#concept of a burden made flesh

[seraphidae]

.

[azullumi]

What would be the relationship with the children of Genshin men? (*´ω`*)

“the steambird’s latest: how to be a good father” ; genshin men

summary — fatherhood on him.

includes — alhaitham, ayato, baizhu, diluc, kaeya, kaveh, neuvillette, tartaglia, wriothesley, and zhongli

tags — fluff, domestic, diluc girl dad propaganda, not proofread, 1.9k ; headcanons

note — i seriously hope this is what you asked nonnieee, sorry if it’s wrong TT

WRIOTHESLEY, is a pillar of stability and calm in the turmoils and chaos of life—not just to his spouse but to his children also. Despite his duty often calling him to the deep and lonely sea and being (in some manner) bound to it, he always made a concerted effort to be present in the important moments of their lives. His work, much being tremendous, had taught him to be patient and understanding at all times—children can be quite a lot to deal with, despite how adorable they can be. Even though the concept of punishment whenever a wrongdoing has been done is there embedded in his mind, he never applies it to his own kids, opting to guide and teach them instead on what they shouldn’t and should do and why.

Wriothesley navigates the rough and intricate currents of fatherhood with precision and dedication, only wishing to be one that he wanted to have. It’s safe to say that despite his strictness from time to time (done only for their safety), he will be loved a lot by his own children.

ALHAITHAM, a stalwart, leading light. He would share his love of reading for them, most often in the form of reading bedtime stories in which he sometimes discovers that he had fallen asleep shortly after his kid(s) did when he wakes up in the morning by their side. He is not particularly strict nor is he lenient towards them, he’s a perfect balance of the two. He’s not the type to preach what is right and wrong but he will become their pillar for guidance on what they should and shouldn’t do. There was never an occasion wherein he had to scold or reprimand them even if they had done something small but would still make an average person angry. In lieu, he would ask them the reason behind their actions, never forcing the answer out of them, tell them a few words to show his understanding, and ask them to never do it again.

Alhaitham likes the mundane and peaceful life that he has, despite the chaos here and there brought by his children, but he likes it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

KAMISATO AYATO, while being duty bound as the head of the Kamisato Clan and the Yashiro Commissioner, he never ceases to be there for his family, especially his children. Whenever he’s off the burden of his responsibilities and has some time, he spends it on his family, doting on both of his spouse and children and making up for the lost moments. He cares for his children, tends to them, and looks after them at all times—whether it be him himself doing so or others, particularly in the shadows. If he cannot be there (in a literal way), then someone has to be, that’s just one way to ensure their safety and to prevent something happening to them (knowing the dangers around them). He has quite a lot of enemies, after all, who wouldn’t say that one wouldn’t target his own flesh and blood?

Due to that, the Yashiro Commissioner would come off as a worrywart towards his children, becoming protective and everything; Ayato only wants the best for them and the best is for them to be able to live their life freely and safely.

NEUVILLETTE, the Iudex of Fontaine is not one to be bad with children, in fact, he’s quite great with them. Perhaps it is because of his experience with the Melusines that he is able to have a good and understanding relationship with his children. He’s gentle towards them, patient, protective, and supportive in every way. He is a father that is devoted towards his children, a guiding presence and someone that they can depend on always. And although he is not particularly expressive, he’s not emotionless either. He is able to express his affection and care towards them without problems, whether it be through words or actions, buying them gifts and items that he thinks they will love and offering words of encouragement and support are just a few of the many ways.

Neuvillette often finds himself, while watching them, wishing that they would stay that way forever, as a child with no burdens of the world on their shoulders, and when he realizes that they are growing up (as anyone is bound to be), the rain will suddenly come and fall in Fontaine, lasting for hours.

ZHONGLI, is someone that his children would look up to and admire; there was once an occasion wherein his child tried to act like him, copying his words and dressing up similar to his style, which he found adorable that he entertains the idea of a mini-clone of him. He's wise and knowledgeable, always having something to say in terms of bedtime stories or simply just in conversations; his children become excited a lot when he sits on the side of their bed and begins to tell them stories of his own. He takes them out occasionally, even if it is just a walk around the harbor to look at shops or past time—oftentimes ending the day with watching the sunset before they go home. In addition, on festivals, he’s there participating in the event with his children and never taking his eyes off them.

In line with all that is said, Zhongli is the type to treat a pinky promise as some sort of unbreakable contract (the moment his child would hook their finger on his while saying the promise, it’s become a commitment for him in which he must accomplish).

TARTAGLIA, having been taking care of his siblings and looking after them, it’s evident that he won’t have a hard time dealing with children, especially when it’s one of his own. he just knows what to do in every moment with them—when they’re misbehaving, running around, crying, and everything. He’s very much loving towards his family, shown in the way that he always try to stay in touch with them by sending them letters whenever he’s away (sometimes with a gift) and occasionally surprising them. Tartaglia is very protective over his own children. I mean, no parent would want to see their own child being put in harm’s way or in dangerous situations so he does everything that he can to keep them safe, even if it means lying to them constantly—like how he avoids answering whenever he is asked about his work or make something up—and having the danger be put on his way instead.

Afraid that his obligations as a harbinger and loyal follower of the Tsaritsa would hinder his responsibilities as a father, Tartaglia tries to balance his time and doesn’t prioritize one over another.

KAVEH, quite a doting father, one could say that he’s overprotective towards his children with the fact that he’s all so vigilant and a little bit strict. Albeit he nags them often, but not in a harsh, shouting, throwing glasses and plates, violently screaming way of scolding or nagging but in a crouching on the floor so that they’re on the same level and speaking softly and slowly, never saying anything mean type (it’s not in his note to be rough and cruel towards anyone, especially to his own children). When they begin to cry, however, he would panic—and not just panic but panic panic. Suddenly, he’s blabbering apologies, wiping their tears, hugging them, and assuring them that everything’s okay and he’s not mad at them.

Kaveh provides them with everything that they want and need, would be supportive towards their dreams, does what he can to always be present in their life, everything. And all be it, as long as they come home, he’s perfectly content. He’s quite a selfless person and loving father, only wishing for his children to grow up in a warm home.

DILUC RAGNVINDR, (he has very girl dad energy; he would love it when he has a daughter) he’s the definition of a gentle father, the very embodiment of that word. He never fails to deal with the predicament that he’s having which involves his kids. He’s the type to play house with them, accepting his role as a bodyguard or sometimes, taking on the part as the pet; the type to sit on the floor and play tea party with them, drinking from a plastic cup that has nothing, and say that the tea tastes delicious. He would rather be the one to play such things with them than have others or no one do so even if it will make him look foolish. He spoils them a lot and I mean by a lot. He buys them a lot of things, mainly things that they show interest in or mentioned once that they would like to have—he’s the wealthiest gentleman in Mondstadt, money was never a problem for him. Albeit, the gifts were never enough to express his love for them and it never will be.

Diluc, the man that he is, would give them so much more even if it's himself that they must take.

KAEYA ALBERICH, isn’t exactly too strict towards his children. He lets them do what they want but in a way that they don’t feel like they’re being neglected or he doesn’t care about them. It’s just that he doesn’t wish for them to grow up on regrets and looking back on the memories that they could have had or done. If it makes them happy, then so be it (as long as it’s nothing dangerous or harmful). He occasionally takes his family out whenever he’s not being held by the throat by his responsibilities, taking them to many places away from the city—it could just be for a picnic, for stargazing, for anything just so that he can spend his time with his loved ones.

Kaeya would teach them a lot of things, ranging from small and sometimes foolish things such as how to beatbox to teaching them how to wield a sword if ever they show interest towards it, which would end up with him being seen as a mentor and teacher towards them. Leave it to him to teach them how to cartwheel, however, and he will have them learn and perfected it.

BAIZHU, is an extremely patient and caring father towards his children. Despite often being busy treating patients and having consultations, as well as his research, he still manages to find time to spend with them and finds ways to involve them in his day-to-day activities or tasks in the pharmacy. He brings them along with him to the pharmacy whenever he works but he doesn’t ask them to do anything. His child (or children) could just sit there as they watch him, play around, and take a nap—whenever this happens, however, he brings them to the back room where the bed is and lets them peacefully sleep there.

On one of those days wherein Baizhu could only do nothing but stay in and rest, his children are there to accompany him. Despite how much he insists that they can leave him on his own and they can play outside instead, they wouldn’t listen, preferring to help the herbalist and Qiqi bring him hot water and fruits to aid his recovery. And with them by his side, serene dreams come to his sleep and he feels a little bit better about everything.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[failbettergames]

You dream of rain. You dream that the ink that is your flesh is running off the page, smeared into dark rivulets on the vellum. When you wake, you can still feel a stiffness in your back; as if your spine is being held tautly by yarn.

In the dark of the cabin, your mind enumerates sensations as your eyes adjust: The sway of the gondola. The vibration from the engine in the starboard nacelle above you, rattling slightly – still no replacement for the broken fuel intake.

The noise of water rapping against a porthole window.

Hello, delicious friends. It appears that time, very disrespectfully, has chosen to march on until it is very nearly April. The time has come to talk about our major future plans for Fallen London.

A new major storyline

Firmament is Fallen London’s next major expansion, a main story arc that adds on to the game’s ongoing progression. Acquire an airship – permanently, this time. Fly to the Roof. Explore the stalactite fields ruled by the Starved Men, the carved paths of the Moon-MIsers, the inverted jungles of the Antipelago, and more.

This expansion focuses on the Roof. Just like the unterzee gets stranger and darker as you zail away from familiar shores, so do the upper airs of the Neath contain more than what you know about. As these castles on the ceiling open to you, you will learn more.

Firmament will launch over the course of April, with a prologue becoming available on April 11th, and the full first chapter on April 18th.

While Firmament is in some ways a follow-up to the Railway storyline, we are aware of how long it takes to get to the very end of the game’s (current) highest-level story. When Firmament launches, you will be able to start it as long as you have already begun the Railway storyline and reached Ealing. While you will need to advance your railway further to access the latter parts of Firmament, there should be ample time to catch up on the Railway in between Firmament chapters.

New mechanics

The Railway arc added new advanced skills. During the Zeefarer cycle we added revamped Zee travel and the new Boon/Burden mechanic. This set of updates comes with its own mechanical expansions to the game.

New item slots

Airships make their return as full-fledged items. Much like zeefaring ships, they serve you mostly in air travel – Aerial Prowess and Aerial Armament also make their return. But we’re also adding a few other item slots, while we’re at it.

Adornment includes all manner of jewellery and accessories – rings, necklaces, earrings, neckties, brooches, and more. Previously, items in this vein would appear in slots like Gloves or Clothing, leading to the somewhat odd mental image of wearing your Pendant of Helicon Amber and nothing else. With this update, these items gain their own space, enabling more player expression and empowering players to reach slightly higher stats.

Several existing items will be shifted to the Adornment slot, slightly buffing them by allowing them to stack with other existing items. Adornment is intended to be a part of the game from relatively early on – around the later parts of Making Your Name. A new Bazaar store, selling Adornments, will be added in a future update.

Crew is a complement to both ships and airships. We’ve long wanted to give ship crews (distinct from the vessels themselves) a bit more personality. Are they experienced or green? Are they Admiralty men through and through, or a band of privateers and villains? These kinds of concepts never really fit the Companion or Affiliation slots, so we are creating a purposeful slot for them.

Crews will be made available in a future update, initially accessible to players who have a ship.

Luggage may seem like a slightly odd addition, but so much of Fallen London, and Victorian fiction in general, is about travel and the mystique of travel. A battered steamer trunk that’s been everywhere. A briefcase full of secrets. Phileas Fogg’s carpetbag. Luggage is intended as a midgame slot. In a future update, you will be able to assemble some initial Luggage items in the Bazaar Side-Streets.

New Skills

We are conscious of not adding too much complexity to the game, especially not all at once. Firmament doesn’t add a full suite of new skills, like the Railway. It adds one new skill, and two new qualities of a somewhat skill-like nature.

Chthonosophy, the study of the root of things, has already been teased – but you’ve not really been able to obtain it, thus far. It is the major new skill for Firmament, playing a role similar to the role Zeefaring had in Evolution.

Inerrant and Insubstantial join Neathproofed as its two other counterparts. Like Neathproofed, these will appear more as additive benefits; they help your checks with other skills, more so than being checked in themselves. They exist to add a little extra, to help differentiate otherwise-similar items, and to act as an occasional bonus. As part of Firmament, we are pushing to make more use of Neathproofed, and carve out that space for its new counterparts, also.

Roof Travel

I won’t go into too many details about Roof travel, other than to set expectations. Yes, there is a new map. No, Roof travel is not quite a fully-fledged activity like zailing is.

We aimed it at a sort of middle ground between Railway travel (which is convenient and fairly predictable) and Zee travel (which is a whole venture unto itself.) Traveling from point to point on the Roof mostly takes one action; very occasionally, two. But it is drastically more variable than rail travel. There’s a broad variety of different things you can encounter in the upper airs of the Neath. And as you progress this storyline, you will encounter stranger things as you travel through the air.

And other delights…

Of course, we have other things planned for the rest of 2024. Our usual festivals will run as usual. A new Estival. Monthly Exceptional Stories. Various other surprises, including a series of more grounded new stories set in London. But we’ll talk about these things in detail sometime after Whitsun, which should take place, as usual, in May.

[bats-and-birds-24]

Daughter of a Dark Angel:

Disappointment.

It was the first thing he felt when he first held his daughter.

Primarch Guilliman and Lion' El Johnson had just recently agreed to allow the astartes to reproduce, so that it would be easier to get neophytes who were compatible with their Primarch's geneseed.

Even if they weren't compatible, or were girls, they would have an iron will of an astartes, and would bolster the Imperium's numbers against Chaos.

Yet, most marines still preferred to have a strong son, one who will one day join their ranks as a battle brother. So when his assigned partner passed away, delivering only a tiny, premature girl, his hopes for an heir were dashed.

He could not simply be assigned another concubine right after one had just died, that would be callous. As dictated by the Codex Astartes. Not that he believed in any of it, he held no love for his now deceased partner. He only wanted a son.

He sighed. With her dead, the burden of raising the infant fell on him. As though he didn't have enough to worry about. This was also deemed necessary by the Codex, to encourage a 'parental bond'. He tutted in annoyance, he was an astartes, he was beyond such baseline emotions.

At first, he only cared for her out of duty, but as she grew older, he began to see her potential. Her mind was quick, even for a child sired by a space marine. She grasped concepts that would have been beyond most children her age.

If only she had been born male, he lamented.

One day his little daughter came up to him when he was on break and asked him what her job in the Imperium would be. He managed to give her a vague answer which seemed to satisfy her for the time being.

However, the question still lingered in his mind. What would she do, now that she was here? She had a quick mind, and once her body's development catches up to that of a normal child, maybe she could join the Sisters of Battle.

He mind balked at the thought, his daughter ending up as one of those shrill harpies worshipping a man who never wanted to be a god revulsed him. She deserved better than that.

He then thought of the mechanicus. This too, disgusted him. They too worshipped a god, their omnissiah. And the thought of having to witness his little girl cutting of pieces of her own flesh, only to replace them with sterile metal made him want to vomit.

Any other options such as being a serf, or a remembrancer were so laughably beneath her station as a child of an astartes that he didn't even bother thinking about them.

He grumbled in dissatisfaction as he glanced over at the little cot his daughter slept in.

There were no good roles for women in this Imperium, the best life he could provide for a woman of her standing was marrying her off to a wealthy planetary governer, or beneath that, a fellow astartes. If she proved her mettle in political affairs, she could then join the ranks of the Inquisitors.

Satisfied in his decision for her future he drifted off to sleep.

The next few years were filled with stacks of books he had borrowed from the ship's library and papers that he personally corrected as he attended to his daughter's education.

As she became a young woman, almost in the blink of an eye, (he chided himself, normal baselines aged faster than enhanced transhumans, he cannot forget that) the proposals started to roll in.

Most were from fellow battle brothers looking for a concubine. They were Dark Angels, so they didn't think to ask the girl herself, asking her father would be good enough.

He went through, and declined them at an astonishing speed. Most were too old for his little girl, and the younger ones were too brash. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to be left a widow as her reckless husband ran straight to his death.

Until that message came.

A new planetary governer had been selected, and after going through his child's credentials, they had decided that she would make the perfect wife and First Lady of the planet.

It was a great honor that she had been selected.

That was what he told himself as he met the man who was to become his son in law. He was childish, naive, and handsy towards her. He disliked him immediately. But he grit his teeth as he repeated the mantra in his head; 'it is a great honor'.

He stoically saw her off to her planet. He remembered as she continued to wave at him even after their ship had left the ground.

He remembered when he only returned to her side decades later, him having only gained a few scars, while his child looked as though she was on death's doorstep.

This was why he didn't want a daughter, he wouldn't be able to stay by her side, he would lose her too soon. He despaired at the short amount of time he still had left with her.

The two talked of her life, how the bastard he had married her off to, was an irresponsible and cruel leader. Going so far as to try to get rid of her, so that he could replace her with his mistress.

By the time the mess had been dealt with, she had lost three of her fingers on her right hand, only the thumb and pinky finger still being intact.

He raged at the injustice, if only he could've gotten his hands on that imbecile, he would have been nothing more than a fine red mist by the time he finished.

Nevertheless, she had proved her mettle, and became the planetary governor in his stead.

This led to a huge quality of life improvement for the citizens.

Resources that had originally been extracted by a constantly abused, destitute workforce were replaced by a respectable, dutiful, healthy population renowned for their inventions and craftsmanship.

She had built schools and hospitals, and homes and libraries. She had taken a backwater people and turned them into proud, productive members of the Imperium.

By the end of her story, she had only one request to make of him;

"Hold my hand while I sleep, just for tonight Da'."

She made him pinky promise, as though she were a child again. Her wrinkled hand with three stubs, contrasting his own strong, muscled one.

She passed away that night.

When he returned to his quarters the next day, the mask cracked. He wept in despair at the loss of his Daughter.

Why didn't he love her more? Why did he have to marry her away to that scum? Why was he ever disappointed in having such a brilliant woman as his child?

When he came back to attend her funeral, he saw that the entire planet was in mourning. She had changed the lives of everyone around her.

He listened to the stories of baselines as they regaled him with tales of her selflessness and valor.

By the end of the event, he had no more tears to shed, his anger at himself and at the injustices of her life had dissipated. There was only one emotion left.

Pride.

---------------------------------------------------

So this whole story was written because I couldn't get the thought of a Dark Angel having to come to terms with having a Daughter instead of a son in the astartes can take concubines au we had going on a while back.

@kit-williams @moodymisty @mothiir @the-raven-lady @bispecsual

[hope-luvs-hrtstppr]

my locked tomb annotations! part one: Gideon the Ninth (by Tamsyn Muir) *spoilers ahead*

- gideon saying “Your lady would stone cold eat a baby…” (pg 21) abt harrow. love me some foreshadowing

- “‘The more you struggle against the Ninth, Nav, the deeper it takes you…’” (Muir, 22) something about how gideon spends her whole life trying to escape the ninth house and everyone on it, only to end her own life through an act of devotion for the reverend daughter, while exclaiming, ‘for the ninth!’

- “…she seemed like what she really was: a desperate girl younger than Gideon, and rather small and feeble.” (Muir, 29) HARROWHARK NONAGESIMUS MY BELOVED!!!

- harrow digging all night just to beat gideon’s ass with secret skeletons when she tries to escape. if she wanted to she would!!

- the way gideon is described as desperately lonely on canaan house, she’s off of the planet that ostracized and isolated her for the first time and yet she is still alone. the loneliness we face when surrounded by people can be worse than solitude.

- “… what if the murderor was, like, weird, which would make their subsequent marriage to Gideon pretty awkward?” (Muir, 128) i love you gideon nav.

- gideon saying that “the world seemed less maliciously unfriendly” (183) after she and harrow completed a trial together. after harrow compliments her and finally, finally acknowledges her talent. after harrow shows a warmer side of herself, the world became less cold. (basically, harrow = gideon’s world)

- I MUST NO LONGER ACCEPT BEING A STRANGER TO YOU!!!!!!!!

- cytherea cradling gideon’s body and apologizing for the cruelty that is lyctorhood “We take so much. I’m so sorry” (226)

- harrow telling cytherea “unhand my cavalier” is basically harrow speak for “MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN”

- it must be odd to be in love with a cav/necromancer as someone who is neither. to know that they will always belong to someone else in a way they will never belong to you

- “And though Gideon hated cloisterites, and hated the Locked Tomb… she was hungry for the Reverend Daughter’s preoccupation.” (332) baby griddlehark is so intriguing to me. they were both so young and afraid and alone. they had no one. they had each other. they hated each other. they needed each other.

- “The world revolved as Harrow floated closer” (353) EXIBIT B THAT GIDEON’S WORLD IS HARROW

- YOU ARE MY ONLY FRIEND I AM UNDONE WITHOUT YOU

- ONE FLESH, ONE END (bitch) !!!!

- “Nav, when I saw her face I decided I wanted to live. I decided I wanted to live forever just in case she ever woke up.” (358) ceo of pining, longing, and yearning: harrowhark nonagesimus

- the pool scene is intimate in so many ways. yes, they are verbally expressing their devotion for each other and showing physical affection (THE EYEBROW KISS RAHHHH)— but also they just spend hours in the pool together soaking each other in. being around each other without all of the hiding and pretending that has made up their relationship thus far. getting to know the authentic version of one another by simply existing in proximity.

- silas saying that lyctorhood is “To walk with the dead forever… to make yourself a tomb.” (385) harrow has been living with the psychological burdens that plague immortal beings since her conception. who better equipped for the loss that is lyctorhood than her?

- PAL SAYING HE WAS JUST GLAD DULCIE WAS SPENDING TIME WITH SOMEONE WHO MADE HER LAUGH??? I’VE BEEN SHOT???

- Did you see me???? Did you behold me Griddle????

- “i’m no good at this duty thing. im just me. i can’t do this without you. And i’m not your real cavalier primary, i never could’ve been.” (430) gideon didn’t allow herself to be consumed as an act of duty towards her necromancer. she allowed herself to be consumed as an act of love for harrow.

- “Harrow, I can’t keep my promise, because the entire point of me is you.” (432) growing up on a crumbling planet with only one other person your age, of course they are going to become an essential part of who you are. of course they are going to define the world you live in. of course the entire point of you is them. (exhibit c, harrow is nav’s world)

- I CANNOT CONCEIVE OF A UNIVERSE WITHOUT YOU IN IT!!!!

- “Harrow said, ‘But you’re God’ / And God said, ‘And I am not enough.’” (441)

- “… if she saw herself in the mirror, she might find a trace of Gideon Nav, or worse— she might not find anything, she might find nothing at all.” (444) pre-lobotomy harrow is so tragic. (i heavily resonate with her)

thank you for reading!! part 2 and 3 of my tlt annotations will be posted soon-ish!

[throwaway-yandere]

𝑫𝒐𝒍𝒄𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝑵𝒖𝒐𝒗𝒐 (Yandere!Dainsleif/Reader)

a/n: I love Dainsleif with every fiber of my being, do you guys know that? Anyways, just like all Dain-fics, this one has illustrations (I hope they give Fairytale book vibes). I’d like to thank @meimeimeirin cuz this was an idea we were laughing abt at 4am and somehow I made something out of it HAHA.

Unreliable Synopsis: “Fairytale worlds follow fairytale laws. There’s always a protagonist burdened with impossible tasks who will experience the rule of three, witness transformations, find talking animals, and learn the power of kept promises. So, before you embark on your journey, "princess" (Y/n), have you heard of the Ugly Duckling’s tale?” 

CW: light yandere themes, fairytale!au just for the hell of it. HURT/NO COMFORT. Late/Advanced happy birthday, Dainsleif.

"The destined knight is late," the great dragon clicked his tongue. One would expect that an inferior creature such as an ugly duckling would quake and shrink while perched on the Dragon King's hand. But their expression was nothing short of serene. There is a veneer of calm that the great Dragon Ongri did not overlook. 

The "duckling" had the eyes of an old gentleman with worldly disinterests. 

He was longing for death.

𝕺nce upon a time, there was an ugly duckling who was abandoned by both their siblings and mother. Oftentimes, he was pecked by his peers, sneered into thinking his big head and scarred face. were both a reason for his survival and misery all the same. The ugly duckling thought himself unloveable no matter where he went. The small waters he was born in had no room for miscreation, and when he traveled to an elderly's house elsewhere, the chickens thought him useless and undesirable. Normally, the story would've been a happier bedtime story if he had gone to meet the Royal birds and begged for them to end his life. Maybe then, he would've realized that he had not been a duck but a swan all along. But alas, our poor ugly "duckling" found his feet at the hands of the great Dragon King- Ongri's mercy.

"Will you kill me?" The ugly duckling asked calmly. "You need to release your anger, and I can be but one of many casualties."

"I am not a creature of impulse."

The divine dragon scowled. "After Bars' and Fein' deaths, the concept that this realm dubs as Time and Moments is now under my jurisdiction. I've no use for wasted breaths."

As it happens, the dragon was in a troubling situation. There is an immediate need for a substitute. Sensing the urgency of fate's call, Ongri unleashed an ancient incantation. Feathers singed into flesh, wings clipped into arms, and in a burst of radiant light, the "ugly duckling" was reborn as a human knight. His body had scar-like spots from the Divine Dragon infusing him with magic, albeit the metamorphosis was far from flawless. Even as a human, he was imperfect. Mysterious dark blue "burn lines" traced his neck and arms. With the new human's eyes still closed, the dragon spoke to him, the last for a long time: "Forget your past and this whole affair." He commanded. "Go, find and protect your princess."

It mattered not if this was the last breath Ongri would tell him, besides…

When a god applies a curse, it takes effect at a higher level of reality than the person themselves.

“(Y/n)…”

“It’s me, Dainsleif… Can you… still remember my voice?”

“…”

“I… understand that once a person reaches this stage of the curse, their senses get muted. The remnants of those who once dwelled here must have been the catalyst of your ailments worsening..”

“… I’m sorry. I am incredibly sorry that I found you at such a later time. It did not occur to me that you would be here in the Chasm.”

“In our next fairy tale, I’ll—”

“No… I cannot subject you to any more empty promises… But know this:”

“I will keep you safe from now on.”

“So, do not leave my side ever again.”

And the new knight opened his eyes.

Memories of the dragon vanished from his mind. He was now a being of larger flesh and bones without recollections of his past. Should another human take his shoes, they would know that it was a fresh awakening. His first breath tasted like rich champagnes. Golden. Even the sun shone in such resplendent light that made the world seemingly revolve around him.

His legs wobbled. Sliding onto the grassy area, he caught a sight of his hair. Blonde. Like hay— they were golden threads silkily strewn about. He soon noticed that the rest of his complexion was a light pinkish-hued color, as did the hands that prevented his head from taking a serious fall.

The reborn “ugly duckling” may have forgotten why, but he felt alienated from his own body. And he has the Divine Dragon to thank for his new vessel and plain armor.

“Help! Someone, HELP!!!”

His ears perked up. It was a scream with a fervor of a “damsel in distress”. Vent clamor as she may with her whole throat, nothing would come out of it.

But fate will not allow this untimely demise. Quick on his new feet, the new knight dashed towards the sound. No cavalry— just a single determined mind. After running for some time, the unnamed knight did not come across any souls. 

That is, until he found the young maiden he was “fated” to save. She was on the ground, clinging into her wrist as though she burned her hand. In the ground laid an iron sword, begging to be drawn.

At the sight of the wild animal bearing down on her with frightening speed, the “knight” took her weapon and charged towards the scene, raising it in front of the menacing beast. He gazed at the bear that towered over him, displaying its slobbery maw and long, pointed claws. The untamed creature snarled and dropped to strike. 

Perhaps the Divine Dragon saw his noble pursuits, perhaps he was naturally gifted in combat, but the bear was unable to rake the man’s body. Miraculous it was that not a single nasty laceration was left on his person. He lacked the strength to take it down in one fell swoop, but the speed he had made up for it. Like swans that swerved through the wind and flow of water, he dodged all its attacks. With a few strikes from his blade, the bear falls...

He breathed out, shaking in his boots though he tried not to show it. Straightening his body, he met the maiden’s gaze. His blue eyes met hers in a piercing gaze, nearly taunting her as his new opponent. The young lady exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

“T-Thank… you…”

Subconsciously, he circled the shoulder that recklessly swung the sword around. The new “knight” tilted his head. For what? He wished to ask, but words did not come out.

“For saving me, of course.”

The maiden gracefully stood. Her garments had lost some of their value due to the soil and dirt, but she herself was not affected in the same way. She exuded a fierceness that suggested anyone who ventured to hurt her would be receiving more than they bargained for. Instead of tucking her hair to the back, she pulled them forward, hiding her ears.

“Do allow me to introduce myself, kind knight.” She cleared her throat softly. “You may call me Princess (F/n), daughter of King Regan and current crown princess— heir to the throne upon the late Prince Pierre’s demise. May I know your name?”

…

… Silence…

The princess tilted her head. 

"... Does my savior have a name?"

"... Name?"

The young man paused.

He couldn't remember his name. In actuality, he had absolutely no memory of anything. His mind was a bottomless pit with little to no air. With wide eyes, his hand moved slowly to around his neck. The act of conjuring up his supposed name left him terrified for reasons unbeknownst to him.

Does he… not have a name?

“... You must be joking.” The princess deadpanned. “How can one not have a name? Were you not baptized under the Divine Dragon’s light?”

She sounded incredibly upset by this fact. Whatever she ranted on about, it must be a human tradition. 

“Do you not know how important names are—” The princess sighed, “Never mind. I shall assume you are one of those orphaned folks. Besides, if what you say is true, bestowing you a new name is a power much more potent.”

“I… want a name.” The man spoke up rather shyly, voice almost inaudbile.

"I know, I know… Huh, I usually take names rather than gifting them," the princess chuckled. She seemed wholly aware of his dilemma. "Hmm… Let me see…"

She examined his features closely. He was dressed in the traditional knightly fashion, albeit slightly altered. The holy kingdom's knights, of course, never donned masks—especially not half of one. He was strange, but there was an innocent genuineness about him. The blonde man doesn't have a polished appearance. He looked like a lost duckling.

It was rude to stare at the peculiar blue wounds on his face far too long so the princess’ eyes trailed above his hair.

"Leaf…" She pointed upward. "Leaf."

The knight blinked.

What a peculiar sounding name.

"Understood." He nodded and bowed politely. "I shall now be referred to as Leaf."

"No, I meant—" The princess cut herself off and chuckled. "Oh, well. I meant the leaf on one's head. But certainly the name Leaf does suit you fine."

“Do place your iron sword away, Leaf.” She added, cringing. “It is unbecoming of a knight to point a sword to their princess.”

“May… May I ask as to why you were attacked by a bear?”

“Quite bold of you to inquire a royal about a recent assassination attempt,” she humored him with a smile. He safely assumed she would not enact punishment for his assertiveness. “If you must satiate your curiosity, it is exactly that. An assassination attempt. They believed since my brother had fallen so easily, I myself must be an easy game since I adore wandering around the forest.”

“And they seem to be right,” Leaf muttered, wittily referring to the incident prior that arranged this fated meeting.

“Oh?” She scoffed, her polite smile remaining intact. “You’ve quite the tongue. Are you from the valleys?”

“I do not know.”

She squinted.

“Hmm, I see.” The princess exhaled and shook her head disapprovingly. “Then I am to presume that I should also use my wits to cleverly weave a background for you much like your name, Leaf?”

“You wish for me to serve you, that I can tell, and for that to happen I would need your equal assistance,” Leaf spoke solemnly. “I do not recall anything of my past, but you can always make one for me.”

Leaf knelt in front of her. Silence ensued.

“You are deadly calm for a man who wished his history be erased…” The princess muttered.

Leaf was a strange man indeed. He was perceptive, yet he spoke like fate’s pawn. That is to say, the princess noticed he only ever says the truth. His countenance conveyed little desire to adopt rebellious ideologies. To be honest, there was nothing in those contrivedly starry eyes. It was bare. A false sky. 

It almost made the princess worry for his lack of self-preservation had she not been the same. Lies were always at her hands’ disposal, and she greatly hoped it was not what her heart would contain in her last pages. She didn’t wish for a life of deceit. The princess's survival solely comes from her ability to “doublespeak”.

“I see your promise. You are made of self-mettle. Although your blunt tongue may mar your fortunes sooner before you could gaze upon His Majesty, I wish to prescribe you with new duties.”

She took a deep breath.

“This directive shall not be withdrawn in the name of the Divine Dragon. Leaf, a young knight from the Valley of Gaciea who will shortly be appointed retainer to the Royal Highness, Princess (F/n), kneels before me. Until the end of time, he shall be my sword, and I will be his master. Will you keep your word and uphold the oath— the promise?”

“I will.”

Not a moment did he hesitate. Not for a second did he think there was more to life than this. It was nearly bitter. His life sounded so simple to her tongue.

But it was a contract nonetheless. 

A promise that must be fulfilled.

“I find myself stirred in restless days without you my by side. You haunted me so diligently this past 500 or so years.”

“Humor me, won’t you… my b-beloved?”

“Why have you hid away from me? Why did I have to find you in this state? Furred and mute. Didn’t you take a breath to think about how much your pain would mean a greater weight for me? Have you not a second thought about how much it pains me to see you like this— bearing the fangs of the abyss and the claws of the cursed…?”

“The only sigh of relief I can release is that at least in this new sky, Ongri— no, he calls himself Zhongli these days— would get between us no more.”

“This new fairy tale… For how long do you expect me to keep this promise, (Y/n)? How many more stories must we get through for us to reach a happy ending?”

“Please… I’m begging you… Say something!!!”

“…”

“… Speak… Please… Anything…”

“Tell me about our past rendezvous. Seduce me with your musings. Anything… can't you try, just for this special day?”

“Please… don’t turn your mask away from me…”

“Do you find time to flow as quick as the waters by the stream? I am inclined to believe this sentiment. I find it astonishing that we’ve spent eleven or so moonshines joined at a hip. Time ages us but we are none the wiser.”

Leaf grunted, heaving Princess (F/n)’s inventory as she spoke. He didn’t seem distressed by the weight and his princess appeared not at all troubled as well. At least, that what it seemed on the surface. Royals must make their superiority known. Leaf knew (F/n) wanted to also carry some of the bags, but he refused.

There were several notions Leaf refused that noon. When (F/n) entertained the thought of going out as herself and by herself, he disapproved with haste. Leaf had to know where she’s going, who she was going with, what she’s going to wear— just about everything. His voice alone overwhelmed the princess enough that you’d mistake him for the king. The knight practically ordered what she would wear and what route she’d have to take if she wished to see the ongoing festival. 

Being herself was a safety hazard and being alone by herself was a death wish.

To his eyes, at least. He had always been a twinge too overprotective.

It was a hectic morning with a picture-perfect, almost cliche scene of bustling streets and frolicking kids on a medieval setting. While children would swerve around adults' legs to avoid getting tagged, adults walked slowly to hear each gossip. One kid had nearly hit the princess herself, but Leaf would not allow it.

Leaf pulled (F/n) away by putting an arm over her waist. The smell of her sweet perfume surprised him. Her smell reminded him of the forest. For the knight who professed to guard her innocence, her warm body lightly pressed against his was a fleeting but almost immoral moment. He set her down slowly, gasping quietly. The princess chose not to draw attention to the troubled expression on her most reliable retainer.

It was better not to acknowledge his growing romantic interests.

To her, he is only a sword.

Even if he is a friend, at the end of the day, he��s only a weapon to be used.

The princess quickly pulled the cape down further to hide her face— mostly her ears. For reasons unknown to him, she seemed to find that part of herself worthy of great insecurity.

He cleared his throat, face dusted in a pink hue.

“You say that time affects you, but you haven’t aged a day.”

The princess laughed.

“Finally, a compliment from a man as stoic as you? Oh, what a day to rejoice!”

Leaf shook his head with a small smile.

“I had given you one on several occasions.”

“That may be true, but random bouts of flattery from you are scarce.” The princess hummed. “I vaguely recall how getting anything out of you was like trying to get a frozen little duckling to quack. Who am I? Your mother duck?”

The smirk on his face was quick, but (F/n) definitely saw it.

Several staff once questioned Leaf’s ability to speak. Many, including (F/n)’s father, were convinced he was mute. Everyone in the castle knew of the princess’s peculiar tastes and thought Leaf’s recruitment was a mere byproduct. His masked appearance and strange scars added more fuel to those rumors. When Leaf defended (F/n) from another assassination attempt in front of the king and inquired about her condition, King Regan nearly toppled from where he stood. 

After being bombarded with questions, Leaf merely said he refrained from speaking since he saw no use if he wasn't talking to the princess herself. (F/n) still finds it absurd that she has to give orders for him to talk to other people.

For Leaf, it was simple: he just didn’t see the point of forming other interpersonal relationships.

(F/n) was the only one that mattered in his eyes.

Only her.

Only she is worthy to serve and protect.

“You truly are like a little duckling following his mother’s tail,” Princess (F/n) sighed. “But you have vastly improved in our time together. That, I can commend.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Leaf laughed softly, mocking her tone in his signature subtle way. “Oh, what a day to rejoice.”

She playfully gave him an elbow nudge. “Do not copy me, Leaf.”

“My apologies.”

Princess (F/n) was meandering around because the harvest festival was drawing closer. With her own eyes, the princess intended to see how her people were faring. Rarely did she change into a more "common" outfit and styled her hair with simplicity. Though, if you were to ask Leaf, seeing her in her most simple clothes made her far more youthful than the garbs and crown that wrinkles her smile to a frown.

“Madame, would you be interested in buying your lover here a brooch?”

Both of them stilled as a merchant called out. The undercover royal pointed to herself.

“Yes, yes, of course I’m talking to you, gorgeous!” The merchant grinned. He had silver hair that slightly covered one of his blue eyes. “Do you want matching rings instead? We’re selling for fifty percent off!”

Leaf’s gaze was stern. Despite his reservations, he knew the merchant as Alfstan, another young knight who hailed from a family of vendors. Two moonshines ago, Leaf was (forcefully) placed on training duty and had the fortune of mentoring this aspiring knight. 

Mind you— nothing was particularly dubious of his wares. Leaf just simply despised having another man brazenly take your attention away. He did not find their previous exchanges pleasant. Not when Alfstan often joked about replacing his position one day.

What hubris.

While he busied himself glaring at the poor man, the princess awkwardly laughed and dismissively waved a hand. “Oh, no, he and I— we are not—”

“Haha, I know, I was just pulling your leg, Your Highness.” Alfstan grinned, giving Leaf a quick nod. “Morning, Sir Leaf! Were you showing the princess around?”

“Shhh! Be quiet!” (F/n)'s eyes widened.

He protectively wrapped an arm around (F/n) again, this time far more confidently. 

“Yes.” Leaf spoke, voice as solid as his resolve.

“Mind if I tag along?”

His stare sharpened. “I would very much mind, now return to your stall.”

The princess shook her head, poorly judging her retainer’s possessive words as acts of protection. Instead, she dwelled on their attire. “Drats, was our disguise that fragile?”

Alfstan assessed her from top to bottom, which made Leaf even more tense. “Eh, you’re really gorgeous that no cloak can hide your beauty, Your Highness.”

“I have to agree,” Leaf said stiffly, clearing his throat. “Perhaps I should hide her in a hay sack. WIthout your prying eyes.”

(F/n) raised an eyebrow. “And what? And be suspected of kidnapping me instead?” 

Leaf shrugged. “Does that sound like an offense I would commit?”

Alfstan rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously. Besides, the only way you wouldn’t get caught is if you hid her in something as small as a teapot.”

And he would be right. But it will take eons to prove those suspicions as truth.

“Going back to your wares, Sir Alfstan,” (F/n) digressed. “These iron-framed tassels, are they made by your hand?”

Alfstan's respect for the princess grew.

“Yes, how did you come up with that conclusion? Most passersby believed I had ‘em commissioned from the East.”

(F/n) smiled crookedly. Leaf caught a glimpse of discomfort, but it was gone in a bat of an eye.

“I… I admire your skill with molding iron.” To the untrained ear, (F/n) sounded flustered and embarrassed. To Leaf, he was certain that she was unsure of herself. “It is commendable, how you smith your very own weapons, that is. I know many of our soldiers come to you when their blades are chipped.”

“You’ve heard of my skills?!” Alfstan beamed proudly. “Really?!”

The princess nodded. “Y-Yes…”

It was odd. Despite her high praise, her wariness remained. She looked at the blonde man. “He had also made your new Ulfberht sword too, right? It certainly pierces much better than his old one.”

Leaf didn’t bother with a reply, Alfstan made it for him.

“Yes, Your Highness. I thought it would make for a thoughtful birthday present!”

“Speaking of presents…” The princess gazed down, analyzing the items he sold once more. “What do you recommend as a gift for someone important?”

If Alfstan was elated by her earlier compliments, he could practically jump over the moon at her newest proposition.

“Oh? OH?!?”

Leaf gave (F/n) a strict yet gentle glare.

“Your Highness…”

“I still won’t let it slide!” (F/n) huffed. “I couldn’t possibly be satisfied with just new sets of armor. Alfstan, by my order, suggest a pleasant gift for the stubborn knight beside me.”

“On it!”

Without delay, the two bent down to select the ideal accessory for the man who vehemently refused. Alfstan was the only one touching the gems and (F/n) refrained from doing so. Tiny flecks of gold and iron infused the tassels, but she feared she would handle the stones carelessly.

Leaf palmed his face with one hand as the two chattered. Still, despite Leaf’s disapproving looks, he finds (F/n)’s enthusiasm to make him happy a wonderful notion in itself. To think that (F/n) would continue to insist on a present for a birthday that had since passed… She was more stubborn than he was.

“So troublesome…” He muttered with a soft smile. “I see no point in this, Princess (F/n). Serving you is a miracle enough itself—”

“Halt! Speak no more, Sir Leaf!” (F/n) exclaimed. “There! That one, Alfstan— that gem resembles his eyes, does it not?!”

“You have great tastes, Princess (F/n)!” Alfstan nodded eagerly like a motivated student. “That does look like his shade of blue— and so quick to find it among the pile, too! Are you sure you’re not some sort of custodian of natural treasures?”

Princess (F/n)’s awkward and stifled laughter can be heard again.

“What? Haha, what nonsense.” She shook her head. “Everyone calls me Princess (F/n), any other name would surely sound terrifying and mismatched.”

A nonanswer, but that made the conversation more humorous.

“Here you go!”

Alfstan reached his hand out with the tassel. (F/n) stared at him, silent and unsure. He blinked and snapped his fingers.

“Oh, right, you need a box— my deepest apologies, I was too caught up in the moment!”

The princess sighed in relief.

Leaf crossed his arms. “You’re doing well for your first time setting up a stall, Alfstan.”

“This isn’t my first and you know it, Sir!”

(F/n) laughed.

The merchant wrapped the gift she brought with care. The hush looms large around them as the merchant boastfully goes about his business, his tone comforting to her ears. The Princess walks over to the gift box once the merchant has finished. She can't help but smile because she can feel the tassel inside.

“Not exactly a surprise since Sir Leaf is here, but the packaging adds some charm, right?” Alfstan asked.

The princess couldn’t hold back a smile as she looked at the knight behind her.

“I think most of the charm comes from the person who’ll receive it,” (F/n) chuckled.

“Don’t you think so, Leaf?”

She wouldn’t know. And she’d never know a lot of things.

She never got the chance to ask her most precious knight if he liked that gift.

And she never will. No matter how many days, months, years, centuries— eons Leaf would wait, he would never hear the princess ask that same question again after this.

It would not matter if he was a judge, a prince, a knight, or a mere animal— it did not matter how many sweet new styles he would take. In the end, his arms will always be empty. Everything was pre-ordained. Dying in his arms, whether it’s slow and painful or mercilessly quick— will remain as the last line. He will always hold on to your corpse, warmth draining. 

This was your fate, (F/n)— no, (Y/n) (L/n).

This was just the first of many branches of the Irminsul. The first of its many reiterations, possibilities, or better yet, alternate tales or "universal resets". 

Princess "(F/n)" coughed, wetting the side of her lips.

"I haven't been able to p-personally attach that tassel on your s-sword, b-but… but I can spare you enough seconds to fly away…"

"Don't make haste!" Leaf gritted his teeth as he applied some pressure down her stomach. "This is not your decision to make!"

She didn't reply to his desperation, but she silently disagreed.

In her palm was the tassel, out of its box. The blue threads darkened with the taints of her blood. The metallic scent was nauseating. It weaved in a disorganized fashion around her fingers. 

What a beautiful and tragic loom of fate, to love someone you were bound to hold with ruin. 

It would’ve hurt less if it weren’t in his colors too.

"This marks the worst day of my life," the “princess” smiled, tucking the stray hair behind Leaf's face. "And even if given the opportunity, I wouldn't dare c-change not even a minute detail about it."

As if she— as if you— have the power to change destiny.

You're not a descender.

You're just a pawn.

That's when Leaf realized how fragile life ultimately was. With the curse undoing itself, he recalled and reflected on his animal days. He understood the Divine Dragon's intense frustration over a lowly duckling's will to perish. The curse of becoming human meant knowing the greed men had, but also the beauty of their kindness. 

His small bird heart was not meant for this much sorrow. His life was meant to be simple. To learn that he was not a duck, but a swan. 

How was he supposed to cope that the woman he had sworn to protect was not human, but a fae?

Everyone in the kingdom knew that the king would sooner disclaim his paternity than allow the crown princess (F/n) to truly lead— but they never had any real reason to support the king for this. The princess’s words were always more kind and ponderous than that of her supposed father’s. They thought him mad. They thought him deplorable. They thought him old and senile.

But he would not be king if he were not sharp.

Why, oh why, would the princess make great efforts to constantly hide her ears? Why would the princess utter roundabout ways in speaking her “own” name? Most of all, why would the princess fear the touch of iron?

There was a simple answer: she was not the princess, but a liar.

And yet, Leaf was the sole person who did not care, for he thought himself as the worst sinner or “quack” in comparison.

The kingdom won't learn the full truth for some time after this, but the fae made a bargain with the real princess. The real princess would elope with a farm boy and, in return, the fae would take her name. The trade was not malevolent. The two women were secret friends since childhood and neither wished the other harm.

But the townsfolks had little patience. They would sooner throw pebbles and stones than kneel for a false princess.

The moral of the story, like most Brothers Grimm’s fairy tales, was simple: virtue will be rewarded, iniquity will be punished. The storytellers do not care beyond that, no matter how dark it sounds to the children who will hear it. The fae lied, therefore the kingdom shall rightfully punish her.

They better thank the dragon they oh-so admire that the court fae did not think themselves evil. They better sleep soundly, knowing that they have slaughtered a well-intentioned guardian.

For he will not and never will.

Not even with a change of title, name, and universe. Whether the land he walked on was called Gaciea, Fodlan, Belobog, the Continental, or Teyvat— what the world steals from him, he promised to take back.

There the two were, back to where it started. The same forest and patch of land where the bear had attacked her. Fate had a funny way of telling tales. Leaf can only scoff at how unimaginative it could be, sometimes. 

Why couldn’t fate think of more comfortable deathbeds for the one he loved?

"You cannot allow this! I cannot allow this!" The knight gritted his teeth. "You will not die— you cannot die. You and I have a promise… You cannot break that one promise!!!”

“(F/n)” grinned.

The look in her eyes disturbed him.

She knew. It is finished. She knew that it was the last page of the book. Just living in these immortalized pages for the fae was well worth the want she had wanted.

“Consummatum est.”

Consummatum est…. 

Leaf gasped shakily.

“Did my life… even have meaning to you as well?”

Her expression was enough to tell him the words “who knows?” She surely did not. Her mind was buzzing and her thoughts were fizzling out. No one knows anymore. Maybe the Divine Dragon would but he would not accept any offering or prayers for these two heretics.

This is fine… He’ll forget his tears soon, surely…

He’s only a sword at her side… She never asked him to be anything more…

He should be okay, once she’s gone…

She grinned, lifelessly tracing her thumb across his cheeks. The curse is undone. The loom of fate was slowly disintegrating. Soon enough, he shall return to his original form. That of an animal. That of an ugly duckling. That of a swan who will forget his human memories. 

It is finished.

On the book’s final page, there is only ever a fae’s corpse and an elegant bird watching over them. With its wings clipped back, curiously watching the light leave their eyes, he will return to the nearby riverbanks and forget what had happened. As retribution for stealing another’s identity, there will be no one left to remember who she truly was.

And that was all there was to it.

With the fae banished, the Kingdom of Gaciea lived happily ever after. THE END.

Dainsleif closed the book and lovingly looked at the “person” beside him in bed. He stroked the “person”’s light brown hair— its color reminiscent of the bear he had slain in his first life.  It’s a shame he had to reunite with you in this condition. But it’s not like he would stop loving you. He doesn’t care if you’re a fae, a sinner—

Or a hilichurl.

He scooted closer beside you.

"So, does the story ring any bells, my beloved?"

Zhongli, upon recalling what happened and the curse he had inflicted on both of you to fulfill some children’s fairy tale, sought the “ugly duckling” and the “false princess”. Retired as he is, he cannot undo the fate you must play nor terminate his contract with Celestia. For consolation, he merely offered the Khaenri’ahn a teapot. Unlike the Chasm, the teapot was forever peaceful and serene. The brightness of lumenstone ores was not as comforting as the adeptal light that peeks through the drapes. This is your current place of residence. Whether you liked it or not.

"To think Nicole would entail the story of our past life." He laughed softly. "And these names... Hah... Are those the best she could conjure up to bypass possible erasure…? I suppose I should still thank her for her best efforts. I can see how challenging it would be to document our story, given how we lived through so many resets."

There’s a slice of cake paired with wooden utensils on the nightstand. If your mind had not deteriorated, you might’ve assumed they were gifts from the aforementioned Nicole and the Geo Archon. Unfortunately, forming a coherent thought required a mental fortitude akin to iron. You currently do not have such willpower. 

“Alfstan— no… Halfdan was right. There will come a time that he’d protect you from harm and not I…” Dainsleif mumbled defeatedly, his eyes burning with tears he couldn’t let out. Far too tired to dwell on it. “He must’ve forgotten his old jests in his previous life because as far as he’s concerned, he’s simply doing his duty as a Black Serpent Knight…”

He pecked your forehead, closing his eyes.

"Did you remember, my beloved? Vacation may not have any business being in my vocabulary but it is my birthday today…" Dainsleif leaned his forehead against the cold stone that covered your face. "I know you— do not feel guilty over your lack of gifts. It is not as if I bothered to count my age since the cataclysm. I didn't want to celebrate this occasion for the past five centuries. Not when you weren't at my side..."

The blonde man turned his gaze to the floor.

How many times will he have to “reincarnate��� just to see a happy ending for the both of you?

"Happy birthday… to me…" He sang weakly. "Happy birthday to me…"

The man— the former sentimental judge— the former tyrant prince— the former "ugly duckling"— and now the current bough keeper, observer of fate in this new fairy tale, trembled…

“Happy birthday, happy birthday…”

… And sobbed.

You, in your ungreedy husk of a body, tilted your head in innocence. Pain coursed through every nerve now that the Abyss Order’s cleansing equipment broke. The man before you was no different from the shadows you fought and hid from that would terrorize the dark and cold places in the Chasm you’ve instinctively called home. But somewhere deep down, you carried a complex weight that hilichurls wouldn’t normally have. 

That weight was a human emotion dubbed as "pity."

You pitied the shadow that loomed and embraced you.

And your lone reluctant arm that wrapped around him was enough to make him fully break down.

His throat constricted as he cried into your inhuman shoulders. Your scent was like that of a wet duckling, and he preferred that over the blood that disgraced your form several "fairy tales" ago. Dainsleif caressed the golden band on his finger. It was the most important ring between the two that Pari Zurvan found him clutching whilst unconscious in the wilderness.

At the very least, you were safe.

And you being alive today was a good enough present for him.

You tilted your head down, feeling his warmth one last time while Dainsleif took a deep breath, singing with more air than a proper tune.

Though it was barely discernible, he could just about make out the words you muttered a phrase from the old language of Khaenri'ah. Or at least, he deluded himself that that was the case. In his catatonic mind, you spoke the words:

Happy birthday, my beloved.

"H-Happy birthday to me…"

Taglist: @pix-stuff @sagekun @vennnnn-diagram @dilucragnidvr @tnsophiaonly @lsleepysimpl @kitkareen @dxprived4-starboys

[babybutchianthe]

one end is one empire: monogamy in the nine houses

in Harrow The Ninth we are told the origins of lyctorhood lie in research conducted by john's disciples in the hopes of establishing how best to serve alongside their lord without needing him to confer immortality—those who became the first adepts and first cavaliers, then the first lyctors. we know that ultimately the design of lyctorhood was, in reality, a way for john to ensure his loved ones would be something he could touch, for them to become his hands and his fingers. the disciples' collective legacy lived on in two ways: the fruits of the lyctoral process, his saints, and the institution of the cavalier-necromancer bond throughout the nine houses.

as we see specifically highlighted in A Sermon on Cavaliers and Necromancers, this bond is a cultural fixture of house society and is emphasised not only as “one flesh, one end” but also as the essential equation of “the one binds to the other”; the sanctity of this bond lies in the framing of the two as being complementary halves, necromancer and cavalier forming one, and this sanctity being threatened by the disruption of the essential equation of one necromancer and one cavalier. a single cavalier paired with multiple adepts is placed under the logistical burden of supplying thanergy to, and protecting, multiple individuals whilst an abundance of cavaliers would leave the necromancer ill-equipped to perform necromantic feats that require intimate understanding of another's thanergy. the complementary difference of each is also their undoing as individuals: the necromancer's art is impossible without a swordswoman, and they are rejected by thalergy planets, while a lone cavalier without the care or craft of an adept is vulnerable “amid the bullet-filled barbarism of other planets”.

the bond is characterised as a joining of complementary halves, a union of the two incomplete to form a whole one. its nature is defind by each using “one flesh, one end” as a maxim for their passion for each other; the other is their ideal and their completeness. it is said to be the underpinning of house society—without the acknowledgement of the cavalier and necromancer's duties to each other, the sanctity of one binding to the other being upheld, and the continued reproduction of the bond the houses will fail in their mission to uphold the values of the god who became man and man who became god.

“Those who hold the sword must hold it for the necromancer. Those who were born with thanergetic nervous systems ply their art only by the grace of the sword. The necromancer is weak, and the sword is strong. The sword is weak, and the necromancer is strong. Our pleasure at the bond unbroken between necromancer and cavalier is a Nine Houses acknowledgement of the equality granted to us by God.” — Tamsyn Muir, A Sermon on Cavaliers and Necromancers

lyctorhood: the marriage of flesh and spirit

though it is made clear throughout the series that literal marriage of the two is considered to be taboo, grotesque and even traitorous to the ideals of the necrolord prime—in harrow the ninth, it is explicitly said that there are many strictures against a necromancer marrying their own cavalier—the bond between the necromancer and cavalier itself is an overt parallel to the christian concept of marriage: it is the joining of two incomplete, complementary halves to become one flesh in the name of god. house society is divided into adepts and non-adepts: those who bear necromantic characteristics that make them resemble the emperor, and those who do not, but can join with those that do and become as one flesh—one in his image, and one who can join with those that resemble him.

despite their supposed nature as complementary halves, incomplete as individuals, it is also made clear that the taboo against marriage and romantic entanglement is one born out of the necessity of keeping the bond a meeting of complementary forces united in the name of god rather than a codependent loss of self. the erasure of the difference between them violates the sanctity of their bond, diminishes each before society and god: the two are united as one flesh, but must remain unfused and defined as halves. the joining of necromancer and cavalier is one that necessitates their continued division.

She didn’t have to tell me in so many words what we both knew, that the relationship between cavalier and necromancer could so easily curdle into codependency . . . a loss of self on both sides. An obsessive fusion of halves, not two complementary forces. —Tamsyn Muir, As Yet Unsent

the reality of this, of course, is that the loss of self on both sides is an unequal one: the adept resembles john where her swordswoman doesn't, is the one to serve as her house's heir as opposed to the heir's bodyguard and representative in duels. the eighth—illustrated as the most devout and orthodox of the houses—is the one that best illustrates this imbalance through their use of soul siphoning, a temporary displacement of the cavaliers soul for the deriving of power through the ensuing void. the difference between necromancer and cavalier is their strength, and to forget it is to become diminished, their complementary forces lost to obsessive fusion.

the cavalier's role in the lyctoral model is to be consumed, to become the furnace of their necromancer's lyctorhood. the body of a cavalier is a means to an end, the swordhand that is discarded once a necromancer can take up the weapon in their own, and their soul is a source of perpetual thanergy and a securement of legacy, immortality. a cavalier is trained to follow a half-step behind and wait upon their adept, to die for them if needs must, and is conditioned to accept that their duty is a sacrificial one. the cavalier facilitates the art and legacy of the adept; the adept is born into the art, and the cavalier is born into service in the name of that art.

the necromancer's role in the lyctoral model is to consume, to ply the art with the aid of their cavalier and to burn the cavalier to fuel the formation of their legacy, a literal immortality of self. their necromantic characteristics are seen to make them more like the emperor, as per A Sermon on Necromancers and Cavaliers, and drives expectant parents to concern themselves with ensuring that their children are born on a thanergetic planet or in proximity to thanergetic grave dirt. each house is ruled by a necromantic scion. the equality of cavalier and necromancer may be spoken of at length, but the supremacy of the necromancer in society is clear; the adept knows the art, is closer to god, due to being born with a gift only found on thanergetic worlds, the emperor's dominion. it is the necromancer who becomes the lyctor, and the cavalier who serves as their furnace.

you cannot separate the concept of lyctorhood from john and alecto, nor the concept of necromancer and cavalier—both concepts originated with john and alecto. in fact, lyctorhood was conceived as an emulation of their bond: “You let us think we’d cracked it [...] You had already done it yourself. But you had done it perfectly!!” “Then, when the disciples come to you and say the word Lyctor, she does not understand that they want the thing you did to her—she watches as you watch … watch them misunderstand the process.”

when john created alecto—his cavalier, the first cavalier—he ate soil, wrenched a rib from his own body, and conjured a labyrinthe to house her in: partook in her flesh and imprisoned her in a body composed of a comminglement of hers and his, hid him in her and her in him. a marriage of flesh and spirit. similarly, the petty lysis we are familiar with requires the literal consumption of the cavalier's flesh and the integration of their soul with the necromancer.

Then the LORD God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.” — Genesis 2:18

those who hold the sword must hold it for the necromancer, just as the necromancer can only ply the art by the grace of the sword; a lyctor, a necromancer, can hold the sword for themselves, and ply the art by their own grace. a grace in the image of god.

john's saints invented the process that allowed them to go on to wield the sword and bring themselves closer to his image, but that process required the lives of their cavaliers. john ensured that it did. the echoes of this manipulation are what went on to form the basis for the necromancer-cavalier bond that permeates house society, and shaped the empire; just as he coerced his loved ones into becoming his fists and gestures, john instituted a societal binary composed of people in his image (necromancers) and a people who can live and die to serve them (cavaliers).

“But from the very beginning of creation, ‘God made them male and female.  ‘That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife and the two become one flesh.’ And so they are no longer two but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one separate.” — Mark 10:6-Mark 10:9

the monogamous implication of one end

as we have explored, the bond of necromancer and cavalier is one modelled on that of the lyctors, itself modelled on that of john and alecto, and serves the twofold purpose of compensating for the physical infirmity of the necromancer and facilitating lyctorhood—the cavalier's duties are that of bodily service and sacrifice. it is a joining of complementary halves, inadequate in their individuality, the necromancer who resembles john and the cavalier who serves them and dies for them; it is defined by an essential equation, the one binding to the other—one flesh, one end, one empire.

in this way, it is a union that parallels the christian marriage in a number of respects: it is founded on the belief in an oppositional delineation of peoples into two immutable categories, benefits one of these to the detriment of the other in accordance with the will of god—specifically the category said to resemble him most closely, ensures that the beneficiary's legacy may continue through their union and the bodily labour of the other, and the arrangement is thought to be foundational to and uphold the godliness of the society. to sour the sanctity of marriage, of cavaliership, is to betray the ideals of god; the pursuit of true equality contradicts his design and is limited by societal strictures. their union is to each other, but they must not be codependent, must remain aligned with their roles, and must serve their emperor faithfully—to forget their difference and their roles is to diminish themselves.

“Monogamy is formed, then, not as a relationship between just two people, but rather as a complex system of obligations and social and moral impositions - mainly governed by christian morality, in which the family is legitimized only by sacred marriage and by the values of capitalism, of propagating wealth from family generation to family generation and the maintenance of private properties – which has, as its scope, the guarantee of monopoly and concentration of wealth and power of the nobles to the detriment of division of inheritance with “bastard” children. In this way, it is clear that, even before capitalism, monogamy is necessary for the management and maintenance of this system, serving as a support for the reproduction of power mechanisms in the social body - especially in the beginning and expansion of the capitalist formation - mainly through the family. Capitalism invests itself in the life, affections and sexualities of the population in order to use them as State apparatuses for the maintenance of relations of production and power through compulsory monogamy.” — @zapatism, Capitalism and monogamy

the exploitative nature of christian monogamous marriage, its role in ensuring the supremacy of the man, how it ensures the propagation of his legacy, marriage's contribution to the maintenance of other social institutions such as the nuclear family, and the institution's legacy of socially coercive mononormativity are all literalised by lyctorhood throughout the series. the necromancer is male and cavalier female, both in the societal sense and in the biblical sense, and this dynamic is made clearest by how lyctorhood is perfectly emblematic of patriarchal monogamy, a social arrangement that benefits the necromancer and wholly subsumes the cavalier.

“It is based on the supremacy of the man, the express purpose being to produce children of undisputed paternity; such paternity is demanded because these children are later to come into their father’s property as his natural heirs. It is distinguished from pairing marriage by the much greater strength of the marriage tie, which can no longer be dissolved at either partner’s wish. As a rule, it is now only the man who can dissolve it, and put away his wife [...] The Greeks themselves put the matter quite frankly: the sole exclusive aims of monogamous marriage were to make the man supreme in the family, and to propagate, as the future heirs to his wealth, children indisputably his own. Otherwise, marriage was a burden, a duty which had to be performed, whether one liked it or not, to gods, state, and one’s ancestors.” — Frederick Engels, Origins of the Family, Private Property, and the State

gideon, camilla, and naberius all demonstrate how the cavalier is pushed to sacrifice and conditioned to accept the supremacy of their necromancer while their respective necromancers showcase how the necromancer is bred and coerced into accepting the expendability of their cavalier. gideon justifies her own suicide, camilla pleads with pyrrha to lie to palamedes about how their incomplete lysis is steadily killing her, and naberius is murdered by his own necromancer; ianthe justifies the murder of her own cavalier from birth as an acceptable payment made with the life of a man born to die for her ambitions, palamedes is forced to pursue a 'truer' form of lyctorhood in the hopes of preserving camilla, and harrowhark's refusal to accept gideon's life results in her own incomplete lysis that is reponded to via corrective violence performed by g1deon at the behest of john.

the violence we see play out throughout the series overtly demonstrates the way societally enforced monogamy can foster and justify abusive dynamics, extreme levels of codependence, and corrective violence in response to abnormality. simultaneously, we see how the conditions necessary for normalising the necromancer-cavalier within society are, at their core, eerily familar systems of oppression and the construction of false homogenities such as monogamy itself;¹ the continued reproduction on the bond, like so many false homogenities, is reliant on societally instituted exploitation, coercion, and corrective violence that will hit close to home for a queer audience.

the union of necromancer and cavalier is descended from lyctorhood and is akin to marriage in a mononormative society, while lyctorhood itself represents the very height of how christian marriage functions to reify male supremacy and it and the ideals that reinforce it (delineation of the population into two supposedly indelibly distinct, complementary, oppositional groups that are coerced into the formation of supposedly equal unions that favour one that is a beneficiary of widespread societal privilege) aid in the maintenace of patriarchy and the reproduction of normative arrangements that contribute to the continued existence of the systems individuals live under. cavaliership maintains necromancer supremacy just as christian ideas of monogamy and marriage maintain male supremacy. john gaius' post-resurrection reconstruction of christianity does not stop at imagery and terminology: he has recreated a distinctly christian take on patriarchy and monogamy, based on thanergetic nervous systems instead of sex.

Malachi 2:10

those born on the houses think themselves to be fundamentally different to those born outside them; within house society necromancers reign supreme, and cavaliers' status is married to that of their necromancer's. the prejudice we see directed toward zombies and wizards is onscreen and blatant, horrific at times, but justified by the nine houses being known for their imperialism and brutal tactics. the discrimination toward those who lay outside the houses is much less overt, but nonetheless felt. we know from the beginning of Gideon the Ninth that the empire has enemies yet they are not characterised, humanised, or acknowledged in much capacity—and this remains consistent throughout the series until Nona the Ninth.

it is here we see, in detail, the treatment of non-house citizens: frequent planetary resettlement, bombarding, brutal violence that churns out waves of traumatised refugees, and a complete lack of acknowledgement of their plights. they are beneath notice. we do not see them until we, the readers, are placed on the ground of one such occupied planet and privy to ianthe's boredom as she rattles off a laundry list of horrific implications regarding how any individual or group who violates these conditions renders the entire agreement null and void, and the population will consequently represent a legal entity that has damaged property, acted unlawfully, committed or been accessory to murder, and performed a coup.

the people born outside the empire are subject to continual mass punishment for being born on thalergy planets, for being the descendants of those who turned their back on earth, for resisting resettlement and occupation, for the crime of their existence. they are cattle, to be herded and exterminated with little fanfare. they are fundamentally different to those born on thanergetic planets; the necromancy-cavalier binary is what separates house citizens from animals.

"One flesh" is the underpinning of our whole Empire. We are born necromancers, or we are not; yet we are one. The non-necromancer will still have necromantic children. The necromancer will have parents who lacked the aptitude. The possibility is within us. We live under the thanergenic light of Dominicus, are born, grow, and die in his thanergetic Houses; the Resurrection made us so. We are fundamentally different to those born on thalergy planets outside the Empire. Our anxiety drives the expectant parent to arrange to give birth back home, or concern themselves with the baby's proximity to grave dirt sourced from home. Our necromantic characteristics make us more like the Emperor. As he was once man, and became God, and was God and became man, so were we dead and became alive; so were we alive and became dead. — Tamsyn Muir, A Sermon on Cavaliers and Necromancers

john is a queer indigenous man who has created a neochristofascist empire, locked in a state of perpetual warfare and expansion, that is geared toward the mobilisation of violence against a population in diaspora, in the name of vengeance for an indelible sin committed by their ancestors. those within this empire differentiate themselves from the barbaric people their society subjects to constant displacing violence via a belief in their closeness to god, a closeness based on their position in a social arrangement that closely adheres to christian patriarchy and mononormativity. he has implemented the kind of violence wielded against indigenous people the world over throughout history in the name of punishment; john has taken up the tools of christian hegemony to oppress the descendants of the trillionaires.

the root of the problem with the nine houses is that it is an empire with concentrated theocratic power fueled by exploitation, and that theocratic power is explicitly modelled on christianity and the patriarchy that implies. cavaliership is one such example of where that leads. john's aims may have been supposedly noble, but the material results of his actions are the recreation of the same systems of oppression that have been used against those like him for all of history, and the ones we chafe under even now. nobody with truly noble aims and a firm stance against oppression would take up the exact oppressive systems he was subject to and turn them against another; is vengeance a truly noble cause when it hinges on the same oppressions that led to the conditions of the inciting incident?

similarly, we see the ways these false homogenities are indeed false: the enactor of corrective violence—g1deon—is himself an incomplete lyctor and was romantically entangled with both wake and pyrrha; john could be similarly said to be a subversion of this monogamy, but i would argue his case is instead an illustration of male/necromancer supremacy—his affairs with his saints come after he uses his power over alecto, gained through their ur-necromancer/cavalier bond, to 'put away his wife' in the name of maintaining the approval of his lyctors. i can't really elaborate on this anymore beyond recommending @familyabolisher's analysis of how the multiplicity of cavalierhood as a subject position casts the spectre of potential incest where Kiriona and Alecto are concerned as it is very much in the same vein as this

[smytherines]

thinking too hard about spyverance again so

severance seems to be able to separate general knowledge from personal knowledge. Like Helly R. knows there is a state of Delaware, but doesn't know what state she was born in or the color of her mother's eyes or her name. So knowing that, how would internalized homophobia work?

Like let's say you are aware that gay sex is illegal, maybe you even know about the concept of people being disgusted and outraged by the existence of gay people. In your outie life you have those personal experiences, that anxiety about being caught, those gender and sexuality hangups that come with a lifetime of being an outsider, a freak. And those personal experiences have a profound effect on the person you become.

Those norms are consistently reinforced your entire life-- don't be like that or bad things will happen. So what happens when you no longer have those memories? Like for Curt he feels like he has to project this masculine macho spy guy persona as a way to conceal what he is, but Curt M. has no personal experience with homophobia. He knows what attraction and sex are, but him being gay would be personal information. So he probably wouldn't even know he's gay until he's attracted to a man?

Horrifying torture basement aside, would erasing those personal memories in some way free Curt M. from that burden, and allow him to abandon defenses he has built up over a lifetime of experience? Would he be less defensive, less insecure about his masculinity? Or are his experiences so fundamental to his personality that even when his memories are erased the imprint is still there in his subconscious? I genuinely don't know. That's a fascinating question to me.

I have the same kind of thoughts about Owen C. and his burns and prosthetic leg. There's a very big difference between knowing what a burn is and what an amputation is, and having the personal experience of being injured, of a lengthy recovery process. But there's also the cultural understanding of disability, the way we're consistently taught to be afraid of disability and disgusted by bodies that exist outside a very specific cultural understanding of what a "good" body is.

Owen, growing up sometime in 1920s-1930s Britain, would have culturally specific ideas about disability influenced by both Victorian attitudes towards body differences and especially post-WWI ideas about injury and disfigurement. He would have a lifetime of experience where being disabled is either something horrifying or something to be pitied (these are very condensed discriptions but I can't get sidetracked or I'll never finish this). Depending on his religious upbringing he might also have ideas about disability being a punishment.

For a lot of people who become disabled, there is a grieving process. There's a long, awful, furious, clawing kind of feeling inside of you. You compare what you used to be able to do with what you can do now. You compare what you can do now to what you're ~supposed~ to be able to do. So the process can often devolve into self-hatred and even increase your disgust towards disabilities and disabled people and especially your own disabled body, which is what I imagine Owen would've gone through post-fall

I'm writing something right now where Owen C. is grappling with what it means to have burns and a prosthetic leg and other issues he can't really put a name to, and that's a very interesting question to me. I have him starting off with knowing he is supposed to have two legs made out of flesh and blood, and then just trying to explore those edges, see how much he has internalized these ideas about disability. Does just the knowledge of being different than his coworkers lead to a similar process, or is that effect reduced by his lack of personal experience?

Anyways can't wait for season 2 of Severance to make me write even more essays about this

[nonet-ritual]

Examine door

Indeed, and to DEVASTATING EFFECT, for these fatal wounds so deeply scrawled bear burden on my SOUL. To be made victim of such profanity is perhaps the greatest anguish a creature of my status can conceive, for though the fierce flames of dragons may char the flesh, and though the harrowing pierce of brabblestung stingers may liquesce the very bones, it is the sentiment of PETTY INSULTS that sinks its fangs into one's SPIRIT, around which no bandage can be fastened, into which no potion can be prescribed. Upon my INEVITABLE ASCENSION, the pitiful mortal who dared slander my amplitude will face the FURY OF THE COSMOS' ENTIRE. Mercy at all will be blind to the fool, and pain as a concept will be redefined.

This GRAFFITI appeared about a season ago, but it unfortunately torments me from several heights above my REACH. Alas, it serves as a reminder that this kingdom is UNWORTHY OF MY SYMPATHY and furthermore that maintenance LIKELY HAS SOME BIAS AGAINST BRILLIANT, YOUNG MASTERMINDS OR IS OTHERWISE PREOCCUPIED WITH UNRELATED AFFAIRS. They too will know my wrath.

[the-tropes-are-hungry]

4 - The Cat Laughs

I don’t have a clue how long this Cat – Worm – Lamb pattern will hold considering the story I want to tell but for now it’s a good frame to work from. Have a cat in a hat with a spider and a squid.

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Shamura was never kind to him. It took him years to understand their concept of kindness was something else entirely.

A crown did as much as its bearer allowed, but the spider forbade him from using his to curb hunger, or stay sleep, or anything else truly useful.

“You are not yet grown, therefore have no true grasp of your abilities.”

“Then let me use them.”

They looked at him with their too many eyes and his vision fizzed. The shadows of thoughts, the web of impenetrable life woven around Shamura like their black and gold armor, the unflinching stare. Narinder was a predator in his own right, but they were something else.

Shamura was seated at the low table in their tent, discarded maps and the remaining bones of their dinner resting next to candle stubs. Narinder stood in the doorway where he’d burst in, and the spider remained perfectly still as they regarded him.

“Why?” they asked.

He stared at them, clutching his young anger.

“What do you mean, why? Because we’re fighting a war— because we’re losing one!”

Shamura watched him, listened to him, and answered with: “Our standing in this conflict is my burden, as our supplies are Kallamar’s, and growing is yours. Why should I let you use your crown when I do not believe you are ready?”

Ears back, his words keened past his fangs. “Because it’s mine.”

“It is yours,” the spider agreed, holding one long hand over their tea and calling the tiny ceramic cup into their grasp. “But that is not a reason to use it.”

“I don’t need a better reason.”

“You do, if you want my permission.”

“I don’t need your permission!”

“You do,” they squeezed the cup and his ears popped at the pressure change, black ears pressed to his skull and half-sheathed claws now soft against his palm. Shamura blinked slowly, one eye at a time from left to right, then right to left. “You do, if you want to leave my web alive.”

The entire camp was their web. Narinder had felt it after waking up the first time, sensed it without really knowing what about the ground upset his fur, why his whiskers twitched at every tent door and post, why his vision doubled and the stars moved too much at night.

He’d experienced it the first time one of Shamura’s soldiers, a beetle of all carapace and no sense, threw their meal on the ground and declared they’d had enough of rancid flesh and deserved something better.

The beetle had spasmed as, from everywhere and nowhere, silk threads snapped tight and pulled their limbs back before they could curl into a protective ball. Their glossy chitin didn’t mean anything as Shamura’s slow steps made the beetle’s heart quicken, then race, then thunder in Narinder’s ears. The spider had walked as slowly as possible to give every onlooker time to find a place to witness their judgment. One blue finger had trailed up from trembling thorax to mandibles, and the slender demigod rose up on six legs to tower over their prey.

“Very well,” they’d said, and a silk wire lopped the beetle’s head off. Several more tightened around still-squirming limbs until they detached. All Shamura visibly did was wave a dismissive hand at the wrist, and their web deposited the open body on the fire, belly up, for the camp cook to decorate with salt and herb and oil and simmer with his own armor acting as pot and pan to serve him.

It had been, Narinder hated to admit, one of the best meals they’d had since his arrival.

Shamura’s threads were already in his fur. They touched his wrists, his ankles, trailed against his black robe and irritated his whiskers. There was no tension in them, just the ghostly presence holding his chest and winding around his tail.

The spider sipped their tea.

“You are not yet grown, Narinder. I do not mean this metaphorically: your kind do not come of age until they are ten and six years old, but the males do not reach their true strength until twenty and eight. If you will not tell me why you must rely on your crown before you are ready, will you heed my reasons why you shall not?”

Shamura had already made up their mind and even the best reason in the world would not sway them. Still, to stop the growing pain in his throat and the burning in his eyes and the pressure in his nose, he bared his teeth again.

“When my mother taught me the sword, she gave me a sword to practice with.” The mere mention of her hurt. Speaking of her was like licking glass, or breathing fire, or being forever in this world without her. “I’m not saying let me fight the Green-Eyed Queen myself, but you’ve got to let me learn!”

Shamura nodded, but he swore the wisps of web grew thicker.

“The words you are looking for are, ‘I am afraid, and believe a better weapon will keep me safer.’”

They stood up, four legs moving sinuously beneath their black robe, four arms folded politely in pairs as they drifted across the tent toward him. One set of hands parted and they rested one cold palm against his bristled cheek. They had too many eyes and he never knew which ones to look at.

“If I clothed you in the strongest armor and then struck you one hundred times a day for one hundred days, it is true that you will stop fearing my blows and focus on hitting back. But if there is one day, not of your choosing, where I would make those hundred strikes on you without your armor, what would happen?”

His vision was blurring again, this time with frustration. His throat was growing tighter and it wasn’t Shamura’s silk. His chest and arms were trembling and the spider hadn’t struck him once.

“I would die.”

Shamura nodded, and released his face.

“That is why I will not let you use your crown to hold back sleep, because already you do not sleep enough. And I will not let your crown suppress your hunger, because you do not eat enough. And I will not let the crown make you stronger, or faster, or anything else you desire, because this weakness is born of things no crown can fix. You must train your mind. You must grieve your loss. You must let your body grow, child. Return to your duties.”

Duties. All Shamura had him do was practice symbols in wax and ink, and read the same marks off paper and metal. He was to learn the stars by different names, and the plants in their times and properties, and the many lands by their rulers and laws. Narinder’s duties were to grow his mind and eat hearty off the army’s stew pot, as if he were some kind of pet in the spider’s keeping.

He left with rage pulsing under his skin, humiliation turning his fur up as the silk whispers of the camp kept sticking to him, thickening around his ankles until he could almost see the strands. He sped up, all but ready to begin dashing past soldiers, and barracks, and cook fires and—

“There you are.”

His body stopped. A shimmering blue light encircled him and his muscles couldn’t move, his momentum halted. A webbed hand pressed warm to his shoulder before Kallamar’s spell vanished, and the third crown-bearer in this camp steered Narinder off his path between another set of random tents and tables, the squid’s long face pulled in an affable smile.

“Bold of you, to challenge Shamura directly,” he chittered. Narinder was only half-grown, but Kallamar was only just taller than him, too long, too nothing beneath his robes. “I can see how that went by the look on your face. No—don’t stop, be mad. Get it out. You can’t close a wound with the knife still inside.”

“What do you want?” Narinder asked, teeth clenched, whiskers flared as he kept walking and Kallamar kept pushing.

“To stop you from ending up on a spit,” he said. “Shamura is unkind, but rarely unreasonable. Come, running off will get you in trouble, but I’ve prepared something for you.”

Shamura and Kallamar had journeyed together for two years now, amassing followers and striking out at the Green-Eyed Queen’s champions: the Seven Toed Oak, the Marble Tongue of Dawn, and Ashblight. Shamura’s real target was the Wrath-Bringer, for their own reasons. Kallamar had come from the white waters of the Serpent, and beyond Shamura’s trust in him that was all Narinder knew.

Most of the followers in this camp were the spider’s. Kallamar’s followers were weepy-eyed creatures that hissed at the sun and plied their master with even more miserable gurgles than what Kallamar paid the spider.

There was something the Green-Eyed Queen possessed that Shamura wanted before taking their campaign elsewhere.

The mobility of Shamura’s forces was crucial, as staying overlong in any one place cleared the trees, dirtied the water, and ate the land barren. Never-mind counter attacks from the Queen’s champions.

Narinder had been with them a month. During the four battles this army of two hundred followers had fought he’d sat at Shamura’s heels with clean claws and sheathed blades and a leash short enough to call a belt-loop. Every time he saw Kallamar, the Serpent’s exiled son was either flustered with the logistics of keeping this army fed, or impatiently keening at Shamura to send Narinder out of earshot so they could speak.

The cat and the squid had never been alone together before now.

“Hurry up! Hurry up! I think you’ll hate this until you learn to love it.”

Narinder’s tail kept lashing. “You have the worst way of saying things.”

“Do you know what’s more fun than having a shard of the Serpent’s power sitting on my head?” Kallamar asked, the membrane of their face bubbling with their words as they tapped their crown.

“Leaving me alone?”

“Having my own power to wield as I like.”

Kallamar brought him to a freshly cleared bit of forest at the edge of the encampment. Fresh stumps littered the ground like boils, sweet sap still bleeding from the saw-marks. The squid kept giggling to himself, but trying to hide it with his mouth closed. The hrm! Hrm-hrmhrm!! Was enough to make Narinder’s claws itch. He’d never eaten squid before.

“First! An exercise I’m sure you’ve done before!” Kallamar wiggled his way forward and called back to him. He shook out his robe sleeves, getting shorter and squatter as his upsettingly fluid physiology squirmed around under his bipedal guise. With a delighted gurgle, he rose up and spread three tentacles from each sleeve, raising his new arms up with a flash of white.

Ten liquid bubbles gathered from the sap and soil, hovering over the stumps. “Ten seconds to destroy them all! Have at ye, young demigod!”

Narinder stared. “What?”

“Ten! Nine!”

Oh, he meant it.

Narinder’s reflexes were sharp, his legs always half-wound springs that sent him flying at the first bubble with claws out. Its skin was tougher than expected and his lead claw curled past it, but the dew claw on his smallest finger snagged it right and tore the bubble open.

A grotesque sploosh of half-warm-too-cold gelatine that sluiced down his leg and stayed there.

“What is this!?” Narinder shrieked, his voice splitting like hairs as his tail bristled.

“Six!! Five!”

He spun with three darts in hand that burst three bubbles, and vaulted another log with a hand at his sword to tear another. That made five, with only—

“Three! Two!!”

“Kallamar!” he roared back, his sword coated in the same blue ick as his robe and hand.

“Ding-ding-ding!! You lose!” The squid trumpeted, throwing his head back with laughter.

Lost? He’d lost? Narinder never lost anything. He never failed anything.  He couldn’t lose a game like this—one of speed and reflexes and sharpness, no!

“Again!” he shouted.

The laughing stopped. “Again?”

“Start it again!” He stomped his foot, sword dripping, his leg and hand so cold they felt numb.

“Hmm!” the squid put four hands to his wide chin, pouting. “Maybe! But I want my prize for winning first.”

Narinder stiffened, ears swivelling, weight on his toes. “What prize?”

Kallamar’s face split with far too many teeth at far too many angles. Narinder was a predator in his own right, a killer and a hunter, but his fur went rigid at the sight.

“Here, kitty-kitty, dodge this!”

The first unpopped bubble sailed straight at him. Narinder twisted with a yelp, but another crashed the back of his head and erupted with cold slime down his shoulders. He screamed. It didn’t hurt—it was cold and slick and horrible but it didn’t burn or bind or harm him, and the lack of danger made his screaming worse when he took two steps and was slammed at the knees by another bubble that took out his legs.

The last two pelted his back, one and then the other, and left him in an inch-deep puddle of viscous blue slime.

He pushed his face up, spitting, the fur on his cheeks dragging down long, his whiskers coated so thick he could barely breathe, his ears dulled with gelatine.

He was so fucking cold.

Kallamar was laughing to the cloudy sky overhead, the drip-drip of his tentacles slithering over the trampled grass.

“Oh! What fun, your poor face!” he cackled, wiping one webbed hand under his eyes to stop the tears.

Narinder bared his fangs, felt the cold slick trickle into his nose, and sneezed so violently his back arched.

Kallamar doubled over, wheezing, his eyes bulging in delight.

Narinder was cold, he was embarrassed, he was sopping wet. He was a month without his mother and denied his own power. He was stuck in a puddle of slime on a bright spring day with the sun parting the overcast sky and birds were singing and Kallamar was laughing and they were too far away from the edge of camp for anyone to see or hear them.

Narinder grabbed the tentacle that counted as Kallamar’s ‘foot’and yanked it. The squid yelped and tumbled down in a glorp. Before he could think twice or Kallamar could get away, Narinder slapped a handful of muddy slime in the other demigod’s mouth.

The sound Kallamar made was worth the laughter that burst out of Narinder. His goopy tail coiled around his bent legs as the alien sound scared his ears back and he reigned it in quickly, afraid of—just afraid.

Of Shamura? Of dying? Of the Green-Eyed Queen? Yes.

As quickly as he’d laughed, tears cut through the frigid slime, like embers down his cheeks.

His mouth trembled, spit and slime on his lips. He couldn’t breathe.

He would never see Mother again. She would not groom this ick off his fur, or run her claws over his ears, or warm him with her purr. Her tail would never twine with his, and she would not pick up his blade and hand it back, and she would not be with him, and she would not come back.

And Narinder was her Lord of Lords but he was twelve years old and frightened and alone and he had never been frightened and he had never been alone and he had never had to decide what to do and he had never been told what he could not do and—

“Me too.”

Narinder was sitting in this puddle sobbing like a kitten, and he couldn’t close his mouth or stop the sounds or the tears from hiccupping out of him. When Narinder looked at Kallamar, he expected everything except the broken hinge of the squid’s mouth, or the thick-rolling green slime that counted as his tears.

“I miss everything too,” he said. “Everything from before… this.”

“W-what happened?” one lost little boy asked the other.

“The Serpent was afraid of something,” Kallamar explained, his own tears rolling into his mouth. “They called everyone in to their temple, but I got caught in the tide pool that morning and couldn’t answer the gong. I watched the waves turn red, and the sea boiled, and then everything went dark. By the time I got out there was nothing left at the seabed, just this—this hole. Like a storm beneath the sea. Everything was gone. The coral, the vents, the sand, the kelp. Just dark water too scary to swim through, so I didn’t. They’re still down there, I think. They keep pulling everything inside, and Shamura thinks one day they’ll swallow the whole world.”

And that, two small children in two large crowns decided, was too much for them to think about.

They cried until they couldn’t cry anymore. This left Narinder only wet and too cold, and Kallamar dry and too hot, so when the cat scraped one hand down his slimy sleeve he smeared it on the squid’s ugly face.

This made Kallamar laugh.

“Here,” he said, taking Narinder’s hand in two of his. “Let me show you what I brought you out here for.”

It was a spell. A little mote of magical light between his tentacles that drew the wet ick from the fur and fabric down his arm. He wasn’t quite clean, but he wasn’t wet either.

“Now you try. But not with this,” he pointed at the crown. “Just this.”

He tapped Narinder’s forehead, where the fizziness and shadows and double-vision kept coming from.

“This is where your magic will manifest. It means you aren’t like other cats, so even without your crown you’re still something different, something else.”

“What else?”

Kallamar shrugged. “Whatever Shamura and I are. Demigods, they say.”

They practiced the spell together. It was finicky, but only difficult until Kallamar talked him through the noise in his own mind. They pulled the slime off his fur and ears and tail and clothes, and with the last of it the squid gurgled shyly in his throat.

“There was one other thing,”

“You have more one other things than you do arms.”

“No, this is actually it,” he bubbled. “You’re something else. You’re something between Shamura and I. You see, their body is hard and spiny on the outside, protected even without the armor they wear. Then there’s you, who grows your bones inside your body with the soft parts outside—which is bad design, really. You’re very poorly made.”

Narinder showed his teeth. He flexed his claws too. “As poorly made as a bag of water?”

Kallamar held up another bubble of slime. “I’m not afraid to use this.”

The cat relented.

“My point is,” Kallamar continued, holding the bubble in their lap and slowly running their tendrils over and around it, peeling off slime to slick themselves after sitting so long on the prickly grass beneath the blazing sun. “Neither of us can fight like Shamura. But you don’t have your own magic, and I don’t… Well, I know lots of magic. I know spells, and enchantments, and incantations, and charms, and curses. And you…”

Narinder followed the squid’s eyes this time, and snatched up Mother’s sword from beside him.

“No,” he said.

Kallamar quickly folded himself on his ‘knees’, leaning forward. “I don’t mean give me your sword, just practice! Or your knives? I saw you practicing with a rope dart the other day and it was so fast! Imagine if you could sling spells the same way, and I could carry a sword—or a staff. Can you use a spear?”

This felt… not allowed. It felt like breaking one of Shamura’s rules. Kallamar had real duties to the war, counting food and provisioning armor and setting up where tents could go and tables set up.

But Mother had always protected him, and Narinder had never had someone boldly ask him about what she’d taught him. “I… can?”

“What about a javelin?” Kallamar asked, eyes now alight. “A glaive? Shamura has a glaive, you’ve seen it, with the gold blade and obsidian handle?”

“I have.” He had. And he’d also seen… “…their sickle chain is faster than my rope dart.”

“It is!”

On that day, two boys made a pact with each other. The older would teach the younger magic, and the younger would teach the older weapons. Through their web the spider heard all of this, even the part where they struck a bet to see who would get to hold their glaive first. It made them smile.

To Shamura’s surprise, it was Kallamar who won the bet.

Surprise became wonder, as Narinder’s Third Eye opened right as his oath-brother raised the gold blade.

Somehow, both these achievements mattered more to the Demigod of Victory than the fact that they had just been split open, mandible to abdomen, by Champion Ashblight.

“Shamura?!”

“Shamura!!”

It was a good day to die.

[First] / [Prev] / [Next]

:)

I HC Kallamar is like 15/16 at this point.

[sol-consort]

Trial Of A Saint | Illusive Man

[Stalking, possessive obsessive behaviour over Shepard, implied sexual content, creepy fluff, fantasising and longing, Shepard is reader, Gender neutral Reader]

A short piece from the Illusive man view as he watches you, Shepard, return from a mission and all the thoughts that flow through his head while you go on with your daily routine.

Back from another mission, he watches you take off your armour. Piece by Piece, you strip the outer metal layer with expert hands that have been doing this their whole lives. He had no doubt you could do it blind.

The pilot greets you with the warmth of an old friend. He's never this outspoken with anyone else but you, or so EDI has claimed in its reports.

He made sure they'd engineer it to take his mind off of things, to lessen your burden, your guilty conscience for leaving your only friend all alone aboard a ship filled with strangers.

You frequented the bridge after every mission, smiling at their light quarrells. Their playful rivalry worked as a small stress relief for your overworked mind.

Two fingers hold the cigarette between his lips as he breathes in the smoke, the delicious burning sensation of his lungs that lasts for a mere second before the nicotine spreads through his veins in a rush.

Is this what you must have felt like? Swimming in the abyss of space so far away from any sign of life, limbs withering as you fought back against the burning pain in your chest. lungs collapsing in on themselves, the heart stills, your brain activity spikes one final time. 

You gasp for breath, an involuntary reflex, an old human instinct since the dawn of time.

One that saved our kind. Only it ends up being your doom as you naively surrender whatever oxygen left in your body to the gluttonous vacuum of space.

A spec of burning ash falls down against his flesh. He doesn't flinch. The delicious sensation of burning, the proof of being alive.

You're waiting inside the elevator, half-lidded eyes from exhaustion, and yet your posture remains straight. The military discipline runs in your blood like narcotics run in his.

lowering the cigarette away momentarily, his other hand brings up the crystal shot glass from the small table next to him. A golden liquid glitters inside, he takes a sip, and it glides down his throat.

His eyes never leave you for one second, courtesy to the various bugs and hidden cameras in every corner of the ship. plant some obvious ones for the smarter kids of your crew to find and assume safety, unaware of the legion embedded within the husk of the ship.

Yet, how curious, you never removed yours. Even the most blatant obvious one of them all, sitting out in the open right next to the medal showcase on your desk, you've obviously spotted it and yet didn't even turn it down.

Not when your adoring asari friend visited, not when your eager assistant came up for more than drinks.

He wondered, Do you enjoy the thrill? Or do you simply not care?

The first thing you always do whenever you arrive at your quarters is feed your pretty pets. various colourful fish swimming up to catch the bits and pieces of food you drop with the press of a button.

He makes a memo to give Miranda a raise. It was her suggestion to add the aquarium after all. With only a single press of a button in his omni-tool, he, too, feeds his beloved pets.

Crossing his legs, he leans back in his chair as you open your wardrobe. Changing into a more casual uniform than your armour padding. Each one of those clothes he hand picked himself amidst the hundreds of concepts the fashion designers sent him.

Are you happy with the collection? Do you have an interest in fashion? Would you have preferred to show more skin or cover more? Something enticing or something that shows authority? 

Miranda's clothing suggestions were almost approved, wasn't it for Kelly bringing up how you might be furious to be met with such inappropriate options first thing after your recovery. 

And so all the remaining funds were funnelled into getting you these unique one-of-a-kind armours, giving you full access to send any parts back to be repainted however you wished them to be, with an instant delivery.

Checking your private terminal, there are no new messages, Kelly has informed you on the way here.

He opens another screen, mirroring the same one you're looking at.

The same message, the single one you refuse to archive and keep marked as unread in your inbox. 

The Horizon mission.

Your eyes move with the words, rereading it carefully. How many times has it been already? 

How many nights spent without sleep? 

How many drinks did you drown your sorrows in because of it?

How many wounds must you reopen, how many heartaches must you relive, how many headaches must you reawaken.

He reads it with you. He had it looked at by various decryption experts and even had it translated into thousands of languages.

There was no second meaning, no hidden message behind the remorseful words. 

Those dots resembled no codes, spelt no secret except a juvenile show of hesitation.

Based on his reports, you two were close. An ex, be it friend or lover, they were the one to cut the red thread connecting your fates.

Part of him did hope that by tricking you into this confrontation on Horizon, that maybe your lover would see reason and join your side. Gain another priceless asset to your crew.

What an excellent morale boost your old friend would've been. For the best purpose anyone on this ship could ever amount to, is to be useful to you.

Alas, your usual cunning charm and bold intimidation seemed to evaporate the second you were hugged. He should've anticipated the fact you were too touch starved to think clearly, partially blaming Kelly for not finding her way into your bed sooner.

But it didn't break you. No, it made you stronger, more ruthless. 

It was necessary to break your heart this early. He couldn't afford it getting into the way of your mission. 

Either way, the outcome was always in his favour. The house always wins in these situations. 

When you eventually sit on the bed, his attention narrows as he leans forward in his chair, uncrossing his legs and downing the rest of his whisky before setting the empty glass away.

You stretch, an old-school military technique meant to act as a quick way to unwind the muscles. Not very effective, akin to a band-aid rather than any actual muscle relief. Should he lend his personal masseuse to you one of those days? Have those expert hands that touched him feel your skin all the same.

Too risky, he discards the idea, you've gotten so used to working with a sore aching body, to loosen the knots in your muscles now would cause a dip in your performance as you adjust to your new flexibility. He can't afford that.

Part of him can't stop himself from giving you gifts. You're practically swimming in his graces as much as your beloved fishes are. You're the most expensive project he has ever built from the ground up, and you're still racking up quite the bill.

He hand-picked everything, from the thousands-thread sheets you're currently laying on, to the featherly pillow resting below your head. the scent of your body wash, the taste of your toothpaste, each and every song in the alarm on your nightstand.

Trying each one personally before granting it his approval.

Even Kelly was hand-picked, oh how beautifully she moaned under him, how delicately she unravelled. That look of pure ecstasy in her eyes during that moment made him feel like a god, and that's exactly when he decided that you should have her instead.

You took the bait with the confidence of someone purposely walking into a trap. How curious he was, on just how you'd be with her.

Would you take charge or let her worship you? Would you make her sing, or would you be the one playing a symphony? how would your thighs look shaking? How would your breath sound panting? What does your face look like when the rush of power and pleasure blanks all sense of duty from your mind?

You did not disappoint. 

He was tempted to share more of his toys, the Matriarch, the twin sisters, the most beautiful human alive, just on the tip of your fingers.

But it was too late to introduce new staff to your crew. You've already made a close tight-knit group with yours. Almost close enough to convince them to go rogue and take the Normandy hostage, much like your old crew did to the alliance before.

That fire in you, burning bright enough to convince people to follow you to hell and back. 

It was the most addicting of all of the drugs he had ever taken. You were the most intoxicating one. And he was sure to relish and milk every hit he could out of you before your eventual departure.

You can keep an animal in a cage, but on one of those days, it's going to fight back.

He watches the heart sensor on the screen next to him, watching your heartbeat slowing down as you approach REM sleep. The elevator access to your floor locks out automatically whenever your heartbeat falls below a certain threshold to prevent anyone disturbing you.

Likewise, when it raises during more intense activities.

It's cathartic in a way, watching you alive and well, sleeping on his bed that he gave you. After you were burnt to an unrecognisable degree in that explosion.

As the threat of the reapers creeps in, bit by bit, each second could be the last, and yet here you are, the saviour of the galaxy, sleeping like an innocent lamb.

Sleep smoothed out the glare in your features, the constant tense of anger in your jaw. You almost looked…angelic. He was almost tempted to preserve you like this for eternity, freeze you in a display for all to look at, for him to admire as he drinks.

Pouring himself another glass, he reminds himself that he has to settle for this for now. 

Your hair looked so soft, your lips so tempting. His personal entertainment budget tripled shortly after the mission reports between you two became a thing.

The thrill your voice sent down his spine, the heat collecting in his core, you were responsible for every drop of arousal he suffered. 

Be it yelling at him for tricking you or begrudgingly agreeing, each confrontation left him restless and breathless.

Immediately booking an appointment with his usuals, immediately seeking relief for the longing in his body, the fire you ignited and left to burn him.

Your cold eyes staring him down haunted his memory as he relished in the warm body of another. Your commanding figure made him manhandle the one below him into submission.

Some nights he wants to break you, make you helpless and obedient. on your knees between his legs, head resting against his thigh as he runs a finger along your bottom lip. Pressing his thumb inside your mouth while you look up at him with doe eyes.

Other nights, he wants your jaw latched onto his throat as you claw his back. He wants you ordering him around in bed with the same authority that was your birthright. Fury pulsing in your red gaze as threats pour down like poison from your mouth, degrading and humiliating him to your heart's content.

Another drag of his cigarette, another sip of his drink, another hardness between his legs left ignored, and he kept watching you instead.

Did you know? You move a lot in your sleep.

The blanket falls away, exposing your body. The compromising positions you end up at, the way your legs part, wrap around a pillow, or stretch out. 

Like looking at a piece of art, he immortalises every scene to his brain. fully focusing on your figure, your muscles and strong shoulders, your chest, and your bare stomach.

His eyes travel down to your hips, your strong thighs. His own hand grips the armrest of his chair, fingers digging into the leather. How would your skin feel?

The reconstruction of your body used your original DNA and form. Therefore, all previous scars and battle marks were lost in translation. Your skin was smooth again except for the stray moles. He has counted them many times.

It hasn't been long, and you were already making new scars, limping into Dr.Chakwas office as droplets of med-gel trailed after you on the ground. Staying only for the bare minimum of treatments and jumping into shore right after. 

Leaving the scar removal technology, the one that he personally had the scientist design for you, to collect dust.

your lips part, and his own follow after as he returns the cigarette to his lips. Wrapping them around the end, wondering how yours would taste like. 

Would you use teeth and make him bleed? would your eyebrows knit at the taste of smoke and alcohol in his mouth?

Would you reciprocite? Would you stand there like an ice wall? Would you punch him?

Unpredictable, versatile, ever adapting, that was your nature. Humanity's core traits shine in you.

There is also the chance you're into this, you've allowed him to watch after all, came to report your mission to him with no resistance, let him buy the right to address you as Shepard and not commander.

How much does he have to pay to be able to use your first name? The one everyone else acts as if it's blasphemy to say, or did they simply forget it?

Half of what he owns.

He is willing to part with half of everything he owns to call you by your first name. Replace your last name with his and make it his property forever.

Which man but him claims the right to that?

Who else but him could claim to ever have authority over commander Shepard's ship? To have the power to decide what happens, to make you plead your case and judgement to him in a report after each important mission.

Having you standing there as he sits down, stretching out the conversation and making you linger and hang on each word he speaks out slowly. 

Long ago, you did obey someone else.

Occe you too were subordinate to someone else.

He looked into David Anderson's history. He was not impressed. 

Could not see what you saw in him beyond surface level authority, could not understand why you eagerly served under him like a lost puppy.

Probably nurture. Maybe if it was him who got to you first, maybe if it was Cerberus who recruited you first, then you'd have been his eager puppy.

His sword and shield, his symbol of hope to reshape Cerberus around. Make you the token hero to justify his cause with. The main attraction for others, like you, to join his operations.

The Alliance undervalued you. The council used you. Both were a waste of you. Someone like you was a miracle that came down to humanity once every thousand years or so. Your limited lifespan already was a hindrance, so why do others feel the need to be annoying obstacles in your path.

Good thing he has already taken the steps to prolong your lifespan with the medication laced in your daily meals.

Making you reprove your worth over and over, respeak your truth louder and louder, establish your cause clearer and clearer. 

Humanity's curse is still its short memory, history repeating itself.

Much like her, you too were put on trial for heresy, for your demonic words, your refusal for submission. 

And if you're not careful, then you too will burn at the stake as the angels that once urged you to war and justice, wept at your feet for deciding to jump down that window.

As the flames rose, as the people shouted witch, as the girl burned.

As Joan gasped for breath, an involuntary reflex, an old human instinct since the dawn of time.

As God watched.

His cold eyes, mechanical in nature, devoid of any weakness, devoid of any humanity, omnipotent, omnificent, blue.

blinking, he poured himself a third glass. Snuffing his burning cigarette out with his finger. 

The burning sensation was exhilarating.

[kazeofthemagun]

@hexenjagd asked the summoner:

Tell me about some of Kaze's strongest principles. Why does he hold to them? When is he willing to break them?

[Hello! Thank you for the ask!]

At his core, Kaze is a meshing-together of a mortal and a deity, which means some of his own strongest principles will need to be broken in pursuit of the purpose he embodies as Unlimited.

One of such principles that he adheres to unless it's ontologically impossible in the situation is - never harm children. Even back during his days as a warlord on Windaria, he made sure to spare the children of his enemies along with other concombatants even if it meant they might one day seek revenge. That, however, would be their own choice to make and so, he would simply kill them then. Kaze believes in, above all, personal agency. The ability to do with one's own life as one pleases, and take full responsibility for one's choices - fate is a concept he abhors, for it absolves of that very responsibility. To harm a young soul who has no means to defend itself is to take away that agency, out of nothing else but petty brutality: That, in his eyes, is cowardice.

During his own youth, Kaze was an orphan, a street urchin, fighting tooth and nail to survive under Windaria's scorching sun with hardly a saki (currency unit) to his name. He has seen the indifference and brutal disregard for refugees of war, many of which were children, as they languished away in the few overloaded city temples that agreed to take them. Starvation was a constant companion, both to Kaze and everyone else unfortunate enough to find themselves on the streets. Especially those with Riverfolk background - the neighbouring free nation beyond the great river that the main Windarian power of Lahriktaar was trying to conquer at the time.

Kaze himself was treated very poorly due to the red color of his hair, thought to be an ill omen in Lahriktaarese mythos - an ordeal that seeded in him both spite and compassion. When he was finally accepted into a warrior clan of his own, his ambition pushed him towards making Windaria a better, kinder place, however that in itself required bloodshed. Old systems scarcely went quietly, after all.

His obsession with personal agency evolved into a general obsession with power, because power allowed him to hold the means to finally shape his own life. This very pursuit is (in short) what led to him becoming the host of the Magun, not knowing at the time what cursed fate would await.

The curse of embodying the machine-god Destroyer is the curse to see life itself as a statistic.

Though nowadays the Wind considers himself a horrible person, deserving of the burden that will only make him a greater monster yet, he still makes all the choices that will lead to the fewest amount of lives lost. Especially the lives of children. If he ever has to destroy a whole world just to stop Chaos from feeding and in turn stop it from feeding on a hundred more? He will do so in a heartbeat. Even if he has to live with the blood of countless innocents on his hands. Even if he's constantly breaking the promise made to his sister that he would wage war no longer: But what of it now, that he has become War in the cosmic sense?

What of it now, that the mantle of Destroyer is all but interwoven into his flesh? And he is the only one to wear it. He resigns himself to his own soul being doomed to hell if it means that existence can continue - the garden will grow, but it needs a winnower. That sole fact is enough to override every moral his mortal self may have ever had, because his own boundaries become selfish in the grand scheme of things.

This is why he would rather commit heinous acts such as blackmail Kumo with the lives of their shared companions, than allow him to return to the service of Chaos. The Nine Eyed Beast in him weighs outcomes and previews paths to choose always the most optimal one, regardless of atrocities involved.

Even one's own eyes become a curse when they see so keenly. Because, there is no "I can't have known." Going against his purpose means actively choosing more harm down the line in favor of keeping up the pretense of being a "good person" in the moment.

He does not see himself as a good person. He sees himself as an abominable product of necessity.

"Does a soldier use a wooden horse to kill sleeping Trojans cause he is vile?

Or does he throw away his remorse and save more lives with guile?"

In the end, Kaze will break any and every principle he ever held to ensure Chaos dies, and there is no alternate path for him. How ironic, for one who never believed in fate.

[bronzeandsage]

Send me a '★' and I will tell you how my character feels about yours (openly and secretly)

For any of yours that might have thoughts on a first look at @gravekeeper-anna.

"Breathe in."

Darkness closed in around as the first breath was drawn in deeply. The rock beneath was hard and wet but offered a solid comfort as the air filled lungs. Dirt, smoke, and the sweet bits of moisture mingled upon the tongue from the deep inhale.

"Breathe out."

A wind of it's own was drawn out in a plume of anxiety, stress, and frustration as it cascaded from body out into the world. A weight lifted from his shoulders at the release to lift his spirit as much as his body causing his back to straighten to match the space made.

"Breathe in."

Oxygen again was sucked in a quiet inhale, measured and controlled to maintain the presence he had begun to craft. Muscles would tighten, core strengthened, and back firming as he continued to draw in the world. Embrace the world. See the world. Be one with the world. It was all so much, too much for a single vessel to contain but he had to try.

He had to see with eyes unclouded.

"Breathe out."

The rush happened again, expelling the world back into it's normal place and taking him with it. The body felt lighter and the spirit felt freed as it broke out from it's confines into a cool empty place beyond this shell.

"See, my child."

A vast sea of black stretched beyond any horizon he had known in his years, blanketed in a canvas of stars and colors. Purples. Blues. Pinks. Greens. A cornucopia of comfort and silence that continued on and on in this state. The astral sea was as beautiful as ever.

With the stars twinkling bright and bejeweled in the gentle swirl of the beyond, whatever form the spirit had taken began it's gentle gait into the ether. The idea of a fish was also a comforting concept, swimming lazily through the waters as the rush of currents was felt more than heard. Fins spread to guide through the proverbial waters as a tail would propel forward into the unknown in search of the question.

"Feel."

It was colder as the travels went deeper. A familiar icy grip beginning to tingle along scale and flesh of this form. Familiar was not in the pleasant manner either. The cold of the north gripped them tighter, icy winds, thick hard snow, and eyes all around. Blue eyes.

Dead eyes.

"Hear."

The wind blew and called even in the mystic waters they cut through. It was wild and burdened with a horrific past, cutting to the bone as much as the cold. Freezing the heart as much as the blood that struggled to continue to pump and warm the heart. Hopeless.

"Smell."

Roses. Dead roses. Musky, sweet, and sour like the kinds thrown to graves of the humans. All around them, floating through the water with petals of fading red to black. Swirling about in a frustrated storm of sorrow that continued to drown them.

"Taste."

Rot. Disgust. Unnatural. It made their insides twist and turn in revulsion to the real dusty flavors that flooded their mouth. It was the only warm thing they could remember, the sweetest meat that could have no equal. Nothing tasted as good as this. But never would be again, causing an ache to grow inside. Churning further and worming through them as as the ache twisted making his swim turn more into a thrash.

"What do you know?"

Death. It was all around. All consuming. All punishing. All transitioning. It hurt as much as it was wanted. It never stopped hurting. There was no wear to go. The cold was gripping them tighter. Holding them. Let me go. Let me go.

"Let me go!" Fenrag screamed as he fell into the red dirt of the Valley of Wisdom, his body drenched in cold sweat and eyes wild. His one hand was clawing at the ground as felt his insides tighten and flood upward.

Retching was the worst thing he could have done as he sat on his knees, his one hand holding him up as shakily as it could. A gently paw would sweep in from his empty side to steady him as he continued to expel everything he could have imagined consuming.

"There there my son, let it go. Let it go," another paw had joined the gently pandaren voice as it rubbed between his shoulders in comfort. "You swam too deep this time."

Coughing Fenrag would try to sit back, hoping he would feel better after vomiting. He did not.

"It was horrible," the orc choked out as he tried to blink away the memories of his meditation. If green could be a shade lighter, he would be that of autumn sage as from his usual emerald coloring.

Master Gato smiled sadly as he reached into his robe to pull out an old leather wine skin, popping the top and offering it to his apprentice. "It is but a taste of what they know. The Forsaken live like this always."

Fenrag took the skin and drank, cleaning his mouth out once with a spit before taking another swallow.

"Always and forever," Gato continued as he soothed the orc quietly.

@gravekeeper-anna

[koorinokujira]

The Warrior of Light's Burden (FFXIV)

He seemed to appear out of nowhere. Just another bright, wide-eyed adventurer among countless others. Perhaps he went into it for wealth or fame. Maybe out of selflesness and a kind heart that wished to help others. Whatever it may have been, he never refused to help, from the very beginning, whether it was delivering letters between lovers or slaying wild beasts.

Dependable, that's what he was. So much so that they started calling him what they used to call them.

The brave souls that were lost during the Calamity. Silhouettes lost to the blinding light that covers our memories in a haze. The Warriors of Light.

But this one... this one wasn't like them.

It started out slowly, inconspicuously. His enemies seemed to get stronger, but his victories were still believable. A few Garleans here and there, some bandits and wrong-doers, and all that coupled with some particularly dangerous creatures. An adventurer of great skill, one worthy of a mention, to be sure.

And then he slew a Primal.

The people celebrated, showered him with praise and flattering words that seemed to never cease. After all, it was a miracle that he survived, much less defeated his adversary. And all this time, he simply watched with a polite smile on his face.

"I am but a humble adventurer," he insisted to those who praised the Warrior of Light, "surely you would have done the same things if you were in my shoes. I'm just a man. I just tried to help, to survive, like you."

Most believed him, and were willing to leave it at that.

But a miraculous victory turned into something terrifyingly ordinary. Primal fell after Primal, enemy after enemy, there were even rumors of him fighting beings that could not die by usual means. Blood flowed across the trail of destruction left behind by the one who yearned for peace and tranquility.

No, he was nothing like us.

Tales and songs of his deeds became reverent whispers. No longer was he greeted as a friend, but something much greater. Excitement was replaced by elation, wariness by terror. Only the ones closest to him dared to speak to him as casually as they did, though he insisted the common man should do so as well. Those that tried to use him for their own goals could only do so by playing on his worry for the people he sacrificed so much for already.

And oh, would he sacrifice more.

Everyone loves him and fears him in equal measure. They adore seeing him yet avert their gaze. They listen to his voice but not his words. Every single day, he bleeds for them and they say it's right. Every single night, he howls in agony out of his restless sleep and they call it holy.

And the others, they call him a monster. They fear his wrath, and it makes sense- who says he won't decide to slay them too, in the name of righteousness? Who can stand against their caring, horrifying shield made of flesh and bones? Who will save them from their savior?

Who will save him?

"I'm just a man. With feelings like you. Let me rest," he says over and over, but no one hears him anymore. "I beg you."

"I beg you. Forget the Warrior of Light. Remember me."

---✧

I know I haven't posted anything about FFXIV on this blog yet, despite playing it and adoring it for a few years now. But this has been on my mind for a while, and I've also been seeing some very tasty posts about the dehumanization of the WoL lately. So I decided to write this little story thingy from the POV of an unknown observer, also focusing a bit more on how some could actually be pretty terrified of him!

Also, big thanks to @shinkimarbles who rambled on and on about this concept with me and inspired me to write this!

[lostonehero]

Faith alone will not save you

Some demon Oscar because the concept won't leave me alone

The cross is a burden and a weapon he carries. The old metal hangs around his neck like an anchor, keeping him grounded and drowning him in the same breath. He's had it as long as he can recall. No one dared take it from him. The doctors didn't even note it when they stitched up his missing arm.

As a child, he was told explicitly what he was and how the cross is the only thing to ever save him. Even as his faith wavered, seeing scratch, seeing those things that took his arm, and learning about creatures that would haunt him, he could never bear to truly stray far.

He met Arthur, a man who was his purpose, someone to save, but he failed too scared to truly use his power to save him. He didn't deserve a goodbye from him. He drove him to the hospital, which was enough. It had to be enough. He was a man of sin even in these garbs of a priest no matter how much he helped how much he gave he will always be a creature of sin. His faith never seemed to ever be enough. He held the heavy cross in his hand. Always heavy, always painful.

The door to his office opened, and Oscar didn't notice till a familiar voice cleared their throat, and he dropped his cross, bearing the weight like an anchor around his neck. "Arthur... Detective Noel? What brings you both to this humble church?"

Arthur's eyes never focused on him. They never did, and Oscar had a feeling he knew why. "We would like you to help us."

Oscar felt lighter and full of hope. "Of course, I am happy to help."

"Before you agree, you have to understand what we're asking isn't going to be easy or nice." Noel said, rubbing the fresh scar on his neck. "You may not come out just missing an arm."

Oscar knew what that meant, and he didn't care. "Monsters exist, and if I help, I'll be able to save others from them?" The nkd from both men made him smile. "I accept whatever you need. I am here to help."

"Are you certain?" Arthur pauses and sighs. "Then there is something you must know, about John."

"John?" Oscar hums.

"Yes." Arthur seems glued to his spot as a shadow grows from behind him.

That mask, man... no, it wasn't a man. Oscar knew him. He always assumed that it was just a lost spirit, but a king? A God? Well, a fragment of a God. He gripped his cross in his hand, and it burned, and he could smell it burned against his flesh. He knew what that meant, but he wasn't threatened, and he shouldn't he shouldn't be getting any stronger. "It's nice to meet you, John." He doesn't hold out his hand. It still clutches his cross.

.......

It was an accident, Noel was just trying to pull him away from his right side, and since he no longer had an arm on that side, he grabbed the cross. The monstrous creature was charging them, and the slight tug by different hands snapped the old metal chain into pieces, and the cross dropped to the floor. The sound was deafening to Oscar, but it was quiet against the wooden rotten floor of the building they were trapped in. The monsters roar didn't even stop him from reaching out for it, nor did Noel's shout, and Arthur gasped as he was knocked into the stone wall of the room.

Oscar knew it should hurt more than it did. He knew that he shouldn't feel his right arm. He knew he shouldn't have this monster in his missing right hand, choking the beast. Without his cross, he is just like this monster. A man without faith... not a man, a monster, a demon, something he spent his whole life trying to separate himself from. All he did was pretend to be human. He squeezed his grip tighter, and the creature whined a mournful sound its own claws useless against his. His body ached as he felt things grow from it.

The creature was silenced with an auidiable crack. Oscar stared at his hand as he dropped the creature. It was pitch black and monstrous. He hated it.

A new voice jovial and loud. "Wow, I did not see that coming!"

Arthur hissed out a name Oscar didn't catch as his eyes caught on the man covered in blood wearing a suit with no shoes or socks.

"Well, well, well, what are you, little priest?" The man appears right next to Oscar. "Never seen a creature such as yourself." He laughs loud and twisted. "Cute horns like your horny!" Another laugh louder it seems.

Oscar tried to recite a prayer, but it burned on the tip of his tongue. He coughed a thick black smoke before he found his voice once more unchanged as if it mocked him for this body. "What are you?"

The man frowns amusement gone from his eyes. "Always that question never how ya doing Kayne. Just because I don't know what you are doesn't mean you aren't boring." He snaps his fingers, and all he receives is a sneeze from Oscar. "I take that back."

Oscar falls back as he sneezes again with another snap, and his clothes rip with two wings erupting from his back. He covers his face.

"I didn't do that." Kayne laughs again, appearing next to Arthur. "You see this shit? I mean, have you've seen a creature like this, John? Can't even pop his skull like a grape."

Oscar hugs his chest, shaking with eyes on him. "I just need my cross it will fix this. It always fixes this."

Noel beats Arthur to stating the obvious that Kayne and John weren't privy to. "Demons exist?"

Oscar flinched and hugged himself tighter.

"Demon?" Kayne laughs harder and more manic. "You've been reading too much of that Bible demons angels they don't exist, buddy."

Oscar looks up at Kayne. "Then what am i?"

That silenced Kayne the riased brow and slightly opened mouth was not an expression he ever seemed to wear. "What are you indeed?"

Oscar looked away as he got up off balanced, but he managed to stand. He frowns as he stares at his mismatched clawed hands. He takes a breath. "I am a man of faith. This can't change that..... I won't let it change that." He swallows. "Kayne, you can tell me what I am and what I'm not, but I would like it if you not hurt my friends, God may give you mercy, but I will not."

Arthur gasps. "Oscar, don't!" His voice is muffled by Kayne.

"Friends?" Kayne hums. "Fascinating. Ok, I won't, but I'll be keeping an eye on you. You're such an interesting creature. I can't wait to find out why I can't harm you." He vanishes, and Noel stares at Oscar.

Oscar looks down. "I apologize for losing my temper." He grimaced at the dead monster at his feet.

[alovethatechoes]

Echo Chamber

As of recent, thinking about the concept of love has left me with more questions than answers. I've searched to find meaning and when I think I've figured it out, I realize that I've been missing the point entirely. To define love is to limit the concept itself. Rationalizing love can shift quickly from explaining to justifying. I become defensive because I've never truly understood it. I've always felt very deeply, so when love comes around and I'm reminded that "a heart's a heavy burden," I find myself screaming into a crowd, lost within a sea of voices in search of someone to help me carry the weight. Maybe I should scream all the same, but instead into the cavernous expanse that is my psyche. It lives within walls made of bone and flesh, structured yet fragile. A space all my own, where my words can reconcile with my heart, creating an echo chamber that resonates love.