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mousedetective · 8 years ago

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Children Of Light, Children Of Dark (9/?)

And I have an update for you! A warning: there is mention (though absolutely nothing graphic) of torture to animals in this chapter in reference to the old cases that Molly is going through the notes of, so please keep that in mind. I cut the chapter text before it got to that part just in case.

Children Of Light, Children Of Dark - There are a series of murders going on that have a pattern, and Sherlock sees glimpses of it but can’t fathom it completely. But Molly realizes it��s reminiscent of an unsolved case her mentor had told her about, where the murders were based on a series of fantasy novels that Molly herself adores. Sherlock asks her to use her knowledge as a pathologist and a fan of the series to help him figure out both sets of murders, and in the process Molly gets quite a bit more than she bargained for.

Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan/John Watson

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, John Watson, Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea (Sherlock), Irene Adler, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags: Case Fic, Inspired by Novel, Post-Season/Series 04 AU, Potential Spoilers, POV Molly Hooper, BAMF Molly, Awesome Molly, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Engaged Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Awesome Molly Hooper, Smart Molly, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Being a Hero, Molly Being a Hero, BAMF Lestrade, Smart Lestrade, BAMF John, BAMF Mary, Mary Lives, Protective Mycroft, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Minor Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Awesome Irene Adler, BAMF Irene, Irene Knows Secrets, Murder Mystery, Themed Murders, Clues In Books, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sitting In Laps, Mentioned Animal Torture, Murder, Losing A Good Friend, Caring Sherlock, Poor Molly

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 9 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

She put off going over the notes until she’d made breakfast for the two of them and forced Sherlock to put the book aside and eat. He damn near wolfed the food down in a way she was used to seeing when he was particularly intent on a case and if her mood had been lighter she may have joked if he had tasted it at all. But really, her heart just wasn’t in it. She herself didn’t have much of an appetite and she picked at her meal until she felt like she had eaten enough so that if anyone glanced at her plate they would feel satisfied she’d eaten enough.

She took the box to her chair, which most would assume was the one John had favoured but wasn’t. It was a comfy yellow one she had near the doorway entering the room, giving her a nice view of the place. It had been a chair she had lugged to every residence she’d lived in since she found it at a rummage sale in her home village before she moved into an apartment off campus in uni, and it was rather her good luck charm. It clashed with the living room, with its blue wallpaper and light wood floors and much more updated furniture than Sherlock had ever used, but she’d made sure it had come with...well, everything else.

Sherlock didn’t talk much about what had happened prior to his arrival in Dover ever since it was over, but she knew for a time he wouldn’t step foot into Baker Street. When she agreed to live with him, she was half tempted to suggest he simply stay at her flat and leave Baker Street once and for all. The most they had ever talked about what had happened was he said there had been a “vicious surprise” waiting for him there, and so when they were settling on a place to live she spoke with his brother and Mrs. Hudson and asked if there was any way they could make changes to Baker Street. New furniture, new wallpaper, new flooring...that sort of thing. When Sherlock found out he said that would make it easier, and Mrs. Hudson had been very eager for changes.

In the end, the majority of the furniture in Baker Street now had come from Molly’s home. It had been a bit hard to give up her home, but Mycroft had done an excellent job picking people to help remodel and the kitchen in Baker Street almost resembled her old one, though it was smaller. It had helped that it was Mycroft who had gotten her old kitchen looking the way it had after one of Sherlock’s experiments had backfired at her flat. And Baker Street was home for both of them; more for her in terms of furnishings, more for him in terms of comfort. Both their things filled the shelves and sat on tables and desks and any and all available space, and they were both happy with the flat as a whole, which was all that mattered.

She got in her favourite position in the chair, sitting cross-legged with her knees balanced on the arms, and hauled the box up onto her lap. There was a moment’s hesitation before she opened it, and the first thing she saw was the boot she had placed inside when the SOCCO unit had arrived at Fraser’s home. Now that she and Sherlock had gotten totems, it was more significant, and she hoped there were notes to see if others involved in the investigation had gotten them as well. Fraser was only the pathologist involved; there had to be at least one DCI or DI and a DS, or more, and any or all of them could have gotten totems. She fingered it for a moment and then set it aside in the box lid and began to read.

The more she read the more clearly it seemed that the original murders were based on The Belgariad. She was a bit fuzzy on the specific details, as she preferred the sequel series and tended to go to that one for re-reading, but the animal death was the clincher. She distinctly remembered the scene with Garion bringing the horse back to life. When she got to that part of the notes she began to feel ill, because she knew in the book the horse would later become very special, becoming Eriond’s mount of choice, and the death of the horse in the book was nothing like the graphic torture that had been done to the young pony that had been left in the yard of the detective in charge of the case.

She set the notes aside and put everything back in the box, putting the lid on it. After a moment she stood up, set the box on her chair and went to Sherlock’s chair, plucking the book he was reading out of his hands and laying it pages down on the table before crawling in his lap. He immediately put his arms around her and began stroking her back. “Something unsettled you,” he said softly.

“The human deaths I can handle just fine,” she said, shifting just a bit to slide her arm around his waist and bury her head in the crook of her neck. “But the bastard tortured a pony, Sherlock. I...they had a veterinary technician describe the damage and in the personal notes it said the torture was done in a way that prolonged its suffering.” She shut his eyes. “And now there’s bastards out there copying what that bastard did and I can’t...”

He nodded against her head, still gently rubbing her back. “Do you need to re-familiarize yourself with the books?” he asked.

“It might be best,” she said.

“Then why don’t I go through the box for now and you read for a bit?” he suggested. “I was just finishing The Belgariad but I can do that later.”

She nodded. “Can we sit here like this for a while first, though?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied, turning his head to kiss the op of hers. It wasn’t often a case shook her like this, either one of Sherlock’s or something she was involved in, but when it did, small moments like this made all the difference in getting through it, and the longer they could stay like this before real life intruded, the better.

#Sherlock #sherlolly #mollock #sherlock holmes #Molly Hooper #my stuff #fanfiction #fanfic #Multipart: Children Of Light Children Of Dark #donation fic #queuel beans

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incorrect-belgariad · 2 years ago

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Eriond: If you water water, it grows.

Zakath: What.

Cyradis: He’s got a point.

#the belgariad #the malloreon #incorrect quotes #incorrect belgariad quotes #submission #eriond #zakath #cyradis

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karliahs · 2 years ago

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oh u genuinely can just say no more reblogs actually...ty @eriond can't believe tumblr introduced a useful feature

okay legitimately. people who have had posts that get lots of notes. is there any way to make this stop?

#finally free from the tyranny of people saying words to me

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alice-blogs-things · 5 years ago

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Sometimes a family is a pair of weird magic twins who finish each other's sentences, a grumpy old man who uses insults to communicate affection, an immortal miscreant with a thing for wolves, his badass immortal daughter, her supportive husband, her adopted sons and daughter in law, and the God who looks out for them. And that's okay.

#belgariad #the belgariad #beltira #belkira #beldin #belgarath #polgara #garion #belgarion #errand #eriond #ce'nedra #aldur

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owlesoftware · 6 years ago

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Members:

De Jesus, Eriond

Enilog, Lecher

Cruz, Jacob

SD12D

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mightyecho · 3 years ago

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rosamund pike . cis-female . she/her . wasn’t that polgara dragola walking the palace grounds ? it’s nice to see the king’s sister & socialite out and about on such a fine day as this. i’ve heard from the court spies that they notoriously aloof, whilst also managing to be quite wise. the forty-two year old is eager to find out who exactly is behind the killings from what’s being said at court. i heard that they themselves aren’t vrajiit . it’s funny, whenever i think of them, i think of dried roses hanging in a window over a desk, careful fingers tracing over the spines of books, delicate smiles and observing eyes, a gentle hand laid over a strong wrist. great to see the diplomat around, isn’t it ?

——— GENERAL

NAME : polgara ‘pol’ islena dragola TITLE : sister to the king // socialite AGE : forty-two GENDER : cis - female PRONOUNS : she / her SEXUAL ORIENTATION : pansexual BIRTHPLACE : trasnavda RESIDENCE : trasnavda ALLIANCE(S) : the dragola family

——— RELATIONSHIPS

SIBLINGS : basradu iii dragola, vladimir dragola, marcel dragola HUSBAND : tba. -deceased. CHILDREN : eriond - deceased ; tba. ( possible wanted connection ) EXTENDED FAMILY : mircea dragola - sister in law -deceased ; erszebet ataegina- dragola - sister in law ; lumina dragola-anastase - niece ; servaos dragola - nephew ; varian anastase - nephew in law ; aleyna dragavei - future niece in law ALLIES: tba. ENEMIES : tba.

——— PERSONALITY

LABEL : the diplomat POSITIVE (+) : patient, thoughtful, practical, strong-willed, nurturing NEGATIVE (-) : aloof, brusque, cunning, manipulative, intimidating Optimist or pessimist? Introvert or extrovert? Daredevil or cautious? Logical or emotional? Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? Prefers working or relaxing? Confident or unsure of herself?

——— HISTORY

TW: physical abuse; mild gaslighting; death; child death

her father named her polgara— beloved daughter— and oh, that she was. last born- darling baby of the family- and the only girl among a slew of older brothers. basradu had been a man when she’d been born- a young man to be sure, but a man nonetheless- and vladimir was chasing after his heels, but marcel grew with her. a half a step ahead, his two more years of life experience ahead of her own, but always close enough where she could reach out her hand for his when her own life felt too big and overwhelming. the youngest and the only girl left her isolated, sheltered for most of her earlier life, her aging father’s focus for her being seen and not heard. she focused on her studies, devouring as much knowledge as her young mind could consume, watching the processions of court quietly from the side.

brothers that spanned from near pseudo-fathers down to closest companions but not a sister in sight and her heart craved that connection. she flitted among the young lord and ladies at court, her bright smile and wide blue eyes endearing her to those around her but it was in lady mircea that she found her heart’s sister. even before basradu had begun to court her, polgara would emulate the beautiful young lady, trailing after her like any younger sister would. when basradu and mircea were wed, it was hard to find someone who was as pleased with the match as pol.

she was fifteen when the twins were born and love she never known herself to be capable of overflowed in her heart when she held the newborn babes. they were two perfect pieces of mircea and basradu- the absolute best parts of them, she was sure- and they were so beautiful. for the first four years of their lives, she spent every moment possible in the company of her beloved sister and her darling niece and nephew. it was in those moments that she poured her heart out to mircea, the woes of a young lady at court and the battlefield of affection that came from being a beautiful young woman of influence.

when she was nineteen that battlefield was conquered, due mostly in part by basradu who had arranged a match for her. her idealization of love was based solely off her brother and sister in law, her young and girlish mind imagining a husband who looked at her with the same amount of love and respect as the king did for her queen. when she meets him at the end of the aisle and her veil lifts, she’s greeted with a hungry and self-satisfied look that is leagues away from the light that shines in basradu’s eyes when he gazes upon his wife. she had been a prize to be won- out of countless suitors that would seek her hand in marriage, it had been he who’d bagged the prize.

polgara isn’t one to give up easily and she worked hard on her marriage, met with indifference and dismissal at every turn— except for when her husband’s urges brought him to her bed. they hadn’t been married a full year before she gave him a son- eriond- and the love that she’d felt for the nephew and niece back in iarna keep had only been a taste of the love she would feel when looking into her son’s face for the first time. from that moment, everything else became secondary. her husband’s affections no longer mattered- he’d given her living, breathing love, he’d served his purpose— and truly, she only wished to go home.

her husband served basradu as master of coin and polgara would mark the passing of time by the meetings of the king’s small council. for the days leading to the journey, she would be a constant flurry of activity- ensuring every case was packed with any thing and everything, double checking with the escorts about the route ( that never changed ) - and the closer their carriages came to trasnavda, the faster her anxiety would melt to happiness and the moment she stepped foot onto familiar stone leading up to the towering castle, it turned to joy. seeing her brothers, embracing her sister and kissing her niece and nephew soundly on either cheek, she was sure that a heart was not meant to contain so much joy. she would drink up their company, reveling in the presence of those she loved most in the world, listening with wide eyes as the twins told her about their young but Very Interesting lives or attentive ears when basradu, vladimir and marcel spoke of war. pol would sit with mircea, their hands clasping one anothers while she poured out her heart to the safest harbor she’d ever had, telling her about the lack of love in her marriage, her feeling of being a stranger in a stranger land in a place she should call home by now, and the overwhelming yearning to be close to the family that loved her.

as meetings adjourned and their carriages pull away from iarna keep, a deep melancholy would overcome pol, lingering for weeks. she would lay in bed, her eyes filled with tears that she would give no name to, missing social engagements and appearances that she was expected to be in attendance of as a lady of her position. it was an embarrassment on her husband- her behavior reflecting badly on him- and his temper flared in a way that made it so she couldn’t show her face outside for a weeks time at least. pressing her fingers against blooming bruise on her cheek, she let her heart harden against her husband. even after her bruise faded, she refused to leave, missing more engagements and causing the first whispers of rumors around the kingdom.

a letter from the keep inquiring about her health incensed her husband and her quiet rebellion caused her more grief than she had bargained for. for two weeks, she would let no one see her aside from one of her ladies, her face mottled and swollen and her ribs sore from where his boot had landed— even her sweet son, her living and breathing love, was kept from her. she wouldn’t let him see her like that. as the last of her swelling had receded and the bruising faded, another letter came from trasnavda, written in response to her husband explaining her difficulty, her refusal to perform her duties as a noblewoman and a wife and the embarrassment she was causing; polgara read her eldest brother’s familiar script, drinking in his words like they held the key to her escape from this less than happy ending she found herself in and was gifted with the message: every one has their position and their expectations— this is what we do; this is who we are.

it wasn’t a key for escape but a tool for survival. with her head held high, she stepped back into the public eye and into the sharks tank that is court. when pol slipped back into the role she’d been raised in- a princess, a sister of the king, a lady of walochnia- she did so as herself, not as the wife of a man, no matter how important he thought himself. she forged her own connections, outside of what would be beneficial for her husband. she found love- the kind she’d dreamed of as a younger more naive girl- in a member of her guard and with no care as to how it would appear to her husband, she promoted him to the captain of her guard- she made him her personal guard, never to be far from her side. the rumors of the rich and powerful never cease and when her stomach started to round with her second child, there was more than a little speculation that the child was the product of an affair.

the offense became too great, the shame too great to bear- the thought of his wife carrying someone’s bastard- and he came for her again but when he raised his hand, she didn’t cower— she remembered who she was. pulling her blade, she held it out in front of her in warning and let him know who she was: she was polgara dragola, daughter of king basradu ii, sister to the king of walochnia, trained by the master of war and he would not put his hands on her again or it would be the last thing he did. and by a miracle of god- or the understand that one good shove and her sword would go through him- he listened.

her second child was born and whispers continued to circulate but not a word was said edgewise to pol and her husband’s lips stayed tight. in public, they were the picturesque look of rigid nobility, grace and regal ( this is what we do ) and in private, they were strangers ( this is who we are ). when he fell ill with a serious fever, pol spared him the only barest of passing concern, sitting by his bedside when his breath rattled in his chest, holding his hand and patting it while he choked on his own breath, her face never changing from the look of general disinterest as her husband expired. she accepted condolences and expressions of sorry with quiet gratitude, more focused on her children— and on how she wanted to spend not another minute in this castle. she wanted to go home. she traveled back to iarna keep with her two small children, the three of them head to toe in mourners black but when she raced into the arms of her family, there was no trace of mourning in her smile.

there had been so much time wasted on a life that didn’t fulfill her, surrounded by faces of those that didn’t love her and when mircea passes, bringing the lovely dimitri into the world, it shatters her heart, knowing that she would never again get that time with her dearly beloved sister. the weight of expectation that’s put on lumina where the young prince is concerned feels too much to ask too soon. it was almost natural to take the baby, her heart flooding with the love that it felt for servaos and lumina when she looked at his small face and she decided to help alleviate the burden on the grieving princess’ shoulders, choosing to care for the newborn. he’s not hers and she would never for a minute think of him as such- he was mircea’s and basradu’s son and she would love him as fiercely as she does her own children but until lumina was ready to take a more active role in his upbringing, she would be that soft and motherly influence. she would tell the young prince about his family- his father the king, his brave prince brother fighting the ottolan horde, his beloved princess sister who had endeared herself in the hearts of their people for her goodness, his beautiful queen mother who had been light and love made human- and make sure that he knew who he was, that he would grow strong and wise in the knowledge of those who went before him.

despite her prayers for her children to be spared of the curse of the vrajiit ( because it was a curse, she saw how her dear nephew’s powers plagued him ), god had other plans. eriond could create light- little balls of light that would float slowly from his hands, rising up and up into the stars— it looked almost like a party trick. her son had never belonged on a battlefield. he was young and scared, armed with a sword and light and the ottolans had cut him down without a second thought to the roundness of youth he had yet to grow out of in his face or the downy soft hair on his cheeks. when her boy’s body was returned to her, she thought her mind would shatter- her heart was already in pieces, why not her mind as well? the moment she saw his body, a scream rang in her mind but not a sound left her trembling lips. when they buried him, her lips never moved but her eyes screamed silently at basradu and vladimir, accusation and blame shining in hot tears that fill her eyes before spilling over her cheek: it was your war— you were supposed to protect him— i will never forgive you for this.

but they were dragolas and they would persevere. since mircea’s passing, polgara started to gather her own spies and informants- some employed in the court of spies by her brother, slipped extra coin for their knowledge and others employed by her personally, spying in her own house. she is a constant face at any court event or social gathering, maintaining relationships with the warden houses and with the lesser nobility, being that demure face and gracious demeanor that colored the dragolas favorably and gathering what information ‘friends’ allow to pass between one another while her network of spies works their own angles. of course, she shares what she learns with her brothers should they seek her council— but there is some pieces of information she won’t. one never knows when they’ll need leverage.

from the beginning she’d been a staunch supporter of mina’s marriage to the lord anastase- it was a good match, danruba was a powerful ally. the most she’d been prepared for was a post wedding baby boom among the maids and ladies in waiting— certainly never imagined a dragon attack. her mind had been on dimitri, grabbing him and carrying him through the crumbling ballroom, running for safety. she’d thanked god on her knees that night, holding the young prince close and weeping when news reached her that they were all alive- her brothers, her dear servaos, her brave mina. the attack had shaken her and at first, she had been in favor for the trials— justice had to be served. however the manner in which they were performed and how things quickly devolved had the first edges of doubt in her brother creeping around the corners of her heart and mind and when he named accused traitors with no evidence, that doubt flared and her mind was a panic in how on earth would she repair the bridges basradu was burning?

the pardons were a smart move— the right move and polgara stands behind princess mina’s decision in the face of her brother’s anger towards his daughter. pol has never has a problem telling her brothers they were wrong and she tells him now, unfazed by any anger that might be directed her way; mina had been right in setting those people free, trying to earn back the trust of the people. the rumor mill continues if not thrives in the wake of tragedy and whispers of madness have reached pol— once upon a time she would have scoffed and dismissed them with a wave of her hand; nowadays though, the word pops in her own mind more than she’d care to admit. and basradu still has not named an heir— polgara knows that’s a shit storm coming and she will do whatever is necessary to get ahead of it in order to ensure that what the people of walochnia saw was a unified front: house dragola.

#hnnn it's 3 am and im on the struggle bus #everyone love me regardless of how htis is jKFLDSF #warborn.intro

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othercat2 · 5 years ago

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Fic Snippet the Second

Eriond: be the Rogue of Hope, my Belgariad-Mallorean/Homestuck crossover This snippet feature a petty thief storyteller sorcerer meeting a prophet.

==>Belgarath: avoid getting stabs

You were curious! Relg and Taiba weren’t bothered (too much) by your eccentricities and were very much used to you turning up suddenly for a meal or to snag supplies from their pantry. (Specifically their pantry, you would never take anything from the pantry of someone else in the village.) Unfortunately, they had not told their new houseguest about this arrangement. You startle the creature who is entering the kitchen while you were exiting the pantry with sausages, cheese and bread.

You’re just as startled truthfully. You get an impression of fierce red eyes in a dark face before the creature is grabbing a knife from the knife board, knocking you off your feet and holding the knife at your throat. The food has miraculously not gone flying. Disarming him would be easy but you’re curious, so you put on your “Storyteller” disguise and freeze as if you’re frightened and clutch the food to your chest. “I got permission of Mistress Taiba don’t eat me, monster!”

The creature opens its mouth, showing an impressive number of teeth. Its lip curls up, not like a sneer but more like a cat as it breathes in a scent. “You are not household,” it says finally, its voice a low hum. It shifts back onto its heels and rose slowly to its feet “You are also not village.”

“I’m just a travelling storyteller,” you tell the creature. “Mistress Taiba don’t mind none if I come in.”

Mara ruins your performance by saying, “Belgarath,” in a chiding tone of voice. “Don’t lie to My Brother’s Guest.”

“khe-Mara?” The creature asks. It visibly hesitates before returning the knife to the board.

“This is My Brother Aldur’s Disciple Belgarath,” Mara’s voice says. “He does not have precisely have permission to steal from the pantry, but Taiba allows this.”

Mara sounds amused. It’s almost strange hearing Mara have a complete set of emotions back, instead of that numbing grief and despair He had been sunk in for centuries. (You were never going to admit how frightened you had been by it. Two of your brothers committed suicide from despair and you were never, ever going to think about how frightening it might have been if Mara had tried to kill Himself. You also don’t want to particularly know if He had tried. The idea of a God attempting suicide was just…no.) “And I wasn’t precisely lying Lord Mara, I am a traveling storyteller.”

“But not all that you are,” Mara’s voice says. “This is Signless, My Brother’s Guest.”

“Pleased to meet you,” you say, and slowly get back up. (“Signless” was an odd name. And interesting name you were going to have to ask about.) There are times when you actually feel your age, and this might be one of them. Begrudgingly, very begrudgingly you extend the hand of friendship. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I did not expect your presence, my reaction was instant-sight,” it says. “I came for breakfast as well.”

“Lunch?”

It grins at you, and its teeth are a like sharpened pegs in its mouth. “I am nocturnal, mostly. I just woke up.” It points at your ill-gotten gains. “I will prepare food as an apology, and we can share it.”

#homestuck #belgariad #mallorean #belgarath #just belgarath

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