tQoLaB is a title analogous to a betrothal/love interest

Thesis - there have been no allusions to the title of tQoLaB while trying to foreshadow a relationship, except for a really, really bad one (r + l) that plunged the whole realm into a civil war and we should not take that as a good sign

Conclusion - we’re grasping at straws here besties

3. Dunk disrupted the Ashford Tourney, therefore Sxndxr will disrupt Sansa’s prospects and other things

Hypothesis - Dunk & Sxndxr are are analogous and since there was no conclusion to the Tourney we can safely assume that it’s sxnsxn foreshadowing

Thesis - Brienne is the Dunk asoiaf corollary, not Sxndxr. Brienne is theorized to be Dunk’s descendant. She even has her shield painted like Dunk’s, apart from their striking character parallels and being a true foil to all the other knights in the story. Mr. Gravedigger is just tall :/

“Your door reminded me of an old shield I once saw in my father’s armory.”

Brienne II, AFFC

Brienne has Dunk’s shield in her family home possibly because she’s a descendant of Dunk but then goes ahead and gets her shield painted exactly like this one

“[The painted shield] was more a picture than a proper coat of arms, and the sight of it took her back through the long years, to the cool dark of her father’s armory. She remembered how she’d run her fingertips across the cracked and fading paint, over the green leaves of the tree, and along the path of the falling star.”

Brienne II, AFFC

Secondly, just because the tourney did not have a (satisfactory) conclusion does not mean that the tourney did not exist to serve a purpose. I doubt grrm would likely give out his whole story as early as 1998.

Conclusion - BRIENSA 4eva!!!!!

4. Valarr Targaryen died of a sickness and Aegon VI is doomed to die and is connected to a sickness, are you looking at the nerves popping out of my thick, brainy skull

Thesis - the fifth suitor is 100% Aegon and there’s no one else

Hypothesis - there is a Targaryen.. currently dead.. in the books… (thnk u @istumpysk for ur galaxy brain). The plague in the story serves to connects Aegon more to Dany than to a northern girl he doesn’t know about and might not like since she’s a Stark and his mother is Elia Martell.

Conclusion - jonsa

5. This is all a coincidence & u jonsas are reaching as always

Hypothesis - though george is known to tie every deep end, every crack theory, even farfetched ones that the readers have not caught, this one thing completely skipped his notice because exceptions are always there

Thesis - yes, because this is acotar & not asoiaf and he’s not grrm, i am

Conclusion - JONSAAAAAAAAAAAA

[butterflies-dragons]

Didn't George said that Brienne is actually descended from Dunk? Not narratively wich she is but by blood.

Brienne of Tarth

The only descendant of Dunk officially confirmed by GRRM is Brienne of Tarth, my favorite candidate to be Sansa’s true knight.

GRRM has stated that readers have met a descendant of Dunk in ASOIAF:

But I did get up the courage to blurt out one small SoIaF query, which was if we’ve met a descendent of Dunk’s in the SoIaF. He said yes. […] I asked GRRM if we’d met one of Dunk’s descendants in the SoIaF, and he said Yes. I didn’t ask him who, because I’d rather find out by reading or reason, only I’m lousy at the reasoning part and want to make you guys do it for me.

He later stated that he gave a strong hint to Dunk’s descendant in A Feast for Crows:

Asked if he’ll ever tell which character is Dunk’s descendent. Got a rather acerbic, “I gave a pretty strong hint in the new book,” to which I sheepishly replied “Yea, but I read it real fast, in three days.” I told him I suspected Brienne but thought that she was too obvious and that he’d be more subtle than that and he said, “You think?” Coy bastard.

Given that in A Feast for Crows, Brienne recalls finding a shield with Dunk’s sigil in the armories of Tarth, it was widely speculated but not confirmed (yet) that she is descended from Duncan the Tall

The arms of Tarth were quartered rose and azure, and bore a yellow sun and crescent moon. But so long as men believed her to be a murderess, Brienne dare not carry them. “Your door reminded me of an old shield I once saw in my father’s armory.” She described the arms as best she could recall them. The woman nodded. “I can paint it straightaway, but the paint will need to dry. Take a room at the Seven Swords, if it please you. I’ll bring the shield to you by morning.” […] The captain’s sister found her in the common room, drinking a cup of milk and honey with three raw eggs mixed in. “You did beautifully,” she said, when the woman showed her the freshly painted shield. It was more a picture than a proper coat of arms, and the sight of it took her back through the long years, to the cool dark of her father’s armory. She remembered how she’d run her fingertips across the cracked and fading paint, over the green leaves of the tree, and along the path of the falling star. —A Feast for Crows - Brienne II

However, in 2016 at Balticon, Martin confirmed Brienne’s descent, stating that the exact relationship between Duncan and Brienne would be “revealed in time.”

At BaltiCon, fan Kristen Reed Treado asked, “Will we ever learn how Brienne descends from Dunk?” GRRM replied, “Eventually. All will be revealed in time.”

Brienne is already Sansa Stark’s sworn sword. She swore her allegiance to Sansa’s mother, Catelyn Stark, and made an oath to find Sansa Stark. Brienne also wields Oathkeeper, a sword made of Ice (House Stark ancestral sword) and a repainted House Lothston (Harrenhal/Sansa’s maternal lineage) shield with the arms of Ser Duncan the Tall (a shooting star above an elm tree on a field with the color of sunset). Brienne commissioned the re-painting of the Lothston shield with Ser Duncan’s arms while being in Duskendale (Jonquil Dark, Dontos Hollard). A full circle enclosed around my favorite candidate to become Sansa’s true knight.

Even before the confirmation by the author, it was clear that Brienne was deeply connected with Dunk and somehow following his steps. You can find more parallels between Brienne and Dunk here and here.

So, if Brienne somehow ends up in the Vale of Arryn in time for the tourney at the Gates of the Moon, mysterious knight style, and enters the lists, competes, wins and crowns Sansa. Or if she somehow interrupts or shortens the tourney and there is a trial involved that she will fight in order to defend Alayne Stone/Sansa Stark, I will be more than pleased. The same if Brienne at some point rescues Sansa from anyone that may hurt, abduct or imprison her. Sansa deserves agency and freedom and good persons around her and Brienne deserves to fulfill her oath and become an appreciated and valued knight.

Sansa, though … I will find her, my lady, Brienne swore to Lady Catelyn’s restless shade. I will never stop looking. I will give up my life if need be, give up my honor, give up all my dreams, but I will find her. —A Feast for Crows - Brienne II

Brienne is a worthy representative of her ancestor Ser Duncan the Tall, both knights that remember their vows. The truest kind.

Finally, it’s worth mentioning that the author has described Brienne as “Sansa with a sword.” This statement confirms that these two characters have an important interrelation.

[youritalianbookpal]

[Transcription: two images of a citation taken from A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin. The quote reads: The captain's sister found her in the common room, drinking a cup of milk and honey with three raw eggs mixed in. "You did beautifully,” she said, when the woman showed her the freshly painted shield. It was more a picture than a proper coat of arms, and the the sight of it took her back through the long years, to the cool dark of her father's armory. She remembered how she'd run her fingertips across the cracked and fading paint, over the green leaves of the tree, and along the path of the falling star.]

So, I knew that this beautiful shield was a reference to something by Martin I hadn’t read, hence I looked it up and now I am screaming. Maybe this is something everyone knows but I didn’t and I’m having a meltdown.

According to the wiki, the coat of arms belongs to Duncan the Tall (Dunk), a character from some of the novellas set in Westeros. The first information about him on the wiki reads:

Ser Duncan the Tall was a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard during the reign of King Aegon V Targaryen. His personal arms were a green shooting star above an elm tree proper on sunset,n but he also briefly used the sigil of an unknown knight, "a hanged man swinging grim and gray beneath a gallows tree."

I just want to sit down and scream at the foreshadowing that went over my head multiple times.

[ikementally-deficient]

Advanced Entomology - Chapter 6: Chrysalis

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice/Love and Producer

Rating: Carolina Reaper (See Masterlist for rating descriptions)

Warnings: dubious/uninformed consent, see masterpost A/N

Due to the nature of the questionable consent in this fic, if you enjoy this story enough to reblog it, please reblog the masterpost rather than individual chapters.

Author’s Note: Second to last chapter! Our first occasion of sex in the traditional penetrative sense, I’m so proud of them. One more to go; I might get it written this weekend if all goes well, but time is an illusion, productive time doubly so, so who knows.

Also of note: I finally managed to work in the prompt that started this whole mess!

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

He can tell there’s been something on her mind. When they go out, she casts sideways glances at him, thinking him oblivious. She hesitates before taking his hand in public. She flinches every time another woman passes by.

“What’s on your mind,” he asks her over tea.

She flushes, her eyes skittering away from his steady gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He chuckles. “Of course you do.” He sips his tea, studying her over the rim of the cup. “You seem apprehensive, lately. Hesitant. As though you’re afraid you’re being watched, and judged.”

Her fingers fidget around the handle of her teacup. She sighs quietly. “Yes -- yes, I suppose I have.”

“Why is that?”

“Well --” she trails off, still staring into her cup. He waits. When the rest of the sentence comes, it’s in a blurted rush. “I don’t know what you see in me.”

It’s rare that Lucien finds himself caught off guard. He stares at her, cup still tilted in mid-sip.

She continues. “You’re so intelligent, and educated, and -- and h-handsome -- and my audiences love you, and I’m just --” her voice lowers sadly, “I’m just me. Plain and boring.” She turns the cup in its saucer, refusing to look up. “I mean, I know you’re getting tired of me.”

Lucien tries to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order. “What makes you say that?”

“We --” her eyes dart from side to side, checking that no one else in the cafe is listening. “We haven’t even had sex yet,” she whispers. “Not properly. And you’re never, you know --” She gestures vaguely to her own lap, “ interested .” Her forehead is glowing beet red.

Lucien puts his cup down slowly, precisely centering it on the saucer, before he answers her. “I’ve been holding back, you know. I didn’t want to rush you.” Too controlled. He never thought there was such a thing. “I’ve been very interested , but my self-control is quite good.”

She still doesn’t look up at him.

“Do you remember the night you couldn’t sleep, and asked me to tell you a story over the phone?”

She nods.

“The artist and the butterfly. The colourblind artist and the golden, glowing butterfly.” Lucien smiles warmly at her. “I don’t know if I can explain it in better words than those, but perhaps I can show you.” He rises to his feet and drops a few bills on the table before holding his hand out to her. “Will you indulge me?”

Her lashes are still lowered, but she looks up through them, the gleam of her golden eyes tantalizing him. “Of course, Lucien.”

They make a few purchases on the way home: an art store, for India ink and brushes. A theatre store, for gold makeup and sponges. Lucien slides his coffee table out of the way and lays down a sheet on the floor. He stands a large mirror at one end of the room. She watches his preparations with avid curiosity.

“Here,” he tells her. “Take off your clothes for me, and lie down on your stomach.” She is, as ever, obedient to his wishes.

She lies naked before him. Her head is turned to one side, pillowed on her folded hands. Her elbows are splayed out in a line with her shoulders, letting her scapulae rest flat against her ribcage. Her legs are straight. The soles of her feet face the ceiling, big toes resting against each other as her ankles supinate outwards.

“Ink me, Professor,” she murmurs into her hands.

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

The brush drips black ink as Lucien holds it over the pot, waiting for the excess to run off. He carefully studies his canvas in the meantime, contemplating the placement of the next line.

His work is a delicate tracery that stands in stark relief against her pale skin: the careful symmetry of butterfly’s wings rooted between her shoulders, spreading across her upper arms and down her back, wrapping around her ribs and ending in a gentle curve around the undersides of her buttocks.

She’s been lying motionless as he works, for nearly an hour judging by the movement of the sun. Her breathing is so even and relaxed that Lucien thinks she’s fallen asleep. He wipes the brush clean and lays it down, then replaces the lid of the ink bottle. Finally he sits cross-legged to examine his work, losing himself in the intricate tracery of costal and sub-costal veins.

“Are you finished, Professor?” Her sweet voice breaks into his reverie.

“The first stage,” he replies. “The ink should be dry soon.”

She hums in reply, wordlessly comfortable.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Mmmhmm. The sun is beautiful on my skin.” She opens her eyes languorously, and he leans into her field of vision. Her answering smile is warmer than the sunbeam they’re resting in, and he gives into the urge to lie down on his stomach perpendicular to her, so he can breathe kisses onto her eyes and mouth. She giggles, a delicious ripple of joy which starts a warm liquid wave in his stomach that melts a path straight up his chest and face. He rests his chin on his forearms and smiles at her, a spontaneous smile that feels completely foreign on his face.

“I had the dream again,” she sighs, and all the warmth in him freezes solid.

“Which dream?”

“You know, the one from before --” her foot kicks in lieu of waving a hand. “The one with Kiro and the fog and that black haired woman.”

Lucien forces himself to breathe normally. “Was it the same?”

She shakes her head minutely, obedient to his warning about the drying ink. “No. Kiro wasn’t there this time. You were with me instead.”

The ice in his chest cracks; he can feel his heart start to beat again. “Oh.” He breathes in and out, once, twice, thrice before he thinks his lungs can carry on without active direction. “Good. That means I’ll be there to protect you.”

That means Zeus has taken his warning to heart. Helios will not be there to strip her of all his careful conditioning. That means she’ll still trust him, at the end.

Overwhelming relief sends a shudder through him, and he’s thankful her eyes are closed again so she doesn’t see. He watches her silently, memorizing every detail of her dainty features, currently blissfully relaxed and unaware of his tremor.

After a few minutes she rouses enough to look at him again. “Is the ink dry yet?”

He makes a show of examining her back, lightly dabbing his fingertips against the thick margins of her wings. “It seems to be. I can start the gold, now.”

He dampens a small sponge and begins working the shimmering pigment over her back, filling in each wing cell with iridescence that turns molten in the late afternoon sun. This is much faster work than inking the wings themselves, and Lucien finds himself working frantically, chasing the light across her. He feels a desperation in the pit of his stomach, a trepidation that isn’t soothed by the knowledge that he’ll be with her when she goes to the TV tower.

When he finishes, her entire torso is a beautiful blaze, resplendent and shining in the last of the light. He catches her hand, pulling her to her feet to stand in front of the mirror. He pulls her to face him and lifts her arms around his neck to show her the striation of the black veins as her wings flex and stretch. She cranes her neck over her shoulder to see her reflection. Her expression is a mixture of awe and delight.

“Do you see?” He demands hoarsely. He crushes her against his chest, heedless of the gold paint that smears into the weave of his shirtsleeves. “Do you see now what I see, when I look at you?” He turns her face to look up at him, begging for comprehension. All the other colours fade when he’s apart from her, but in his mind’s eye she is always golden and glowing. Her mouth falls open at his uncharacteristic intensity, but her gaze is compassionate and warm.

“Lucien, what’s scaring you?”

She doesn’t know. She can’t know, or everything will be ruined. Her awakening is so close now, and he doesn’t dare deviate from the plan. For the first time he regrets his choices, regrets his success in finding the Queen and preparing her for metamorphosis. He can’t find words to answer her, can’t bring himself to lie to her in this moment when she’s granted him such a tangible expression of his vision. Instead he slams his mouth against hers, claiming her in a fervid kiss. Her gasp of surprise only sparks fire in his belly. The voice of Ares ordering him to calm down and pull back is lost in the crackling inferno.

He bears her down to the floor and continues his voracious assault on her lips, not giving her a chance to protest. One hand tangles in her hair, the other fumbles urgently at his shirt buttons. Finally, impatiently, he yanks and hears buttons skitter across the floor as his shirt flies open. Small hands tug the tails free of his trousers and skim over his stomach to start pulling open his belt.

He grinds into her naked heat as she finds the button and zipper behind the buckle. He’s hard, rutting against her, the long months of self-restraint evaporated like water on a hot pan, leaving behind only the sizzle of need. She bites at his lower lip, not the tentative nips she’s essayed before, but a catch of sharp teeth and the taste of blood as she frees his cock and grabs his waist. She pulls him hard against her, and he slides up through her slippery folds, feeling the head of him rub along her nub. Her chest heaves under him and she releases his lip. He chases her mouth with his own teeth, before laying bruising kisses into her neck, moving down to the trapezius where he bites, hard, and rocks against her.

“ Lucien .” She gasps his name, husky and yearning, and he pulls back to look at her. “God, Lucien, please --!” Her nails drag lines of fire up his back and he pushes into her with no preamble. None is necessary: she’s wet and open and moaning wantonly with each thrust. She slides one hand into his hair and grips tight, as though fearing he’ll pull away. He returns to her mouth, panting into her, and grabs her other hand, lacing their fingers together against the floor. Her legs pull up around him and lock behind his lumbar vertebrae, pulling him deeper as she clenches around his cock. Lucien feels his eyes roll back in his head when his hips stutter.

“Not yet,” he hisses. He slides his free hand under her shoulders and lifts her with him as he pulls back into a sitting position. Suddenly her breasts are right at the level of his mouth, and he traps her against him to indulge himself in the plush roundness. She squeaks as he bites at the curving underside, but he feels her pulsing around him again. His ferocity isn’t frightening her. Just the opposite, in fact. He buries his face in her cleavage and sucks a red mark onto her sternum, branding her as his.

Lucien uses both hands to grasp her slender waist and lift, turning her on his cock until she’s facing the mirror, straddling his thighs. He spreads his knees, forcing her legs further open, and drags her back down to fully engulf him. His hands slide down her pelvis, gripping at her inner thighs hard enough to bruise before spreading her lips so she can see how he stretches her open.

“Do you see now?” He strokes her clitoris teasingly, and she jerks, driving her buttocks into him. “Do you feel how much I’ve wanted you, the fire you’ve lit inside me?” He wraps one arm across her pelvis and pins her to him, while the other hand keeps stroking, increasing in pressure and speed, until she’s shuddering around him, head fallen back on his shoulder and nails driving into his forearm. She’s entirely unable to speak; the only sound she makes is a keening wail while she tries to buck into him. His arm is an iron bar, holding her in exquisite torment. Finally he thrusts up into her and pinches her nub sharply. Her scream of ecstasy matches the violent clenching of her orgasm.

Lucien wastes no time in pushing her face-down to the floor and planting his hands under her shoulders. His abdomen slaps against her as he plunges in, whispering hotly in her ear. “You’re the only warmth in the world. You’re the only colour I see.” He can feel his thighs quivering and knows he’s close. “I can’t be without you.”

He groans gutterally as he comes, pounding against her helplessly until he feels empty and hollow. Breathing is difficult, and he rests his forehead against her spine. The gold paint is smeared everywhere, on her back and his chest and arms, but the ink wings are still precise and perfect.

He understands now that he fears losing her; not the Queen, but the woman wrapped around her. His butterfly.

[deathbyvalentine]

Drabble Collection Larp

OJAQs: The One Reason I Employ Her

The boy lounged on what may have been a throne once, but had been chipped and decayed enough that it was barely recognisable as a chair. His fingers traced circles around the edge of his wine glass, the dark red liquid inside trembling with the movement. He glanced at the figure standing beside the chair with something like disdain. Her back was straight, her eyes dead ahead, but she was listening. He could tell. He could always tell. "Why I keep her? Now. Isn't that an interesting question?" He leant forward, elbows on knees, brow furrowed. His mouth was stained red - or not? It was so hard to tell in this light. The question was evidentially giving him pause, if the almost absent look in his dark dark eyes was anything to go by. And perhaps it wasn't. There was snow, tumbling out of the sky in waves, burying tree trunks beneath it, making the leaves shiver and shake. The wind didn't so much howl as scream, racing through the paths of the forest, so cold it could cut. Alexei was leaving again. He was not afraid of the night, nor of the winter, because he was the coldest thing in it. He hurried, the collar of his fur pulled up tight, protecting him from the bladed wind. He didn't think of the warm body in front of the fire who would wake up without him. He only thought of the one ahead, the one he was running to. It seemed he was always running. Perhaps that is why he didn't notice the crack in the ground; forced there by water freezing. His foot caught, and down he fell, hot blood pouring from the wound. He did not cry. He grit his teeth together tight, and did not allow himself to. Pain very rarely made him cry - in fact, nothing did. And besides, his problem now was not the shattered ankle. It was the uncaring snow, still falling around him, some painted scarlet by the still flowing blood. And he could not leave. Alexei may not have feared the winter, but it didn't care. It would kill him all the same, bravery or cowardice. And after an hour or so, it certainly seemed determined to. 

He was tired, and he fought against sleep, terrified of how long it would be if he fell into it. But it was a compelling spell, and his eyes kept closing, the snow whispering and promising comfort. It would be an end, finally, wouldn't it? An end to this story. But it was not to be, perhaps as he knew it wouldn't. It never ended. Arms, stronger than him, pulled him from the ice and the spell, and to a chest. She walked, and walked, and walked, the small once-prince held tight. She had saved him. In more ways than one. Alexei snapped out of his reverie. "Why do I keep her?" He repeated, his pretty mouth full of mocking. "Well. Someone needs to carry me to bed."

Regret

His mouth tasted of ashes. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Every movement that stirred his limbs sent waves of exhaustion through him. With a colossal effort he sat up, having to still himself once upright to prevent himself from vomiting. The light was dim - it was still early, thank the Throne. He wasn’t late. 

Lance stood, pulling up the braces on his trousers, wincing as they accidentally snapped hard. He scooped a bottle from the floor, not glancing at the label as he swallowed it. He dropped it again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A body on the floor stirred, but did not awake. He stepped over his legs, careful not to disturb him.

Painfully slowly, he gathered his things. He couldn’t remember where he had discarded half his clothes, having already been in some state of disrepair as they had been pushed off him. His shoes were underneath the grimy sink, his gloves inside a pillowcase. The hive apartment was small, and yet seemed to have immeasurable hidey holes and piles of stuff to dig through. Urgh. A glance through the window confirmed it wasn’t even upper hive. He’d finally gotten some shore leave and he had wasted it here. Typical. 

He shrugged on his jacket, preparing to leave. Something caught his eye. Some unused stims and opia sat inside a partially open drawer. A moment’s breath and he had scooped them up, deposited them in a pocket. He didn’t feel a drop of guilt about the petty thievery.  His needs were greater than some scum who wouldn’t contribute anything to the Throne but their death.

The ride back to the docks was a joyless one. The light was flat and grey, and the smog was choking. His respirator could hardly keep up. Emperor save him from planets. Give him the great black void, the shimmering stars, the universe at their fingertips. He couldn’t imagine ever staying in one place. He felt his heart lighten as soon as he boarded the shuttle that would take him back to the main ship.

His commander was already on the ramp, tapping her foot. She cut an intimidating figure, arms crossed, red hair flowing over her shoulders. He was acutely aware of the bolt pistol strapped to her hip. “Officer.” He said, pleasantly enough, attempting to sidestep her. 

“My office.” Was her retort, as sharp as the many knives she undoubtedly held in her loose coat. He sighed, resigning himself, and followed her shoulders through the twisting corridors of the hulking ship. He trailed his fingers along the edging, Thesusian in his touch. When he was in her office, and the door snapped shut behind him with a hiss of air, he had already resigned himself to losing his job. 

She sat behind her desk, observing him as he stood to attention, eyes focused on the seal on the wall above her head. “Lance.” She pulled out a file, flicking through it. “You’re something of a discipline case. Skilled enough, potential is there...” She shut it with a snap, and leaned forward. “So why do you keep fucking up?”

He double-took, startled. “Uh, excuse me ma’am?” 

“The universe has been handed to you on a silver platter. Good last name, pretty face, natural skill. And yet here you are, with a middling rank and a number of black marks against your name.” She looked at him, purple eyes compassionless. “I knew your mother, you know. Brilliant woman.” Her eyes flickered to his clenched fists. “The Imperium is poorer without her.” “She isn’t dead.” He spits the words out from behind gritted teeth. The officer doesn’t recoil, but seems to retrace her words, correcting some assumptions. 

“Well. No. You are quite right.” Never officially declared dead. There had been no ashes, no casket. No closure. “But the point is, you are squandering a legacy given to you freely. Don’t ruin her name because you can’t get your shit together.” She set her jaw. “Now, go and sleep it off in your dorm. We’re not due to need you, and even if we did, you’re in no fit state.” 

He went, but sleep didn’t come. Instead he flicked open his altitude meter, with the picture tucked inside.

Briefing

They came around slowly, their blood still splattered across the tiles below them. What people don’t realise about miracle healing is even if their wounds were sewn up, it still hurt. Servitors were not miracle workers. Just because they weren’t dying didn’t mean the wound didn’t exist. Argento however... He was still standing, though his clothes were stained, his skin whole and unsullied. Cal’s was now full of staples, stitches and cauterisation. It hurt to breathe. 

The Inqusitor was gone, but the ghosts remained, and Cal was still shaking, from cold, shock or fear. Argento helped them to their feet, but had to keep an arm around them, as Cal couldn’t quite support themselves. Looking at the pattern of red pooling where they had lay, they knew logically it was probably blood loss that had taken strength from their limbs. But psykers were often superstitious, and they couldn’t help but think this hall had taken some strength for itself. 

Argento was mumbling something about sleep, his tone a little awe-struck. The two missionaries helped them make their way to their cabin, where they fell onto their bunk, exhausted, their clothes still wet with viscera and blood. They’d need new ones. The light clicked off, the door hissed shut. They were left alone, in blissful quiet. 

They didn’t know what just happened, not really. Just that something had been decided for them, and they were powerless to resist it.

Autoseance 

Their limbs moved as though being tugged on with puppet strings. A voice spoke that was their own, but  it was not their words. They were a passenger in their own body. It was not a pleasant sensation. Terror surged through them, a worry that they would not get their body back, and it would be divorced from them for always.They would continue to be an observer. 

Would that not also be a little relief? No decisions, no choices, nothing but watching. Nothing would be their responsibility. Nothing would be their fault. Maybe, bit by bit, their mind would fade away, their physical form a gift given to someone else. It wasn’t that they wanted to die, not in a traditional way. They would not end things themselves - they were property after all, it was not their choice to make. 

But if they could fade quietly, by someone else’s hand, no blaze of glory, no horrid pain, no agonising final last words. Just this ending. But then, the mind dominating theirs was gone, into some other unfortunate that was clearly fighting much much harder. Relief and regret flowed through them. 

The Story of a Secret - Empire

Once upon a time, twins were born in a castle made of bones and gold. They were not the first pair, and they would surely not be the last. Their father was the ruler of the castle and on the day of their birth, the fountains flowed with gold and wine, and the flowers bloomed brightly. Their father held them both, and told them they must be great, or they would bring shame to him. 

Their childhood was both happy and unhappy. They got everything they desired and also were worked so hard it hurt. They spent their days sparring, gardening, whispering secrets, hunting and trying to prove they could outdo each other. Their father pretended not to watch, but watch he did. As their personalities developed, so did his favouritism. Julienne could often be found sneaking into his study, sitting and reading as he did his duties. He was frightened of him, the tall draughir with veins as black as coal. But she loved him too, his grandness and his malicious intelligence. The only thing he loved more than him, was his dear twin. 

Their childhood took a turn for the worst as their mother fled, afraid of what she saw in her earl. The twins cared not for the woman, but this marked the real start of their trials. Their father became more tempestuous by the day, and his cruelty increased. He encouraged the competition between them, pushed them to breaking point. The house slunk around him, attempting to avoid his wrath. Julienne attempted to sooth him, to varying levels of effect. They loved him still, wanted to impress him, to make him proud. 

Finally, he did something that broke his heart, and he found himself unable to reside in the castle for a short while, unable to look on their father’s or their would be sweetheart’s face. They went away and achieved great things, and came back with scars and Pride. When they came back, their father was worse than ever, and even Julienne was struggling to find some humanity in him. His lineage had conquered him completely. 

He died on the battlefield, a sword through his chest. They arrived with enough time to hold him, and to weep, but not enough time to save him. This is where the secret began, though Julienne did not know it at the time. They would not learn it until years later, when they themselves had veins as black as coal and eyes as red as blood.

The secret made them feel their grief and sorrow all over again, now tempered with the rage of a draughir. They felt cheated, excluded, isolated and furious. They took their knife and stabbed their twin, until they themselves were cut down. And then, during the trial, with both their wounds bound, they created another secret, made up of all the lies they had told to protect the thing they loved most in the world - their twin.

Ship That Left Port by Itself - Green Cloaks

The barracks was lively, partially because they had been cooped up by the bad weather all day. The driving rain had made all but the most basic reconnaissance impossible, and the energy of the company had built and built. Gwen was threatening to gut Owyn, Trelawny Jr would not stop his whistling as he polished his boots, and Merryn (talking with Leo) laughed frequently and loudly. Trelawny Sr was clearly two seconds away from reprimanding the lot of them as he tried to do the requisite paperwork. He was aware of his own rising irritation, and knowing his family well, he also knew of a solution. A word in Scott’s ear and he had pulled up a chair into the center of the room. The spotlight suited him, and the company quietened down as they saw him gearing up for a story. 

“The Company of the Just were a pro-active group from a long while ago. More so than us, and that’s saying something as we know. In both age and proactivity. They didn’t focus on mercy, obviously. Guess what they liked? So, they travelled to enact their justice all over Durgan. They would go to places where the corruption was deepest, and put it right. Sometimes they could be a little bloody about it, we wouldn’t like to have drinks with them, let’s put it that way, but they were good at heart. They had their enemies of course, as all good folk do, but they were good at being objective.

There had been some trouble over the sea. Which sea it was doesn’t matter, only that is was angry and wine-dark. The company decided even though it was far away, and the sea was unkind, that was where they were needed so that is where they would go. They packed up their bags, and each other, and sailed for a week before reaching their destination. When they arrived, they found it in a worse state than anticipated. The temples were empty, with windows smashed and ruined. The people had turned selfish, as it turned out the crime committed that drew them there initially had stoked the fires of their anger. They blamed the temples for not preventing it, for not foreseeing it coming. The Company had come at a bad time.

They slept in the ruin of their temple that night, hoping to evade the crowds long enough to figure out a plan. But again, they underestimated the situation they were in. While they slept, the rabble crept out to the docks, and put flame to their ship. It went up easily, ash and sparks rising to the night sky. They then crept into the temple, and killed all those who slumbered within it.” 

All was quiet. Leo reached out and caught his brother’s hand, squeezing. 

“Now, like all good temple acolytes, they had wanted to be buried in the dust of their hometown, or their ashes dropped into the sea that lapped at the shore. Here, their bodies were left unburied and unmourned. The rabble assumed their bodies would fall into ruin like the temple, and they should think no more of it. But then, something peculiar happened. For two weeks afterwards, the people slept poorly. Not because of the weight of their conscience for they had no such thing, but because there was a manner of noise. Sawing, hammering, and thudding, as though something was dropping from a height. When they investigated though, nothing could be found, and the noise went quiet. They were tired and confused, and their anger was wearing off, leaving in them a great sadness instead. Those who are angry are actually usually hurting in some way, after all. 

Anyway, these weeks past, and one day the village was awoken with a tremendous splash. They rushed to the docks, and saw a great ship starting to set sail. Wind billowed in it’s sails though no wind could be felt on shore. And they heard laughter and joy, though they could see no crew. The sword of justice was painted clearly on the sails though, and the boat looked like it was coming from whence it came, as if returning home.”

Friendly Fire

The gun felt too heavy, even braced against his shoulder it made his arm ache. It didn’t help that the gun was scarcely shorter than him. He sighed, switched hands, shook his arm out. Leo watched him, matched his sigh before pushing off the tree and taking a stance behind him, guiding his arms back up. 

“It’s alright, I got it.” 

“No, you haven’t.” His brother corrected. “You’ve been struggling for the last twenty minutes.” “What would you know about guns? You’re a bloody medic.” This was not an insult, far from it. Simply a pointing out of different knowledge bases. Leo was a fine medic, with delicate hands and the bedside manner of an angel. Owyn had never once seen him lose his cool, or even seem flustered. He envied that, as he envied so many things about his older brother. 

“Wasn’t always.” Leo said, mildly enough, tipping his elbow so it was straighter. “I did some gun training. Even was good at it for a while.”

“What made you stop?” He cocked it, satisfied as always by the dull clunks and clicks. There was something soothing about the predictability of a machine - it only messed up if you made it mess up. 

“I didn’t have the stomach for it.” He stepped back and shrugged. “I can’t hurt thins. Even if it’s necessary sometimes.”

Owyn laughed a little. “The most merciful amongst us Leo.” He pulled the trigger, and smiled, a hole ripping through the target. Almost dead center. 

Fresh Meat

No matter how much they eat, it wasn’t enough. He ripped into the deer flesh with his nails, pulling out the muscles and sinew with only a little effort, and raising up the dripping meat to his mouth, and chewing it raw. He knew logically he must be full. He had been crouching in the snow and eating for almost an hour now. But still the hunger persisted. It would not be sated.

With a colossal effort, he stood, wiping his hands clean in the surrounding frost. He didn’t feel the cold. He hadn’t in so very long. His surcoat was splattered with gore and viscera. That couldn’t be helped. He would go back to the farm and terrify a servant into scrubbing the blood from his clothes before any of the Order saw. The shame of their lineage grew and grew, and was unrelenting in its fierceness. They could tell nobody of their weakness, and nobody of their fear.

Unless.

Unless they could. An image came to mind of a hood, of black surcoats and red lanterns. They needed help. They needed it before their reflection became their fathers, before they could see nothing for the hunger. 

They walked out the woods, tired, weary. They spent a lot of time asleep or hunting nowadays. They longed for the golden skulls and winding rooms of their home. They missed their pack with a pain that was almost physical. And still that question, grinding away in their head - “Why?” Why had they been exiled? Orlene always had a plan, but this time Julien couldn’t see the steps or the logic. Clearly they had done something terribly wrong, or something was happening they needed to be tucked out the way for. But what?

And where was Jacques? Or their father - whichever it had been at the time. He was furious at himself for missing him, for wanting him, for wondering if he was thinking of him as frequently. Furious, but not surprised. Their emotions, when they felt them, were a frightening, tempestuous thing. 

As they walked into the cottage, they attracted looks and frightened whispers. Good. Fear was as good as love and a great deal better than being liked.

Lost and Found

There was a portrait of his father. Small, barely the size of his palm. He was not smiling in it, his mouth turned down in a characteristic frown. His hair was a little over-long, brown curls falling into his eyes. His eyes were striking though, even from behind the curls. They were a dark but unmistakeable green, and the artist had captured the thought behind them. Ancel remembered his father best in thought, quiet and calm. It was not that he was not a passionate man. Quite the opposite - it was that he was either completely calm or a storm. He consisted of extremes. He loved as deeply as he hated, and broke things with the same hands that once nursed a small bird back to health after his son begged him to. 

Ancel wondered if he resembled him in any way. If his manner echoed the man he had lost so young. He wasn’t sure which he would prefer. He was condemned for his blood already, he didn’t need more condemnation. But on the other hand, of all his father’s work, only he remained. He could pretend all he liked, but he could not erase that. Did he choose legacy or safety? 

Sleeping In Their Arms

Once, they slept in beds that were tangled with other people. Small and light, they often slept curled on Baris’s chest, making the most of the tiny amount of space they could carve out for themselves. It was often too hot, but the arm slung around them was a comfort. When they had seperate shifts, Cal often found themselves fraught, tossing and turning until a weight returned to the mattress.

They said goodbye to that on the Black Ships. Sleep came for only an hour or so at a time, and they pressed themselves into the loneliest, most isolated corners they could, wishing for nothing more than to become invisible, to not exist at all. They got by by hiding, by talking and looking at nobody. Loneliness was their armour and they held it tight. 

They had slept alone for almost a decade now. They covered every inch of skin they could find. Their rooms were built for one. They flinched from touch, especially embraces. On the Lord’s Confidence this had been a problem. So many people had expected affection, social convention, even showing offence when they flinched away. It had been Hellish.

 And then in the last few months... That had changed. They had found people who didn’t frighten them in quite the same way. They accepted a hug from Silvestro. Bridge had held them, and they had let him. Nic had done even more than that, and Cal had curled against him, his arms around them, basking in the flicker of warmth that begun.

And now, even further, this. Anoretta’s head rested gently against Cal’s, her thoughts idly drifting into Cal’s head occasionally. They held hands, Cal occasionally tracing patterns on the back of Anoretta’s hand. They were wrapped up in each other, and Cal realised, foggily, they were falling asleep. And they were letting themselves. They felt like they were baring their throat to a pack of wolves, so great the vulnerability. 

They squeezed her hand, and closed their eyes.

[cleopatraas]

“Game of Survival”

@hermajestymanon Let the battle begin, dear friend. 

The throne room was a massacre. The throne room was where Prythian ended and a new force began. Feyre stood, her sword barely gripped in her right hand, blood slowly rolling down her skin. 

Her eyes fluttered closed as she looked around the carnage that surrounded her. The High Lord of the Dawn Court was pinned to the wall, his mouth still open, his skin still glimmering. Feyre watched that light fade. 

His wife and chosen soldiers decorated the floor with their golden blood, which carefully slithered across the floor. The Lady of the Dawn Court’s eyes were open, the golden orbs staring into space.

Feyre had never learned their names.

Kallias was lying down motionless, the blade in his back frozen over. His bright blue eyes seemed dull in comparison to a color Feyre once knew. His fingers were digging into the ice that painted the ground. In the process of crawling away from a force you can not out run: Death. 

On top of him, as if in the last moments of her life she was determined to guard him, a female rested. Her back was arched, her own jagged blade sinking into her sternum. White blood stained her lips, her fingers curled helplessly around the metal. 

Their own warriors were discarded and ruined around them, white and gold blood slowly swimming together, mixing like they were made to. It created a marble design, and slowly it swam to Helion. 

Hellion’s golden tunic was stained with a vibrant red, brighter than any red Feyre had ever seen. She would have loved to paint with such a bright color. His beaded head piece was tossed from his head, laying on the ground, far away from the High Lord. If Feyre didn’t know any better, the High Lord could have just been sleeping. He still looked magnificent. 

His wife lay beside him, those deep brown eyes forever unseeing. Her mouth opened in a scream the world would never hear again. The fiercest battle cry she had ever witnessed. Her crown still rested on her head, as if it knew it belonged there, even in death. Blood ran down her deep brown skin, and Feyre thought it was the most beautiful horror she had ever seen.

Warriors of the Day were thrown and destroyed around their High Lord and Lady, their bright red blood crawling across the throne room floor, until it met with the white and gold. Their deaths were brutal, yet undeniably stunning. 

The blade fell from Feyre’s fingers, clattering against the ground, when her eyes saw Tarquin. Young, brave, fearless Tarquin. She should have let him alone after she had betrayed him in his own Court. She should have never involved him in this. 

Tarquin’s white hair was matted with blood, his eyes peacefully closed. He was crumpled on his side, his body broken in several ways. Of all of them, he had fought the hardest. Feyre wished his eyes were open, so she could see that blue one last time. 

A male warrior had fallen on top of Tarquin, his body resting over the High Lord’s long legs. His left arm was reaching out, only a few inches from Tarquin’s unmoving fingertips. 

In their last seconds, the lovers had reached for one another. Feyre saw Varian and Cresseida amongst the Summer Court Fae who had fought bravely. Blood swam down Cresseida’s arms, her eyes glazed over. Varian’s own sword had betrayed him in the end, lodged in the Fae’s chest. 

She nearly staggered to the side when she saw Lucien’s bright red hair. 

His good eye was closed, his scarred eye staring at the far wall. Feyre had a sick feeling that Lucien could still see with that eye, even as he lay there, stone still. He was horrible to look at. Her friend, dead, gone, brave, but gone. 

Unnamed Autumn Court warriors had died by their High Lord’s side. Had accepted him as their rightful High Lord, had given her friend love, compassion, strength, everything she could not. And Feyre couldn’t even bother to learn their names. Faes with dark skin, natural tans, or olive undertones had died for Lucien, for a ray of hope. Their red hair, brown hair, golden hair, all soaked in blood; their blood. And all of their veins, empty of that raging fire. They had given that power up the moment they fell to the ground. 

The ends of Tamlin’s golden air was soaked in his own blood. Feyre stared at him, blood slowly trailing down her face, sliding down her cheeks, dripping off her nose. She knew she was covered in it. White, blue, red, and other colors alike. 

He looked peaceful. 

Like he was waiting for someone. 

Feyre’s knees began to tremble as she looked closer to her. The bodies created a path, a path to her. She swallowed a lump in her throat when she saw Elain and Nesta. Nesta with her burned hands, Elain with her tranquil face. 

Feyre wanted to collapse when she saw Azriel. His wings were bent against his back, a siphon cracked and broken, scattered across the floor, never to hum and glow again. 

Feyre looked at her friend, someone she would have called a brother, someone who would never breathe again. Cladded in Illyrian leathers, Azriel had gone down with a fight, Feyre knew that much. 

And so had his brother. Cassian, collapsed by Azriel’s side, motionless. His wings were gone from his back, once again. Feyre knew one thing. In death, Cassian deserved his wings more than anyone else. Fate was a cruel, wicked thing. His siphons were also cracked, broken, and gone. 

Another male she would never be able to call brother. 

Female Illyrians surrounded the two warriors. Wings. A sea of wings, all broken, tattered, torn, or simply gone. It was a sea of destruction, a sea of pain. Feyre blinked, and she saw another blonde head. 

Blood still seeped from Mor’s stomach and Feyre pressed a shaky hand against her mouth. Her blonde hair was pressed against her face, her brown eyes open, positioned on Azriel. He was the last thing she saw. 

Amren, her firedrake friend, their last hope in the seemingly impossible war, was  just as dead as the rest of them. Silver blood still poured from her neck, her silver eyes on the ceiling. Silver painted her and Feyre thought it was fitting. She sparkled like one of her beloved gems. 

She hoped her friend was back home, back with those who she loved and loved her. 

Feyre’s eyes drooped closed, then she forced them to open. She forced herself to look at the body at her feet. Her heart laid bare before her, crushed and broken, never to beat again. 

Her mate, her husband, her High Lord. His violet eyes so dark, not nearly as light and glowing as she remembered them. Her everything, her salvation; the one she saved, the one who had saved her. Broken and dead. 

The realization hit her hard. Rhysand was dead. Feyre finally fell, her head hitting the smooth floor. She moved one last time, determined to hold Rhysand’s hand. Determined never to die alone again. 

Her fingers clasped around his and Feyre looked up, letting loose a shuddering breath as she saw the King, skewered on his throne. His head thrown back, his body lifeless, all that power, gone. 

Unmade and Made; Made and Unmade - that is the cycle. Like calls to like. The Book of Breathings had warned her. The Book had warned her of the price. The Book had told her she was the princess of carrion. If only she had listened, truly listened.

For something to be Unmade then Made, something had to be Made then Unmade. For Feyre to hold the power of all the High Lords, it was fitting they should all be destroyed. Her eyes fluttered and the King wavered in her vision, as the Cauldron toppled over. 

The water raced across the floor, washing away blood in its wake, drowning the Fae in its cold grasp. It swam closer and closer to her, seemingly hissing and cackling. Soon, it soaked her, head to toe, along with her mate and her friends. 

Her family. 

Together, the deaths of the High Lords, they had Unmade Prythian. Feyre saw a figure in the doorway, their bare feet slick with the Cauldron’s water. The water began to shimmer, carrying the seven High Lord’s magic as well as the King’s through the liquid. 

Feyre heard a faint thumping, as if the figure had fled. Her eyes finally closed, she finally slipped away. She could only hope the Cauldron had chosen correctly; chosen someone to end this cycle. 

She would be the last to be Made. 

And with her, Prythian would be the last to be Unmade. 

World War Maas II has officially began. 

There will be casualties. 

People will not survive. 

Only one will come out victorious. 

[aeyemenethes-blog]

Lathbora viran Ch. 6

For your entertainment, I have posted the next instalment of my fanfic Lathbora viran. You can also find it on AO3 at http://archiveofourown.org/works/10213937/chapters/23506302. Ma serannas.

 Clan Lavellan was different from other Dalish clans I encountered throughout my travels. They were accepting of all elves and polite – at times friendly – with humans as well as other elves. It was one aspect that drew me to them when I woke, one year prior to the explosion at the Conclave. After several millennia deep in Uthenera, I stumbled into the poisoned arrow tips of the clan’s hunters disoriented and weak, but they didn’t strike or drive me off. Instead, the clan welcomed me and my recovery began. I forced myself to leave soon afterwards so I wouldn’t grow complacent.

However, during several Fade walks I visited to check up on the clan since I left. This time was no different, though the reasoning behind it was decidedly selfish.

Ellana was Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan’s First when I was originally brought before both ladies by the elven hunters. Even from our initial introduction, Ellana’s hunger for magic and knowledge came close to matching my own. I was attracted to her curiosity as those wolf pups were, nosing after the fireflies in the meadow. Dangerously attracted. With her now a part of the Inquisition, the feelings I tried to smother now tugged me toward the Lavellan Clan, if only to inquire after their welfare.

I owed her that much though would in no way make up for what I’d done to Ellana in the past. The Herald, however, would never become aware of this.

I remembered Ellan informing Adan that her clan was in Wycome now – a place where they travelled before but not when I stayed with them – so I decided to check there. Taking a long draw from the sleeping draft I mixed together in my wooden tankard, I relaxed into my straw mattress back at Haven and waited for the herbs to take effect. My breath grew deep and slow first followed by my heart. A heaviness settled on my eyelids, and I did one final scan around the white markings arranged in varying patterns in painstaking order. Only when felt satisfied my wards were holding, did I allow my physical form to drop and my spirit to rise.

 Extricating my soul to Fade walk always reminded me of shucking an ear of corn; I needed to use delicacy to collect every fibre of spirit essence and oftentimes use force at the very end. This process came natural for me now and I barely noted the soft sigh from my body as I left it.

Blinking my eyes to shift my field of vision, I located the sliver of a crack in the Veil and pressed a hand over it. With the birth of the Breach, more and more fractures – similar to this one – began to appear. This weakening of the Veil represented a double-edged sword, both a sign that I was on the correct path with my old magic shivering, weary of its burden, and yet without someone there to control the collapse, it would tear both worlds apart. How rapid these tears formed alarmed me. If I was lucky, I had five years to gather my full strength.

Stretching my fingers inside the sliver in front of me, I gasped at the prickling of snapping energy that soaked into my soul. A wave of homesickness washed over me and – using my other hand along with the first – I nudged the sliver open wide enough to slip inside.

Brilliance and fragments of a world once as breath-taking as Arlathan greeted me with sick skies and black decay. Hollow screams of a pain made so long ago, echoed in the forefront of my mind as if the rendering just happened yesterday. Dark vines of ink seeped across my translucent skin, trying to capture and keep me, but I broke the hold easily.

Passing through pockets of swampy ground, I tried not to glance at the shattered glass of old, forgotten Eluvians, dilapidated furniture pieces of many snuffed out lives, and the wisps of spirits in various states of deterioration. Voices without language spoke after me, begging for a release I could not give. My heart, even in the Fade, burned that I condemned these sorry creatures to their fate, but at that moment, it was the living who needed me more.

Any time I glanced up at the swirling green clouds thick and billowing in the torrent sky, I caught the floating pieces of Arlathan. The ruins reflected a deep malady. As I continued through the frigid mist of the Fade, I noticed pockets of shimmering rifts and areas where Thedas peaked through.

Ley lines… connections bridging the two worlds as if the Veil never existed.

In the Fade, time passed in a different dance and sensations like taste, touch and smell were muted to almost non-existence. Though suddenly homesick, I found myself drawn toward the waking world of Thedas, reminding me why I chose to leave in the first place. It felt like a gnawing void that expanded the longer I stayed, and yet I filled myself with its ugliness. This strengthened my resolve passed a trifling infatuation brought on by an elven mage, though the most beautiful I beheld in several lifetimes.

This broken place needed me to take down the Veil to bring about a permanent salvation that no amount of temporary kindness could slake.

A light tore me from my stumbling and melancholy musing drawing my attention to another area where the Veil thinned. It stared back at me like a glassless mirror and I pressed against its clear membrane with my fingertips watching the image of the forest beyond ripple at my touch. The surface felt unresponsive yet alive with a surge of electrical currents.

Closing my eyes, I pressed my forehead against the fragile barrier and sucked in a deep, smooth breath. Earth and evergreen scent ribboned around my body with hints of wild elfroot arcing up in the shadows of tall trees. A breeze curled its gentle finger on my exposed neck, head, and hands, raising bumps on my flesh. These were falsified results of the Fade’s attempt to paint what it thought I should feel and see. Though I left my body sleeping in Haven, the Fade used my former sensations to evoke memories of long days living in a forest much like this one. Demons manipulated such recreations to trap dream walkers deep in the Fade until any temptation for release would be accepted by the dreamer.

Tasting the fresh dew in the air caused my ethereal body to shudder and I could take standing on this side of the Veil no longer. With my hands, palms flat on the glassless, rippling mirror, I separated the film and stepped through. It sighed and bent, fraying like gossamer between my fingers, resisting even as it gave in to allow me passage through the Veil into the world beyond.

The world of a fellow dream walker.

The grass was cold and moist on the pads of my feet – as it felt so often a few hours right after the dawn burned the chill away – but only because I expected it to feel that way. Memories reconstructed what was true to the senses of my spirit as it attempted to recreate how my soul might react. Before I tasted these truths for myself, I could only trust the fabrications. Now thanks to my experience, I saw the tiniest infractions in the infrastructure.

Staring down at the very dry, autumn grass – though still seemingly dewy underfoot – I shook my head and picked my way to where I knew the dreamer would lay. Sunlight dappled low between the trees to suggest early to mid-morning. With the familiar impression of magic crackling along the edges of this fictitious world, I knew the dream belong to Clan Lavellan’s leader.

So even in sleep the Keeper dreams about this place –

As if materialized by my thoughts alone, Keep Deshana Istimaethoriel sat atop a flat outcropping of rock surrounded by halla. One rested its great antlered head on her lap while her fingers tangled in its thick mane and beard. Its eyes closed as the beast let out a sigh of contentment. A beam of sunlight fell on the Keeper and I swore I caught the faint smell of honey-suckle and cedarwood near her.

“I wondered if I would see you soon, Wolf.” Keeper Istimaethoriel said in a soft warning tone, glancing up to meet my eyes unflinching.

Around her the halla shifted, gazing at me with anticipation and dread, but they did not move to run, choosing to remain by the elven woman’s side. Some stamped their cloven hooves and snorted in my direction. I gave a snarl, my lips curling to bare my teeth, before I heard her continuation.

“You are aware that my First is missing, no doubt.” Her glacial amber eyes narrowed at me. “You promised me you would not harm her.”

“I have not laid a finger on her.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but the times I touched Ellana was to heal her not harm. “Sending her to the Conclave, Keeper? Do you think that was wise?”

“Don’t chastise me, Dread Wolf.” The Keeper snapped. “You wouldn’t invade my dreaming if it didn’t involve my Ellana, and I daresay you owe me an explanation.” Propping my hip against a nearby tree as close as I felt comfortable near her, I crossed my arms over my chest and threw an amused look her way. “I do?”

The Keeper’s look soured, venom pooling in her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak but I cut in.

“Without going through actual calculations on if I truly owe you anything, I will give you the information you seek. A favour for allowing me to recover in your clan, and for you keeping up appearances.”

Keeper Istimaethoriel clenched her jaw, tucking a stray red strand of hair behind her ear. Folding her hands in her lap, she stared up at me with shards of ice reflecting from her eyes and waited.

“Ellana survived the disaster that took place at the Conclave, but the humans captured her. At the moment, she is with the Inquisition, an organization created amidst the chaos to close the Breath in the sky.” I didn’t wish to tell her everything. If she wanted more then she must go through the proper channels to figure it out for herself. I did skirt around my own involvement, however, so not to cause a repeat of what transpired the last time we spoke.

“To insist you are hiding something would lead to a pointless argument between us, Wolf, and I’ve learned where my place is… in regards to your personage.” She considered me for a moment, possibly hoping to see even a tiny crack in my mask, but I held my defenses firm. Then she gave in with a sigh. “Very well, how can I contact this Inquisition?”

My shoulders relaxed – I didn’t even feel the tension to begin with as a dreamer but my body would when I woke – and sat down at the base of the tree. I spoke to the Keeper of how she should go about reaching Leliana of the Inquisition to uncover Ellana’s welfare. When the Keeper finished with her questions – the ones I would answer – I stood to leave. The draft was wearing off as I now felt the phantom twitches of my body back in Haven. Around me, the dream world was distorting in colours, becoming more winter than autumn.

Then I felt the odd impression of the Keeper reaching out to touch my shoulder. Her invasion into my aura itched at me and a wave of nausea crashed against me with her contact. I hissed, knowing the sensation would follow me into the waking world as settled in my stomach.

“I wish you would refrain from touching me.” I growled, not turning to face her lest I might lash out and attack her for annoying me. In the dream worlds, the Wolf was closer to the surface of my mentality that I usually found its form more comforting than the Elvhen.

“Ir abelas, Solas.” Her tone stiffened when she spoke my given name before continuing. “Do you still have feelings for Ellana?”

Clenching my fists at my side, I shrugged her hold from me and melted back through the Fade without an answer to her question.

. . .

Sitting up in the straw bed, I leaned my back against the headboard and massaged the bridge of my nose, then trailed my fingers to the strain in my neck and shoulders. My stomach flipped and I swallowed the knot of bile back down. Sunlight began to invade through the shutters of the solitary window in my hut, causing me to let loose a heavy groan.

My eyes settled on the wooden tankard on my bedside table, and I picked it up to examine its contents. A frown pressed along my lips at the dregs clinging to the bottom – the remnants of my excursion – before setting it down with a loud thump in frustration. For a moment, I considered and reconsidered creating a new batch of sleeping draft just so I could somehow haunt the Keeper’s dreams or cause her to forget my one time dalliance with her apprentice. My wits quickly replace my impulsive passions, and I found my thoughts drifting instead to the tavern the Inquisition recently set up.

“Fenedhis lasa, I need tea.”