#eventually she’s going to have to turn into a bishop if the crowns all hers now

[iridiss]

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Could you do the follower bishops with someone who is wheelchair bound and loves to draw

Narinder

All he sees is a loyal follower who serves his vessel and praises his name, so he's indifferent to you being wheelchair-bound.

But out of curiosity, he examined how Lamb accommodated you through the Red Crown's eye.

They built ramps and wooden floorboards so grass/flowers didn't get stuck in your wheels, left an open space for you at the feasting table, and punish whoever discriminated against you or tried pushing your wheelchair without permission.

He's like "yes good,,,,inclusiveness will attract more to the cult >:3"

When Narinder himself winds up in the cult, he's moping around and avoiding everybody.

The other followers said you should prank him by rolling over his tail on "accident", but you aren't a fan of bullying.

Instead you roll up to one of his hiding spots like "hey, I have a small welcoming gift to cheer you up!"

He thinks it's "fertilizer" wrapped in a box, so he makes you open it.

It turns out to be a...portrait of himself?

You explain how you loved drawing your fellow followers, some even paying you and willing to sit still while you sketched their features in great detail.

"I hope it's alright that I took some creative liberties. I tried my best given how Leader described you in their sermons and........a-are you crying??"

"....what part of me made you assume I'm worthy to receive this? I almost killed you all!"

"Well..I like you better than our most recent dissenter who refused to listen to the Lamb unless they "cured" me."

"...ah, I see. So..what became of them?"

"Their body's still in the morgue pit. It's pretty messy...wanna see it?"

"Sure."

Leshy

Tbh he had no idea you were even in a wheelchair to begin with.

So when he first begins his farming duties within the cult, he hears wheels squeaking and thinks somebody's stealing the wheelbarrow from him.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going with that?! I need the wheelbarrow to-!!"

"Actually it's my wheelchair, Leshy. But you were close." You chuckle, assuring him you're not offended when he starts apologizing profusely.

It's a rather awkward first meeting between you two, though you both get along well afterwards.

Given that he's blind, it's hard for him to get around the base, too, so he sympathizes with you on that matter.

It took him a while just to focus on one person's scent at a time with so many followers surrounding him.

But he recognizes you by the smell of wood (different from the one he smells by the lumberyard) mixed in with your scent. So he always knows if you're approaching him.

And when he should stop so he doesn't accidentally bump into your wheelchair.

You've actually helped guide him around by letting him "push" your chair (he just holds onto the handles while you take him to different places so he can get a feel for the base's layout).

Leshy learns you love to draw, being disappointed he can't see the masterpieces you've created.

But you always describe them in great details for him, eventually deciding to invest in painting (specifically with acrylics) so he could feel the textures instead.

Heket

Caravans and carts have a difficult time traversing the swampy, mucky, and uneven terrain of Anura, so she's never seen a wheelchair user before.

When she meets you as a newly-indoctrinated follower, she just stares at your aid curiously, unsure of how to approach you and ask about it.

But since she has a constant resting bitch face, you think she's giving you a dirty look--and you give her one in kind.

"If you have something you wanna say, Heket, then-"

"..sorry.....didn't....mean...to...stare.."

Suddenly you remembered that she can barely talk, and you feel kinda bad for insulting her own disability.

So you cooked her a meal as an apology, to which she forgives you right away and warms up to you quicker than expected (though only bc you made great food).

She learns you love drawing and kinda wants to learn it herself. It could be a good way for her to better communicate her feelings.

Albeit her skills are.....novice at best.

She can draw runes, sigils, and demonic circles to perfection but drawing a simple frog is....tricky.

You give her some advice, and when she gets better through practice, you decide to draw portraits of each other.

Eventually she's comfortable enough to ask about your wheelchair, admitting she likes how you designed it.

Kallamar

He's likely no stranger to having followers with disabilities during his ruling of Anchordeep.

He may have been a ruthless paranoid bishop, but he's not cruel and has crafted mobility aids for whoever asked for one. Canes, wheelchairs, prosthetics--you name it. He even commissioned Kudaai for ones with weapon augments.

So he doesn't treat you any differently when he's indoctrinated into the cult, introducing himself like he would anybody else.

As narcissistic as he is sometimes, he's actually cool to be around.

But you feel like he only acts polite bc of Lamb.

While Kallamar knows you like to be independent, he's willing to help you out if asked.

Whether it's pushing your chair if your arms get tired, or to position it during a ritual you're attending, he's on the case.

The only con to this friendship is that he's deaf af and may have to lean down to hear you better.

But you don't mind it.

When he learns that you love to draw, he wonders if you've ever considered drawing him (he's far too shy to ask though).

However you must have a sixth sense...because you made him a portrait as a gift for a special occasion (aka the day the Blue Crown chose him as its bearer) and put it in a beautiful frame lined with crystal specs, leaving it wrapped up by his shelter.

After he sees it, he hugs it and rushes over to Lamb like "look at what Y/N made for me!!"

"That's nice, Kallamar-"

Do I have your permission to marry them?"

".....huh..?"

Shamura

They become an avid observer of everybody in the cult. Just to get a read on their personalities and what they do on a daily basis.

You're no exception, and they're impressed at how you get yourself around in a wheelchair.

Despite their damaged mind, it's still forever hungry for knowledge.

So they respectfully ask you how long you've had your aid and why, how Lamb has accommodated you, etc.

They're forgetful, but they hope to remember at least this for once and not have to ask you again.

You don't mind it at all, appreciating their politeness.

Whenever you're done with tasks and spend your free time drawing, Shamura often comes over to ask what inspired you today.

But one evening, they have a bad migraine attack while talking to you, forgetting who you are mid-conversation as they hissed, before skittering off....much to your bewilderment.

They couldn't sleep that night, wrought with guilt for acting that way in front of you, and the next morning they still can't remember your name despite it being on the very tip of their tongue.

They think it's wise to avoid you, but you track them down with a gift to assure them you weren't mad:

A simple portrait of themselves, signed with your name in the corner so they'd always have a reminder of you.

Least to say, Shamura hasn't forgotten your name since and is forever grateful.

[skyartworkzzz]

Because you said you love rambeling about lore and you are looking for excuses to talk about it redeem this cupon for one free lore ramble, any topic

OH YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT U JUST DONE

SIT BACK AND RELAX CUZ THE GOATS UNIVERSE HAS BEEN IN MY MIND THE WHOLE WEEK + SOME HEKET RAMBLING Cuz I got her a partner idea hehehe <3

LONG RAMBLING UNDER THE CUT!!! (btw bless chu I appreciate u <3 )

ABOUT CULT OF THE GOAT AU:

About the Purple Crown: Ive been seeing a lot of interpretations of Goat's Crown going around and honestly Id like to put in my cents: I dont think the Crown being purple changes who the owner was, because the eye shape is still the same as Lamb's Which brings me to think that, just like how in COTL everything seems to be colored after warmer/reddish colors, everything in Goat's universe must be following cooler/purpleish palettes What does that mean to me? That ALL the other Crowns are of different colors as well, maybe a colder one compared to their original ones

Im still thinking about what each of them would be here but so far I like to think that Yellow -> Ocean green?? Green -> Blue Blue -> dark pink? Purple -> Cyan/White

I think the Crown shapes would still be the same + what each Bishop's domain would be as well

About Aym and Baal: They were never offered to Narinder. Shamura didnt have that compassion. They were so mad at their brother that they couldnt bring themselves to consider his feelings for being banished. Neither did any of the other siblings, for they wouldve been too busy fighting off Old Gods and hunting for empowerment

So where are Aym and Baal? Theyre alive! With Forneus! And both of them are lil jerks as much as their mother Taught to steal, lie and fight, all in order to survive no matter what. The twins have already expressed wanting to go out and explore the world, but Forneus refuses to let her kids go, much for her own selfish reasons of them being the only things that make her happy in this fcked up world AND because, of course, she loves them. She knows how cruel the world has turned into, she does not want to lose them Aym and Baal never met Narinder, and Narinder never met them Maybe eventually, while Goat is out in a crusade, they shall cross paths........as enemies

About the Purgatory: This is still smtng I am speculating about, but what I have so far: instead of it being MS to tell the Goat to free the Bishops from their deserved-suffering, itd be them asking the deity if such thing was possible, because Narinder wouldve been feeling bad about it He believes that his siblings could change over time, especially now that the Crowns were relinquished by the Goats power, and so they are allowed to have that chance This would unlock many scenarios of the Bishops actively trying to take over the cult, run away or kill the Goat + their followers. It is smtng Ill let cook for a while more

IF ANYTHING Id just- leave them dead lol they wouldnt be redeemable in this world (BUT BECAUSE I LOVE MY SKRUNKLIES EQUALLY ILL TRY TO MAKE IT WORK-)

ABOUT HEKET: Ehehehe I accidentally started shipping her with my follower OC Astrid so we'll see how it goes

Astrid is someone who keeps to herself for the sake of others; she is not used to opening up and oftentimes believes her pain is not worth of complains compared to others she is caring for However, she is very much talkative, maybe as a way to make her forget her problems Whilst Heket she- well. She cant. Talk much it hurts like hell UASHDNJASMDK

SO WE HAVE A TALKATIVE BUBBLY GF WITh her mostly quiet butch wife that shes constantly having to change the bandages of <3

I have a dialogue set up for them which I shall get to drawing a comic for as soon as I am done with thIS CURRENT COMIC-

ANYWAYS thats the ramblings for now, HOPE YALL LIKE THE IDEAS bless u again for givng me a free pass made me rlly happy MWEHE,,!! 💜💜💜

[citrenecult]

Heket headcanons? Or more NariLamb ones!

Can the Lamb cook

Heket

-Heket is really strong. She may look like a fat frog but under that fat is muscle and she can definitely throw a hard punch. Is skilled in hand-to-hand combat and doesn’t like using weapons all that much.

-She was the first sibling Shamura adopted and definitely missed the days where it was only them two. She does love her brothers but sometimes she longs for Shamura’s undivided attention.

-I mean we all agree that Heket gives off lesbian vibes right?

-She had a great voice for singing and wrote many lullabies for her brothers when they were still babies. She also enjoyed playing the lute and it would often accompany her songs.

-She is a patron for children, though that was not always the case. It took her a long time warm up to the idea of other siblings but once she grew to love them she dedicated Anura to being a safe haven for mortal children. She defiantly has a soft spot for them, as they reminder her of simpler times when her brothers were still babies and toddlers. Though that does not stop her from having an occasional child sacrifice from time to time.

-Believes in the fat. Fat is a compliment. Be chubby and be proud!

-Is into fashion and has an extensive wardrobe. Likes fluffy or silky scarves and gloves and wearing jewelry. Kallamar often steals borrows her clothes and never gives them back, much to her dismay.

-After Narinder’s betrayal she became emotionally distant from the rest of her siblings. She may not have had the best relationship with Narinder before hand but him turning his back on their family hurt her more than she ever thought it would. Becoming distant gave her comfort in thinking that, should something happen to her siblings , it wouldn’t hurt as much. This made the bond between the bishops fragile and fighting was becoming commonplace. It didn’t matter much, as her devastation over Leshy’s death hurt just as much if not more than Narinder's betrayal.

-Heket became Shamura’s caretaker after they suffered their head injury and took up the mantle of head of the Old Faith in their stead even though she was not in the right state of mind to do so.

-She blamed herself for Leshy’s death. She was still grieving for him even while fighting the Lamb and while her emotions made her more lethal they also made her accident-prone, resulting in her loss and death.

NariLamb

tbh completely honest I ship them more platonically than romantically but I’ll try to provide headcanons that work for both

-Lamb’s love language is physical touch while Narinder’s is words of affirmation. Lamb is kinda sorta definitely touch starved and desperately wants a hug while Narinder wants to hear that he’s enough or if he’s doing a good job at something.

-Lamb and Narinder are listeners rather than talkers so they make for great ears when it comes to talking about issues. Lamb is the one that offers advice, however. Narinder’s advice is awkward/well-intentioned but poorly worded most of the time.

-Narinder wants his crown back. Lamb is not giving it back.

-Lamb helped a lot with Narinder physical therapy when he was still a newly indoctrinated follower. They came up with an exercise regime that kept Narinder in shape and slowly helped build his strength up. Narinder didn’t like it at first, it felt patronizing but warms up to it eventually.

-Narinder hates water because cat. Lamb absolutely loves pushing him (safely) into ponds. Narinder hates it in the moment but there will come a day when he’ll look back on it and laughs even though he still hates it.

-I can’t imagine them really getting officially married but it taxes were to become a thing (ie, the cult itself gets taxed for whatever reason) I can see Lamb going up to Narinder and asking, “Would you marry me for tax benefit?” And Narinder would absolutely say yes because fuck taxes.

-Lamb cannot cook very well (I mean have you seen the food in game? I’m worried about the Cultists diets) but can prepare pufferfish correctly and with ease so hey that’s something! (A big something)

[olliewesker]

Violet Violence Chapter 1

"In a world of pure wreckage, where war reigns supreme, the bearer of the crown of violet will rise up and set The Awaiting Beast loose into the world, and The Old Faith will be annihilated. Take heed, ye skeptics, for thou shalt be hit the hardest when the day of reckoning come."

-Witness Allocer, days after the imprisoning of Ex-Bishop Shamura.

In the heart of The Gateway stood a grandiose temple. The temple of Narinder, the god of death.

Below even the very lowest floor of the temple, resided a singular jail cell. Completely cut off from any light or outside contact, only accessible to Narinder himself.

And in that jail cell, stayed a moth.

For the past however many years of her life, this moth had only seen the stained walls and grungy floors of her jail cell. She knew not her name, nor even the fact that she was a moth. She knew not her parents, nor the reason why she had grown up in this dark, cold, cramped space.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. For you see, every time this moth laid down on the floor to sleep, a being would come to her in her dreams.

An odd being.

A terrifying being.

A divine being.

This being would educate the moth as if she were a simple student to a teacher. They continually reassured the moth that she would be freed from the hellish state she lived in, and she merely needed to be patient.

This being was the reason why the moth had any sort of knowledge. The reason she continued living.

One day, the moth had just woken up after another meeting with the strange being. The moth had a heavy sense of excitement, as the being had told her that this would be the day she finally escaped. If her cell had ample space, she would’ve been flying around in pure excitement.

Before the moth could fantasize about her coming freedom, a hole in the ceiling opened. The moth assumed that it was time for breakfast. Unfortunately, that was as far from the truth as she could get.

A blood-red chain descended from the hole, one that usually held some sort of mold-ridden food, but this time, there was nothing on it.

The moth was confused, but her confusion would quickly turn into terror, as the chain wrapped itself around her body and began pulling her up the hole. The moth screamed in horror and tried with all her might to get herself free from the chain, but it was no use.

Soon the moth found herself inside the main room of Narinder’s temple. Her eyes were assaulted by the brightness of the room, an entire life of darkness having made her eyes extremely sensitive to any sort of light.

��Hmph, finally woke up did you? You worthless wretch,” A hushed, growling voice spoke.

The moth’s pained eyes eventually adjusted to the light enough to make out who spoke.

It was Bishop Narinder, looking just as the being had described him.

“I’ve decided that it’s time to put an end to your miserable existence. Leaving you alive is only going to give you time to fulfill that god-forsaken prophecy.”

Before the moth could say anything back, Narinder grabbed the end of the chain that bound her, and prepared to use it to slam the moth into the ground with it, the stiffness of his artificial arms causing him visible frustration.

The moth tried to brace for impact, but Narinder was too quick. The second the moth met the floor, her vision went completely dark, and her body was overcome with pure pain.

But this wouldn’t last long, however. As the moth soon awoke, finding themselves lying face down on a cold, purple stone floor. She stood up, and upon looking up, stumbled back and fell over once again, for standing before her, was the being from her dreams. A large spider, as purple as the stone floor, ferocious looking, yet beautiful and divine. By their sides were two more, significantly smaller spiders, their hands clasped in prayer to the one standing in between the both of them.

“Keeheeheeheehee….surprised to see me, little moth? I told you today would be the day you went free, did I not?” The being said, a fanged smile across its face.

The moth stood back up and approached the being, trying to find the words she wanted to say, but she was quickly intercepted once again.

“You have many questions, and fear not, I will answer them.”

“I believe it is time I finally inform you of my name, I am known as The Awaiting Beast. It is a pleasure to finally see you in person, my student.”

“Th…Th..Thank you, f-for-”

“There is no need to apologize. The pleasure is all mine…now…why are you here? Well, you have been killed.”

“Huh? But you told me today was the day I was going to be freed!”

“Well, you are no longer in the cell, are you?”

“N-No…”

“Indeed. But since you are dead, that freedom means nothing. But, do you remember that request I made of you a while back?”

“You would continue teaching me, but in return, I would set you free from your prison?”

The Awaiting Beast nodded, as their smile grew wider.

“But, how do I free you? I’m just a moth.”

“Well, that’s what I was about to introduce to you.”

The Awaiting Beast reached to the top of their head and pulled down a strange, black object, the top of it looked like a crescent, and in the center was a large, purple eye. The Awaiting Beast held the object as far down as they could, the chains clasped to their wrists made them unable to hold it completely to the moth’s level.

The moth approached the object curiously, which floated downwards in front of her.

“I bestow upon you The Purple Crown. Go on, put it on.”

The moth quickly placed the crown on her head, and suddenly her body was overcome with magical power. A purple haze clouded her vision, and when it went away, she felt and looked completely different.

The moth’s dirty fur had seemingly been scrubbed sparkling clean, and had turned from grey to a light purple, and her wings had grown significantly, as well as turning a dark purple, and along with that, she was now wearing a regal purple dress with blue accents.

“Keeheehee…well, how do you feel?” The Awaiting Beast asked.

“I feel…powerful…amazing…like…like I’ve inherited all of your knowledge.”

“Keheheh, perhaps not all of it, but you have a decent amount of it. But that is not important. I dub you; Viola, Bearer Of The Purple Crown.”

“Viola…that..is a wonderful name for me. Thank you, my liege.”

“You are quite welcome. Now, you are about to be revived, so I’m afraid our time must end for now. But fear not, for the one reviving you will be able to give you further instruction.”

As The Awaiting Beast finished speaking, another purple haze began to fill Viola’s vision, and she felt herself being pulled upwards.

And thus our story begins.

[moonstonedrawsrandomly]

Dishonor 4

Palace Au

“Welcome back, imperial High Bishop Shamura. Hope your travels was safe”

“…”

They couldn’t get up until Shamura told them to. They couldn’t see their sibling’s face but they can tell they were in deep trouble.

“Lift your heads. We have a serious problem in this kingdom”

He said. The room began to get darker. Shamura’s energy was seeping out of his crown. His anger was filling the room. Blanche held Leshy closer to him, not knowing that this anger wasn’t going to be towards them.

“Your all probably wondering why I am back earlier than predicted. I…retuned early since the issue has been resolved in the Western gate. I was expecting that either these tasks that have left you three would either be completed or at least in progress…why did I come back to MORE problems and a kingdom on the verge of a revolt?”

Heket and Jabre held each other’s hand. Melody pets her Bishop’s hand trying to soothe his anxiety. Narinder braced for the worst but tried to speak to an already annoyed and angry Shamura

“Dear sibling-“

Shamura ignored him and went straight into the problems. Blanche sipped his tea, watching what will happen next.

“Kallamar…I left you in charge of distributing the winter medicines. Winter, despite its holidays does NOT mean you and your physicians get to slack off. There are many dead at the front of the gates, begging for someone to have seen them YESTERDAY! I’m sure Melody can vouch that you’ve been slacking. The other physicians told me that you were”

Kallamar gritted his teeth. They sold him out. Melody came forward to plead his case but Shamura stopped her.

“I don’t want to hear it. Melody, you look exhausted. I can tell the truth on your face. You were doing Kallamar’s job at the detriment to your own health. Step back”

And so she did. Blanche shivered. He can’t imagine what’s going to happen to Bishop Narinder. Then he moves onto Heket.

“Heket, I understand that you are a bishop with less power, but you HAVE TO throw your power around. I know he’s your brother, but he stunted your work as well”

Jabre steps up for her.

“High Bishop. Please forgive my Bishop! We were aware that Leshy’s palace wasn’t done when Blanche arrived”

“So 4 months ago?”

“Yes, we tried to give assistance, and even offered to let them stay at the palace, but…after a scare, it only made sense to finish that floor for him. My bishop was cut off from giving young bishop Leshy any aide at the risk of him taking over food storage from her.

We provided them with supplements and wood for meals, but this credit doesn’t belong to us. It was Blanche who stepped up the most. He went outside of the palace and bought food and clothing for Leshy.”

They can see his anger cease for a moment as he turns to Blanche next to him burping Leshy.

“Blanche, can you vouch on their behalf?”

Blanche nodded. Shamura knew the truth, he just knew someone would fold eventually.

“The only thing that hasn’t fallen apart was food for the kingdom. And you didn’t dip into winter reserves, that’s good. The only good thing that I came back to, so good work.  Jabre step back”

He steps back to be with his bishop. Taking her hand. She could feel him shiver from the pressure. She squeezed it back reassuringly. I think they will be okay, hopefully. Shamura then turns his attention to Narinder.

“I already know what you did and didn’t do. I’m not going to ask you what happened. The pure distain and hatred you have for your younger siblings is nauseating. Clearly giving you power like this…was a mistake. And the people refuse to have you take over while I’m gone anymore…and I agree”

Narinder lifts his head. His concubines didn’t come forward for him. At all. There was no defending that. They liked their heads attached to their necks. Shamura gets up from his seat.

“Starting today, things will need to move fast. Chestnut, I want every available carpenter, builder, and woodworker brought to the green palace. I want it done in at least a week. Understand?”

“Of course, but-“

“The funds will come out of all THREE bishops allowances. Starting from the most guilty to the least. Narinder 75%, Kallamar 50%, and Heket 25%”

The others lifted their heads in shock. Narinder wasn’t surprised.

‘That’s all? Hmph. Shamura you have gone soft’

He said. But he didn’t sit down. He then looked at Blanche who was sitting next to him with Leshy.

“Let’s continue. Also, reward blanche with an official Royal Attendant title and a generous gift. And I won’t accept No for an answer, Blanche”

Blanche bows with Leshy in his arms. Not wanting to anger an already upset bishop, he accepts the gift this time.

“Thank you for you consideration”

Blanche said. Then he turned back.

“Heket and Jabre. Since you attempted to help Blanche and Leshy survive while I was gone, I will give you the lightest sentence. You are to assist in the decoration of Leshy’s palace AND I’m leaving you both in charge of its completion. Let’s see if you both can do this well.”

They both bowed heavily. Thankful that they have been spared of a serious punishment.

“Kallamar…since you don’t seem to understand, I decided that I will not punish you either…”

Before Kallamar could thank him, the second line comes out of his mouth

“Melody will take your punishment in you place.”

Kallamar flinched! What? Why her? After everything she did? Melody knew this was coming.

“NO! PLEASE MY DEAR SIBLING!! Please don’t punish her! She’s innocent!”

Shamura looked amused at this. Melody looked down. She accepted her fate. She tried to warn him and she must endure his punishment. Melody just hopes he learns from this.

“Guards, drag Melody out and whip her 50 times”

“NO! YOU WILL NOT TAKE HER!”

Kallamar tried to stop the guards from taking her along with his other concubines, but Melody was still going. Kallamar could hear her be whipped outside, the agony in her voice. Thankfully Leshy fell asleep in the warm hall. Blanche even flinched himself. Should he say something?

“Shamura! You monster! She’s innocent!”

“She is, you’re right. It’s unfortunate that she, despite everything she did to prevent this, she had a master who didn’t give a damn about her. Almost like how you didn’t give a damn about your people dying out in the street and preferred to indulge yourself.”

“Please stop! I beg of you! Spare her if anymore”

“They will stop when she received your punishment to the fullest.”

He said. Narinder was still looking at him. Shamura leans down to him.

“You are not going to touch me with that dirty whip”

“You know if I wanted to punish your concubines, you wouldn’t care. Punishing them or even killing then does nothing for you, unlike your brother…”

“High Bish-“

“SILENCE!”

He shouted. The room shook with his words. The concubines lowered their heads in fear. He grabs Narinder by the collar.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO BURN DOWN OUR KINGDOM?!? What took us years for us to build?!? Why are you defying every order that I gave you? You almost left Leshy, another bishop, to die in the cold, and we almost had a revolt on our hands.what would’ve happened if I didn’t come home early? What would-“

“Just give me the punishment already, I don’t need a lecture”

Everyone’s eyes widened. The room was uncomfortably quiet. And so was outside. Then the guards dragged Melody back inside. Her back was bleeding with some marks deeper than the other and she could barely hold herself up.She falls limp to the floor with not a drop of strength in her body.

“Melody!”

The other concubines rush to her aide. Kallamar scoops her up. She is unconscious from the pain. He weeps.

“Melody…I’m sorry…so sorry…”

“Let that be a lesson to you, Kallamar. Your actions and your inactions have consequences for everyone around you. You are a leader, don’t forget that. Understand?”

“…Yes…Big Brother…”

“Good. Treat her injuries with the finest medicine if you wish.”

“Melody…Melody…”

He said. His other concubines looked on, worried for their dear friend. She didn’t deserve the punishment. And such an aggressive one as well. Shamura continues.

“Guards”

His guards arrived back.

“You know there is nothing you can do to punish me…”

“I’m aware-“

“Your majesty High Bishop! I have news from the Eastern Gate”

Shamura sighs. First the South, Now the East? What is going on?

“Is it important?”

“Yes, it is critical! Some Heretics have infiltrated the Eastern gate and have been seen intermingling with the people. This requires your attention”

Shamura groaned. Narinder’s concubines looked at each other. How did the commander screw that up?!? Shamura then looked to his left. Blanche was there, holding a sleeping Leshy. He couldn’t help but stare lovingly.

“That would mean I’d be gone for a week. Earliest, Christmas Eve I will be back…”

“Sounds like you will still need me, Brother…”

He said. Shamura didn’t want to leave Narinder in charge again. If he does, he may not have a kingdom to return to. He just got back and hasn’t even laid down on his bed. He was exausted. Then he looked up at his bishops. His sibling. Then he remembered Heket. Now he knew how to punish Narinder, hit him in his pride!

“Hear my decree. Narinder will not have his bishop power when I am gone. Kallamar will only retain his power over the health and well-being of the kingdom. Heket…will be the standing High Bishop in charge until I return.”

Everyone gasped. Heket will be in charge? Kallamar and Narinder are stripped of their power until he returns?!? Shamura gets up.

“All of you, you have heard my decree. Leave now”

“Yes, Imperial High Bishop”

Narinder seethed with anger.

“How dare you-“

Narinder was pissed. But before he could say anything more, Shamura goes straight up to him. He could feel his crowns power seeping out of his body. He could feel the darkness engulfing him. Suffocating him. He’s been here before, but only this time, he felt like his life was in danger. He falls to the ground holding his neck. This illusion felt too real. Shamura walks away and goes to Blanche. He touches Leshy’s sleepy head only enough not to wake him

“Forgive me for leaving you so soon, little one. I’ll be back, okay? Blanche, forgive my sudden departure but I will be leaving Leshy in your continued care”

“Yes, I will care for him well!”

He said. Shamura nodded, then he looked at his advisor.

“Heket, forgive me for leaving you a high task for you to do. Your siblings are punished for the time being and I need these things done before I return. You have Jabre and anyone else from my cabinet to help you. Chestnut, Heket will be in charge of the kingdom until I return. Please help her to do a good job”

“Yes my Liege. Bishop Heket, I am at your beck and call”

He said. Shamura leaves the room to get ready for another exhausting trip back out. What should’ve been a relaxing week became another family affair.

TBC

[achickennamedcheese]

Cult of the Lamb info (note: I don't participate in the fandom, only the game, and it's been a while since I played. I do suggest checking the wiki and listening to others as well.): A really, really, really long time ago there were the First Gods. It is unknown (I think) what happened to them, but they stopped being Gods at some point. Instead, there came to be five Crowns, which eventually fell into the hands of five siblings. With these crowns, they became the Bishops of the Old Faith. They were, as follows: Shamura, the oldest, who became the Bishop of War by wearing the Purple Crown. Kallamar, the Bishop of Pestilence and wearer of the Blue crown. Narinder, Bishop of Death, wearer of the Red Crown. Heket, Bishop of Famine, wearer of the Yellow crown. And the youngest, Leshy, the Bishop of Chaos and wearer of the Green crown. Things were fine between them for a while, until Narinder got restless. Shamura introduced Narinder to the idea of change, which made Narinder kinda lose it over time and he attacked his siblings. He severely maimed all of his siblings, and as a result, his siblings locked him... wherever he is.

Unfortunately, there was a prophecy that a lamb would release The One Who Waits (Narinder's new name), so the four remaining Bishops decided the best course of action was to kill every lamb ever. That's where you come in! You play as Lamb, the name and gender-indeterminate lamb who just happens to be the last of their kind. (The fandom, at least for a while, latched onto Lamb being a lil' guy named Lambert but that's just popular fanon and I don't know if that's still true.) Unfortunately for you, you have been caught and are promptly executed for the crimes of being fluffy and made of wool. Luckily for you, Narinder grabs your soul and is like "make a cult in my honor and you get to live. Also you get my fancy crown that turns into weapons and lets you commit war crimes". Your choices are 'Yes' and 'Absolutely', so off you go to do that. You then proceed to go to the various lands that the remaining Bishops reside in, kill the Bishops, gain followers, and level up your cult. Also farm. Once you end all four of the Bishops, Narinder demands his crown back. You then proceed to fight Narinder's two cat guardians (who Shamura actually forced a mother cat her two little kits to them, so they could yeet them at Narinder so Narinder wouldn't be lonely), then Narinder himself. You can choose to kill him, or spare him, at which point the Lamb becomes the new official Bishop/God of Death, and Narinder is your immortal follower. Afterwards, an entity called ??? (who you get to name later) shows up to have you gather First God tears for fantastic prizes, and also you go to release the previous Bishop's souls and can then add THEM to your followers as well. Personality-wise, Lamb is whatever you want them to be. Narinder thinks that everything is beneath him and deserves to die. The only sibling he expresses remorse about maiming/getting killed is Shamura, though there are hints that he might feel bad about the others. Maybe. He tends to be very insulting and caustic to the Lamb though, at least when he's a follower. (From what I understand, the fanon interpretation is that he is very tsundere for the Lamb.) Shamura kinda seems like they're the nicest of the remaining Bishops. Kallamar is a coward. I forget the personalities of Heket and Leshy (though I vaguely remember thinking that Heket would be the sort to fist-fight God in the Denny's parking lot, if she were allowed to) because it's been a while.

Ah- thank you!

[moonwaterart]

______________________________________________________________

I may as well post the other very short ficlets I've done so far, so if you stumble across these, I do hope you enjoy them. Here's one for Heket

______________________________________________________________

The One Who Signs

Another punch was thrown at the wall of the crumbling temple in the center of Anura. Frustration and anger boiled through Heket’s veins as news of Gusion’s fall and recruitment to The Red Crown came to her. During these times, her followers would stay out of her way as it was more or less a one way ticket to getting hurt or sacrificed in the name of The Old Faith, yet one follower watched as she tried to scream and cry as she let out her frustrations on something that would inevitably have to be cleaned up and replaced once more.

With a sigh, they walked closer once she eventually crumbled to her knees, worn out by all the activities within the last hour and the damage she had caused. Crouching to be in her line of sight, they pulled their hood back and offered her a small, yet worn smile.

“I know this is hard to hear, Great Leader… but may I offer you my ears to listen to your woes?” They ask. When trying to reply, Heket seemed to cough and spit up the blackened ichor that was once blood. Her follower watched for a moment before offering her a rag they kept to clean up. “Ah… um, perhaps I can be of some assistance with your words? It’s not much, but my family developed a system for us to commune with one another without words. I could teach you if you would like.”

If looks could kill, the glare they received would have done them in. “It was just as a way for those in my family born without the ability to speak or listen to communicate, nothing more.”

“Then teach me…” Haggard and hushed words commanded.

“As you wish, Great Leader.”

--

“And this means ‘leave me alone’.’ Heket remembered that lesson vividly. In fact, going through each sign with her follower made Heket more content with learning. They were simple, but effective and this new phrase was one she would use more often than not over the course of the next few days. Her frustrations turned to rapid signing and only talking when she needed to with her siblings. Though, when she did talk, she would subconsciously talk with her hands as well. It didn’t take long until Kallamar asked what she was doing.

“One of my followers showed me how to… talk when my voice is spent. I guess I’ve been practicing without really realizing.”

“W-wow… that’s quite a gift for your follower to show you.” He commented. “Must… must be nice.”

“It is. I’m thankful to have them teaching me.”

“Perhaps… I could learn as well? It’s hard for me to hear-”

“Only if they wish to teach you, Kallamar. I have no time to do such things. Not when I have a Lamb to prepare to defeat.” With a turn of her heel, she melted into the portal that opened below her only to emerge within the haven that protected her followers. Eligos had dissented and deserted her flock and she needed to train her final High Priestess in order to take on that damned lamb. A few followers greeted her, but more or less avoided her, until she got to her most loyal follower who finished their conversation with another as she stopped by them. With a wave, they turned to leave only to stop as she was beside them.

“Oh! Leader! Good afternoon, I’m glad you're back. Was your journey a success?” They asked, signing with their hands as they spoke. Heket gave them a small smile.

‘Yes. The other bishops and I had our talk. It was… interesting. Where’s Zepar?’

“Oh! They should be back from their mission soon. I think Palilth asked for them to gather some mushrooms for tonight’s soup. Will you be joining us tonight, Great Leader?”

‘Perhaps I should. Would you be willing to teach what you have taught to my brother?’

Their follower tilted their head slightly. “One of the other bishops?”

‘Correct. He would like to learn as he is hard of hearing. He’s quite a child when it comes to things he wants to learn and I know he will not shut up about it until there is a yes, I will not make you though.’

Their follower turned their head downward as if in thought before nodding. “Well… if that would make him happy, and by extension make you happy, I’d be more than willing to teach him as I have you.”

‘Then I will tell him. Your lessons will happen before sundown and in a place of my choosing so I may watch you two.’

“I-it’s okay Great Leader, you don’t have to sit in as it’ll be stuff you have learned already-“

“I wouldn’t want my brother trying to sway my most loyal and loving follower into joining his sect, would I?” Her voice was still low and throaty, but her follower’s only reaction was to become flustered. If they were her most loyal follower… then they wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would they?

[the-girl-in-the-box]

Not Today XXXII

A/N: It's wedding time, folks! Which, of course, means new drama, and toward the end here, new trauma. Why do I do this to these characters? Because the plot demands it, I'm afraid. But hey, hopefully it makes for good reading. So, with that said, I hope you enjoy! Skål!

Summary: When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.

Masterlist

--

The palace was buzzing with activity as the wedding of Prince Oleg and Princess Katia drew ever nearer, and Asta found herself glad that the Prince and Princess were both kept rather distracted and busy with the arrangements for the occasion. This meant that she and Ivar had almost entirely unrestricted time to theirselves, and also an abundance of free time with Igor. It was easy enough now to get time with him, so they could grow closer and closer to the boy, until they’d grown so close to him, that he almost felt like…

Well, Asta had grown to think of him like a son. Their son, truly, though she’d never referred to him as such with Ivar. It wasn’t that she couldn’t see such a bond forming between the two, it was more that she knew that could force a discussion between them about what exactly they were, what they meant to each other. They didn’t realize they were very much on the same page, the care for each other being quite strong in them both, that it was even the same kind of care. Of course, they both remembered the kiss they’d shared in Novgorod- or, the kisses, really- but they hadn’t kissed again since, for fear the other hadn’t really meant it.

But the wedding was coming, and on the day of, both Asta and Ivar seemed to have the startling revelation that they’d be expected to attend, as the guests of Prince Oleg. As his honored guests, what with almost the whole of Rus believing she was Ivar’s Queen. This had sent them both into a frenzy of getting ready as quickly as they could, even down to braiding each other’s hair so that they didn’t waste time on fumbling with each braid themselves.

Ivar found himself stunned into silence at the sight of Asta in such formal apparel as they were expected to wear for the wedding. He’d not seen her dressed like a Princess since before the Siege of Kattegat. Since then, she’d put her everything into being a Shieldmaiden, and appearing as such, so it was a shock to him to see her dressed this way, now. But, there was a difference now.

Now, she wore a dress more like those the women of Kattegat had worn- the Queens of Kattegat had worn. Her hair was done in many braids, giving her a look which still very much called back to a Shieldmaiden, and her eyes were lined black, only adding to the look. Truthfully, she looked exactly like he knew a Shieldmaiden Queen would look, sitting in the Great Hall to hold court. This brought about Ivar’s second startling revelation of the day.

He gave a small hum, which brought Asta’s attention to him with raised brows, expectant. She even prompted him with the question of, “Yes?” which she spoke with quite the same tone as if she were asking if she could help him. This only caused Ivar to chuckle softly.

“I was only thinking how you would look sitting on the throne of Kattegat,” he confessed, and her eyes widened a bit.

“The throne?” she questioned. “I’d have to be Queen to sit there, wouldn’t I?”

“Mm, you would,” he confirmed, nodding slowly. “But I think you would make an excellent Queen. Don’t you?”

Asta chuckled softly, shaking her head a bit and leaning against the wall. “If you think a Saxon woman would make an excellent Viking Queen, then perhaps,” she said. Her answer had been far less committal than he’d have liked, but he didn’t figure he could do very much about that. Not without pushing a bit for a more exact answer, of course, which he was not at all above doing.

“I would think so,” he said. “You are not just any Saxon woman, though, are you?” She gave him a pointed, yet amused look. “You were born to be Princess of Wessex. A role you have… given up, yes, but one you were still prepared for most of your life. You would have been taught the sorts of things which make a successful Queen, wouldn’t you?”

With a deep breath, she did nod. “I would have been, yes,” she conceded. “But you are the son of Ragnar Lothbrok. You’re the heir to his throne, not me. If we return to Kattegat, triumphant, then you will be King, and I would be your Prophet again.”

“Maybe so,” he said, “but either way, I would like to have a Queen, and you are the most fit I can think of.”

Asta chuckled softly. “That would require I be your wife, you realize?” she pointed out, and the way he smirked made her cheeks flush pink. She blinked a few times. Oh. Well, then that was his whole point, wasn’t it? He was telling her a very specific intention he had when they eventually returned to Kattegat, and the thought made her blush.

He wanted to marry her there.

That, or they were preparing to attend a wedding, and he was messing with her. Messing with her, or… trying to see how she felt on the idea? The lack of certainty as to his meaning by presenting this idea to her made her shift a bit in place, and eventually just answer, “We can’t be late. Oleg will serve our heads at the feast after,” before ducking out the door.

She could hear him laughing to himself at her response, and her cheeks burned a little hotter in her embarrassment. Probably, it was only the impending wedding putting thoughts in his head of what he might like when all of this was done. Maybe it was true, he wanted to marry again, and she was the only woman he felt close enough to that he felt comfortable considering it with her. But surely that would change, if they only met some Viking woman who was better suited for him to be Queen in Kattegat.

What Asta didn’t realize, was that Ivar didn’t think there was a woman better suited to the position, to the throne, than she was. She knew and loved the people there, had been close to the Queen who had served during her time there, and now was close to him. Not only that, but she could fight better than any shieldmaiden he had met on the battlefield, and had been trained in the art of ruling a Kingdom before she left Wessex. Add her loyalty to him, and the connection he was fairly certain they shared? No, he couldn’t think of a better woman to be his Queen than Asta the Prophet.

They ended up walking to the wedding together, of course, but neither of them could quite find it in themselves to speak. It was incredibly clear how strange this would feel, to watch a woman who so closely resembled Freydis to them, marry a man who wasn’t Ivar- and a man neither of them trusted so far as they could throw him, at that. No, it wasn’t a pleasant day at all.

But still, they were escorted to a place of honor when they arrived, close enough they would be able to see the wedding take place with no difficulty, and they shared an uncomfortable glance as the wedding got underway. It was torture to them both.

Nothing felt any better as they watched the rings be placed on Katia’s and Oleg’s fingers, as their hands were bound together by a pure white cloth, and as crowns were placed on both their heads. Each of them holding a candle in their free hands, they began to follow the priests around the altar in a circle, and as they came around, both Prince and Princess looked to those they believed to be rightful King and Queen, though Oleg looked away before Katia did. Asta wrapped her arm around Ivar’s, hoping to bring him some slight comfort as he watched the woman who looked so much like his late wife, who he still couldn’t be sure wasn’t her, marry another man.

After all, how much would Asta’s own heart ache if she had to watch Ivar do the same?

They ended up being brought to feast privately with the newly wedded couple once the wedding was over, and as they sat, Ivar decided to speak up, to make sure he and his wife were in a good place with them both still, as strange as things had seemed during the ceremony.

“May we be the first to congratulate the bride and the groom on this momentous day?” he said, and lifted his drink in a toast. “Skål.”

Asta, Oleg, and Katia all returned the toast, taking a sip of their drinks in turn, though Oleg spoke up to say, “And may Odin, Frey, and Freyja also bless our marriage.”

“Yes,” Katia agreed. “To Odin, the Allfather. And to Frey, and Freyja.”

Oleg dismissed the servants who were waiting on the group, and they all bowed, before slipping quietly from the room. Asta watched them go, always perceptive to everything happening in the room. The poisoning of Prince Askold had warned her to be ever on guard with Oleg.

“To Odin,” he toasted, once the servants had all gone. “And the gods. Skål.” Asta wasn’t sure why he seemed to be toasting what he just had, but she figured the difference must lie in a toast to the gods, as opposed to a toast in hopes that their marriage would be blessed by the gods. Still, it made very little sense to her, in all honesty. “Katia told me that she reminds you two of someone,” Oleg began, as Ivar and Asta set their cups down. They each lifted a brow, and then looked between themselves in slight concern. Though, it should be noted only they could read that expression, from so long of being in such close quarters. Neither of them could be a closed book to the other, not anymore.

They also glanced to Katia herself, before Ivar finally nodded, and confirmed, “Yes. My first wife.” They had to be careful when Freydis came up, not to accidentally give away that Asta was not his wife now.

“You had a child with your wife, no?” Oleg questioned then. Ivar shifted uncomfortably, and Asta’s eyes narrowed. She knew she needed more tolerance for Oleg and his games, but she found her patience with him often running quite thin.

Well, not when he played his games with her. She could tolerate someone messing with her. But when she cared for someone, she couldn’t bring herself to tolerate someone messing with them. And this conversation turning to Baldur, Ivar’s lost son… She was already gearing up to argue Oleg down from this topic if she must.

Ivar remained silent for quite a long while, thinking something over for a good bit of time. Asta, having not been involved in quite a few of Oleg’s conversations with her ‘husband’, wasn’t shocked to hear him ask about this. But Ivar was, and so when he spoke, it was to ask, “How did you know that?”

“I know a great many things about you…” Oleg replied vaguely. Asta’s guard went further up. “Ivar the Boneless.” He paused a moment, before asking, “Am I not a Prophet?”

“I have my doubts,” Asta answered honestly, and all eyes turned to her in complete shock. “Unless the gods reveal all things differently to each of those they choose to speak to, it appears you simply have excellent information, information I know you have ways of finding out besides hearing it from the gods.”

She referred to what he’d said about Princess Anna, how he’d known she would be marrying Prince Dir before they’d even been wed, and Oleg’s eyes narrowed as he realized this.

“You are questioning if I speak the truth when I say I am a Prophet, then?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly. It was meant to be a threat, but Ivar watched with curiosity- and truthfully, a touch of pride- as Asta didn’t back down, and only narrowed her own eyes. She was retaliating, beat for beat.

“I am,” she confessed. “All information I have ever been given by the gods has been far less… precise than this, as I know it was for the Seer in Kattegat, while he still lived. So unless they speak to you more directly, in less of a riddle than anything they have spoken to us, I would doubt your information truly does come from them. Not in the way you claim it does, anyhow.”

“You should be careful in your accusations, Queen Asta,” Oleg said, his voice low and threatening. “Questioning me is questioning what the gods have shown me, and who knows what the gods may show me about you?”

Ivar watched incredulously as she leaned forward, her arms crossed on the table now to hold herself up, and her lips stretched into an easy, almost dangerous smirk. “And who knows what they will continue to show me about you?” she replied.

It was brilliant, and Ivar almost grinned with pride. Oleg sat back, and the battle of wills was won by the woman he was convinced now was sent to him to be his Queen. Who else could have worded that so brilliantly as to make it seem her questioning came because the gods had revealed something already, not because of what she didn’t believe they had? Sometimes, he truly wondered if she were not aided by the silvertongued trickster himself. Then again, if Asta didn’t believe in Loki, he couldn’t be sure if he would help her or not. Maybe Loki was helping him, then, through Asta? He couldn’t say, though her mastery of words made him wonder.

The air in the room had become tense and uncomfortable, even if it was slightly diffused by the end of the contest, and Katia gave a strained smile, before standing and approaching her new husband. “Do you mind if I take off this dress?” she asked him. “It’s too hot in here.”

“Of course, my darling,” he replied, and the perfect revenge on Asta came to him. “I’m sure our friends won’t mind.”

“They can help,” Katia said, and turned to walk to their end of the table. Asta stood and stepped forward, as if to help. Ivar looked very much like a startled deer. Because she’d stepped up, Katia asked, “Can you… undo it, Asta?”

Ivar was clearly miserable as Asta nodded, and set to work undoing the back of Katia’s dress, pulling it down off her shoulders once it was done. But it wasn’t what Asta was doing that made him uncomfortable, no. It was the look on Oleg’s face as she did so. In fact, Ivar found himself standing as Katia thanked Asta, smiling at her and letting her hair fall around her shoulders once she took the comb out from it.

“We should go,” Ivar said to Asta, putting a hand on her shoulder to draw her attention to him. His eyes- readable still only to her- were silently begging her not to make a fuss, and to just agree with him. “My legs are…” He cracked an embarrassed smile, tilting his head side to side as if to say they weren’t feeling well.

“Aching?” she supplied, and nodded. “Of course, my love.” She lifted her hand to cup his cheek affectionately, then turned to Katia and Oleg, who seemed surprised at this.

“Oh, but you have to stay,” Oleg countered. “It would be good for you.”

“No,” Asta protested. “We really must be getting him to bed. He stood for quite some time at the ceremony earlier, he needs to rest his legs, now.”

Katia sighed, as if disappointed, and pressed a kiss to Asta’s cheek, then her other cheek. The Shieldmaiden knew that was a common form of greeting, in some places, and so didn’t question it, but did return the gesture. “We are happy to have had your company for the time we’ve had it, then,” she said graciously. “And we hope to have it again soon.”

“Of course, Princess,” Asta replied, and smiled to her, before simply nodding to Oleg, and taking Ivar’s arm so they could go.

Oleg glared at her retreating form, the moment she’d turned her back to him.

The rest of the day passed without very much of note, as Asta really had taken Ivar back to their chambers and convinced him to go to bed. He’d been frustrated, but as his legs had actually been aching, he’d finally conceded and laid down- especially once he realized she intended to lay down with him, curled into his side as always.

Their conversation turned naturally to the meal they’d shared with Oleg and Katia, and he commended her for the way she handled Oleg. It was another point to her being an excellent Queen one day, he’d said, and she’d simply given him a light smack on the chest before telling him to go on to sleep. Amused, he’d laid back and promised to do as she wished, even calling her ‘Your Majesty’, which had earned him a roll of her eyes.

But she was amused as well, he could tell, and so he’d fallen asleep with a smirk on his face, and the woman he intended to make his Queen in his arms. And, for most of the night, they slept in peace.

That peace ended in the early hours of the morning, when Asta sat up gasping for breath, her eyes filled with unshed tears as she panted, her chest heaving as if she had great difficulty breathing, and Ivar quickly sat up with her, his arm wrapping around her shoulders immediately.

“My love, what is it?” he asked her, a near panic laced in his voice which she might reflect on later, as well as the way he had addressed her. But for the time being, she felt as though she were choking on grief, on pain and on a devastation she seemed to feel calling out from the earth. It was all she could do to choke out her response.

“Lagertha.”

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius, @wilhelmyna, @katfett, @fangirl-nonsense, @sylki-simp, @heavenly1927, @pomegranates-and-blood, @kingniazx

If you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to reach out either by commenting, reblogging, DMing me, or sending an ask, and I’ll be more than happy to add you!

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Prologue)

(Gif credit to @honestsycrets​)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Greek/Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: Like 7k, I’m sorry

Warnings: As usual, mentions and descriptions of blood, death, torture, injury and people being burnt alive. Mentions or allusions to rape. If there’s anything else I didn’t mention, please let me know. Fair warning that the Reader Character may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but please give her a chance.

A/N: So, in this universe, bc fuck Michael Hirst, Sigurd is alive (tho Ivar did throw the axe) but married and away, Bjorn is still somewhere sunny, and Dublin was founded in Saxon land by Hvitty, Ivar and Ubbe, but it is the latter the one in control, prompting Ivar to eventually return to Kattegat and take the throne form Lagertha (she is alive just like in the show, only Bjorn is not here -I like to think he would understand his brothers wanting to avenge Aslaug?- and Floki departed bc he didn’t want to have to choose between supporting the kid he raised and an old friend), leaving him as King, Ubbe as ruler of Dublin, Hvitserk in Kattegat for now like in the show, Bjorn getting a tan in the Mediterranean, and Sigurd alive and happy cause goddammit killing him was a stupid choice. Sorry and btw this isn’t my creation, this is based on some exchanges I saw on reddit and a lil bit of me lol)

The warrior hesitates before letting you enter the tent, but you do so quietly and without a word, like it is expected out of you, and the men discussing war take no notice of you as you slip into a seat and watch them discuss.

Narses, still in the armor of a Byzantine Strategus despite his back having been turned to the Empire for a long time, turns to look at you as you enter. He doesn’t say a word, but in his green eyes there’s a plea for you not to speak, one that you must obey with gritted teeth and bitten tongue.

He understands, and there’s relief in Narses’ eyes.

Your friend. Your confidante.

Your fool.

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his hands supporting most of his weight as he leans on the war table.

“Our numbers are strong enough to hold until support from Strepshire arrives.” The Christian you recognize as Leofric -a bishop? Cleric? You have no idea anymore- speaks, his voice not much unlike the sound of the Byzantine soldiers’ armor plates rustling together as they march down the streets, burning idols and slaying the poor fools that believed the Gods would save them.

“If we retreat, we can-…” Narses argues, but is quickly interrupted.

“You belong to us!” Leofric barks, and you startle at the sudden aggression, “You have made a deal, Greeks. You must honor it.”

“I am aware. I am also aware you Saxons would sacrifice everything for your revenge.” Narses scoffs back, interrupting the Saxon and your train of thought at the same time.

“You want the same, boy. Is it not why you insist on gaining our support?” Stithulf, the leader, states, leaning back on his chair and resting his hands on the back of his head.

His posture screams of arrogance, his young age of a boy with too much power, his scars of a monster eager to fight.

You could use someone like him leading your army. You have seen too many of the so-called soldiers in your home bend the knee to a false Emperor. Maybe you need a monster on your side, someone with the same thirst for blood Greece left you with, someone willing and able to bring the Gods down from the very Olympus for retribution.

And as he leans back he catches sight of you, his expression tightens into a scowl, and you discard the remote possibility.

Not only is he a Christian, the same brand of men that burned your home, your mother, and years later you as well; but he looks upon you like all you are to do is be one of more of virginal maidens for his strange pantheon.

“What is the witch doing here?” He asks out loud, and you swallow down the words you want to say, but still holding his gaze.

“She is to be my wife, I trust her advice.” Narses sentences, sending you a glance that you return with a grateful one of your own.

“I didn’t know you Greeks were ruled over by your women.”

“Greek women are the only ones to birth real men.” You quip before you can stop yourself, reminded with the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia of when your father told you those exact words.

“Is that what your Goddess tells you, Heathen?”

Even the cadence of Leofric’s voice is enough to get you to twist your lip as you turn your gaze to him, but he remains stoic, a quiet sort of anger bubbling behind his eyes. You could swear a small smile tugs at his lips, as if he truly believes a simple word is enough to silence you.

The loud interruption of Narses’ fists colliding with the table stops his mocking, and the man’s eyes shift to his Byzantine ally within a moment.

“Do not call her that.”

“It is not an insu-…” You start, but your friend turns to you once again, begging you in silence to keep quiet. Biting down a sigh, you lean back in your chair and return your eyes to the map.

A long way from home, setting tents alongside Christians, and shutting your mouth because a man told you to. For all the visions and counsel the Gods have sent you through the years, a word of what was to become of your integrity would have been appreciated.

The sound of the curtains of the tent flapping open and closed makes you lift your gaze from the map, and you see Stithulf’s retrieving back.

Narses sighs, not looking at you when he concedes, both to inform you and the rest of the Saxons and Arab mercenaries in the room,

“We will hold.”

A cold hand grips your heart and the names of the Goddesses you seek for guidance and comfort are at the tip of your tongue, shaped by your lips but never spoken.

The Christians leave you two alone, and you walk to the soldier hunched over the war table. Your native Greek feels like a soft song evoking nostalgia as it dances past your lips:

“You cannot…”

“Please, my love.”

Anger bubbles within you, and you stand up straighter as you meet his eyes, “Narses, the Varangians will overpower us, you know we lost too many already, the support from Ivar the Boneless’ incoming army will crush us, you know h-…”

“This is a matter of war, love, let me handle it.” Narses interrupts, to which you frown.

“I know of war Narses! And I know this is a foolish move!”

“Do you know how to lift a sword?” He retorts, a challenge in his voice that does not go unnoticed.

“I…” You clench your teeth, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I do not need to fight to…”

He laughs bitterly, interrupting you, “Are you hearing your own words?”

“Are you hearing yours? The Varangian King has a crown made of bones and blood, Narses, don’t be foolish. Athena rejoices when he wages war, his army carries her favor.” You spit out your words, trying to make him understand. Narses remains impassive, though, eyes on the map and jaw clenched tight.

“You cannot argue of battle if you have never-…”

You interrupt him with a scoff, pointing an accusing finger at him even when he doesn’t meet your eyes, “I do not need to know how to kill to know the Varangians will swallow you whole. And you’ll drag our people with you.”

At your last words, his head snaps up, eyes facing yours with ferocity and more than old anger, “What choice do I have, huh? We will freeze or starve come winter, we need to move for Eleusis soon!”

“Our people…” You start, but he interrupts you again.

“Our people chose to follow me, and they will.”

“They followed me, they believe in me,” You correct without hesitation, teeth bared, “You followed me, Narses, and I let you, because you promised me an army.”

For a second he hesitates, takes you in with what seem to be new eyes. He seems to have forgotten there’s more than a meek priestess to the woman he followed from Attica. He seems to forget the bloodied hands and hungry smile that greeted him when you gave him the choice to be at your side.

“And I followed you because I love you, because I believe in you!” He exclaims, making shame and regret churn at your insides. You deviate your eyes from his, gritting your teeth.

“I begged you not to force our people to fight against these Norsemen, and you didn’t listen,” You grit out after a few breaths, anger returning to your voice, “Where was your love, your trust, when you chose to ally with these…Christians?”

He takes one of your hands in his, and the touch feels cold.

“You must trust me with this,” He intreats, warm eyes looking for something in your own you don’t think he can find. “Can you trust me?” A small pause, and you taste your own regrets in your mouth, “Love me?”

You press your lips into a line, and because you cannot say anything else, because the lie has gone on for too long and you might as well offer a truth before you entreat your soul to Hades, you whisper,

“Once, I could have.”

But he shakes his head, fervent and certain as he finds your eyes again,

“I promised you Attica, and it will be yours.”

But his words are empty. You do not care for that kingdom if the people that you love are not alive and prospering in it.

“Pray to the Gods you are killed by the Varangians, old friend. I will sacrifice you to Hades myself if you dare return alive from the place you are condemning my people to die on.” You sentence, unable to keep from showing the curl of disgust in your lip, the ancient pain in your eyes.

Narses walks closer to you, eyes searching yours and hands on your shoulders. You clench your jaw. He is gentle, he always is. Gentle, but so were the men that held you as their brothers in arms dragged your mother out of that temple.

You take a step back, but Narses speaks still, ignoring your discomfort,

“These Christians care not for their God, they just want Ivar the Boneless and his brothers. We give them to Stithulf, and they will march for Eleusis with us.”

You shake your head as you watch him believe his own lies.

“Even if we succeed, you are exchanging one master for another, Narses.” The words are your farewell as you turn your back to him and walk towards the entrance of the tent.

____

You walk into your tent and are greeted with a language these Saxons want to have you killed for speaking. The tongue of savages, of barbarians, of Vikings.

“Did they threaten to burn you yet?” Sieghild asks, and you can hear the smile in her voice even if her back is turned to you as she tends to the fire.

“Narses and Stithulf command us to remain,” You confess instead, voice breaking, “Kattegat’s army will be here in a day’s time to aid Dublin’s, but we will not retreat.”

The gasp she lets out forces you to shut your eyes tight in hope of keeping the tears at bay.

You both remain silent for a few instants, and you let yourself fall to the log she brought as a seat. Taking a seat next to you, she places a motherly hand on your knee, squeezing lightly until you look back up at her.

Blueish ink traces ancient marks on the skin of her face, and she moves a lock of your hair away from your face, the rattling sounds of her bracelets and trinkets reaching your ears and filling you with a sense of nostalgia you have difficulty explaining.

“If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you.”

“This is not the war I will die fighting on!” You yell back, closing your hands into fists as they start shaking. “I will not see my people die fighting a cause not their own, Sieghild. I can’t.”

She takes your head in her hands gently, and, pressing cold lips to your forehead, she gives you the comfort only a mother can.

“Even if we die tomorrow, the Gods are with us. They have been close to you since your birth. You will understand soon.”

“I will certainly see Hades soon.” You smile bitterly, but Sieghild doesn’t falter.

“Then challenge his throne.” She states, and the feral, hungry, look in her eyes makes you think she is not speaking of your God.

You do not even believe in the same Gods, and yet Sieghild remains at your side, you at hers, since she found a crying child clutching a wooden carving of Persephone.

“They want me to give them up, but I won’t.” You argue stubbornly, as the red-haired woman cleans your face with a warm wet cloth. She smiles.

“Arguing about Gods is a matter for adults, little one,” She silences your next argument with a single finger, inked and painted like her face and arms. “They cannot make you believe in their God.”

“But…Mother’s altar, th-they…”

“Those are merely worldly things. The Christians fight with fire what Logi and Glöð themselves have created.”

“Who?”

She chuckles, fingers going through your hair and places a finger on your chest.

“Your faith, your legacy, remain here.”

And at dawn, when the men sound the horns and ready for a battle they must know will be lost, you whisper a prayer to Athena and Enyo, your heart griped tight by the cruel mistresses of Fate.

Even all the tales travelers and mercenaries told you about the army of Kattegat, the sheer strength, the flawless tactics, the barbarian-like warriors; none of that prepared you for the display of forces, however small considering his actual army, Ivar the Boneless has displayed before you.

You catch a glimpse of Narses and Stithulf approaching the King, you hear faintly of the Viking’s taunts.

“Narses is a fool.” You bite out, anger poisoning your voice even as tears clogging your throat make the words wobble.

“A Byzantine Strategus doesn’t fall without a fight, girl. Do not grant my countrymen their victory just yet.”

Even if you hide it as you lower your face, a surge of pride for the foolish warrior that followed you to the ends of the world makes a small smile blossom in your face.

“Do I hear you admitting us soft citizens stand a chance against your brutes, mother?” You mock with a smile, even as you discuss the imminent danger that the Norse men represent to you and your people. Maybe it’s because of the way Sieghild, with all her harshness and tough lessons, comforts you even facing death itself. Maybe it’s the Gods that have guided you your whole life embracing you as you near your descent to Hades.

She laughs, raspy and warm, as always. “I’m saying your boy may give the sons of Ragnar an entertainment.”

A crow flies overhead, cawing loudly and taking your gaze away from the soldiers ahead and into the sky. Something within you, something primal and asleep seems to follow its path in the skies with more than just your eyes.

“Odin is watching. History will be made today.” Sieghild whispers behind you, but you cannot take your gaze away from the black feathers as you answer.

“Apollo sends us an omen. The Gods do not favor us.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head as she rests a heavy hand on your shoulder

“Your Goddess surely revels in this, dear. The spilled blood of those who will be to arrive at her kingdom waters her flowers, after all."

Flashes of a life before chaos blossom behind your closed eyes, images of a life under the spring sun, of fertility festivals and your mother’s warm laughter as she honors the Daughter of Nature.

And for a second, with the warmth of nostalgia encompassing you, you want to argue that Persephone looks after life; but when your eyes open and all you see is war and cold, you realize maybe she wasn’t the one captured.

Maybe she was not a stolen maiden, but a bloodthirsty usurper.

“May she rejoice, then, and be merciful when we reach her Kingdom.” You whisper.

The war cries reach your ears before you can even see the warriors attack, but soon chaos follows the chariot, that marches not with the set pace of Apollo’s, but free and leaving chaos and death at its wake.

With a heavy weight on your stomach, you hold your place as the battle begins, the injured and dying falling back to the area you look after with Greek soldiers at your back, granting a safe haven for the fallen, either to give them another chance to fight or a merciful end.

_____

It’s been days and the Saxons still push for victory, despite the losses. And, despite their losses and bloodshed, the Vikings push ruthlessly for death.

The camp of healers you have set by the entrance of the woods is so filled with the stench of blood and death that you fear you will never be able to smell a flower again. The warriors come and go, the drachmas in their eyes or in their hands. Your heart dies a little with every familiar face you send off to Hades.

You are working on pressing down with the poultice of herbs to stop a soldier from bleeding from the wound on his back when you hear, past the yells and death and fighting, your name.

You would know that voice anywhere, and you leave the safety of the healing camp to follow the hoarse call.

Narses’ figure stumbles and crawls as he tries reaching you, and, not caring for battle, you run the space separating you. Your knees dig painfully into the earth as you kneel at his side, but the pain in your heart drowns it all.

“No, no, no,” You sob, shaking fingers tracing his bloodied cheeks as he gasps in pain in your arms. His eyes are focused on you, and you cannot deny him the answer of yours, even if battle still goes on around you. With another broken gasp, you whisper, “You fool, you fool.”

Galla calls your name from somewhere at your side, and you turn blind attention to her, murmuring to have people take him to the healers’ tent. She agrees, and you start to pull away from your childhood friend.

Narses opens his mouth to speak, but only blood pours out. You silence him with trembling fingers against his lips, granting the kiss you cannot. Your heart begs you to do something, anything, to keep him alive, to take away his pain, to…to…

But all you do is remain kneeling on the ground, and you cannot take your eyes off his shield. Splattered with blood and mud, left behind a few feet away from you, on the cold and unrelenting earth.

Your mother’s last words to your father, you remember them as if it were yesterday, as if you could still see the warmth in her gaze, the hardened adoration in his. Her delicate hands offering him the shield with Sparta’s symbol on it as he prepared to storm Macedonia, her words a murmur that meant come back to us, my love even when her sentence was other.

Return home with it, or on it.

With it, or on it. With it, or on it. With it, or on it.

But Narses never returned home, none of you ever did. He never returned home, he didn’t die for your home, he died for…for…

You hear hurried footsteps coming towards you, the feeling of having Varangian eyes on you makes you turn just in time to see the warrior approaching. You grab Narses’ shield from the ground, moving as fast as you can to guard your back and block the Viking’s strike with the metal shield.

It is sheer anger and grief, nothing more than the desire to hurt back, that pushes you to take an arrow from the quiver at your back and drive it through the warrior’s knee with your bloodied hand.

He falters, stumbling away from you, but you don’t let go, holding on tightly to the shaft of the arrow and inflicting as much pain as you can. When he finally hits the ground with his back, you crawl over him, sitting on his stomach and bashing his face with the shield.

With your weight upon him, his axe cannot find a home in your skin and instead meets the shield. Over and over, metal meets metal. With a growl, the Viking lets go of it and grabs your hair, pulling roughly and forcing your blows in his face to stop.

You let go of the shield, and your eyes focus on the skies above for a moment before you find the strength to fight.

A yell leaves your lips, and your hungry teeth find the tender skin at the inside of his arm, forcing him to let go of your hair. Blood fills your mouth and almost makes you gag. You spit the flesh from your mouth and with a snarl you drive another arrow through his eye.

He screams as your whole weight leans on the arrow, making sure the projectile you use as a spear kills fast. Your hands keep slipping from the shaft as the blood you have tried to keep from spilling and the blood you have spilled wets your hands.

When he finally stops moving, you know you should feel nothing but emptiness and dread.

Looking with frantic eyes for Narses and Galla, you find him being carried by two of his soldiers back to the tent. You should follow, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

You look down at your dress. Red, the color of a bride’s veil, stained with the blood of the man you just killed. Your ears ring, your eyes cloud with tears as you realize what you have done, and you scurry away from the corpse as if your breath cannot get into your chest because of your proximity to him…to it.

You know what you should feel, you know what a Priestess, a woman, ought to feel at the sight of death, you know. But dread and horror are not the only things you feel. A part of you is satiated, like a snake curling satisfied and vindicated after injecting its poison; you taste the blood and feel alive.

When you lift your gaze to the battle again, you catch the eyes of the Varangian King. You know who he is, you have heard the tales and even without the chariot he sits on you would still recognize the eyes of the man that rules over Kattegat.

Ivar the Boneless.

He looks at you for a few moments, and you fear he is to call for his men or kill you himself, but he doesn’t. A slow, cruel, ruthless smile starts curving at his bloodthirsty lips, and when he regards you, you feel he can see through your eyes and into whatever it is that made you kill that man.

He lifts his arm not on the reins, bloodied axe held in his hand and slowly, with the same terrifying grin still on his lips, the King points towards you and grants you a curt bow of his head. If it’s a recognition of your kill, a promise to kill you himself, or something else, you cannot know.

You scurry back to the woods, fearing an axe to your back that never comes.

____

Whatever advantage the Christians were so sure to have quickly dissolves like mist, and within days the Vikings push forward with no regard for the lines your people or your unwanted masters wanted to protect.

There’s three injured men under your care when you hear the warning that a group of enemies is coming your way. A quick glance towards Galla, the childhood friend that followed you from Eleusis into this cold hell lets her know what to do.

Her dark eyes fill with understanding before you can even utter a word.

“Lift them up, we are retreating.” She barks at the other soldiers, bow held tightly in her hand betraying her fear, her pain. The men accompanying her hesitate, looking at you for a second before turning to her.

“I may not be able to fight like a Strategus, but I can distract them enough for you to run.”

“Our people…” One of them starts, but you interrupt with a shake of your head, reaching forward with a courage you do not believe to truly possess and take his sword from its holster.

“Our people live on in you,” You promise, and even as your voice wavers you still try not to show how fear grips at your throat or how unbalanced you are with the new weight in your hands. Galla’s eyes lock with yours, and you give her a nod, “Go.”

I pray you find Sieghild on your way out of this slaughter.

“You better make it out alive.” She threatens in good will, and you find yourself smiling. Just before she is to take off with the others, you call out.

“Galla,” You hesitate, feeling like asking to deploy this would be an acceptance of your death. Still, you take a deep breath and say, “Once the dust settles, send some of your people to Thebes, Constantinople and Sparta.”

“What for?” She asks, but in her tone you can hear she understands your words: she is to protect your people, she is to lead them. Because you will not be alive to do so.

“You’ll need spies. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with them.” You sentence, and after a moment of hesitation you hear the girl’s footsteps fading behind you.

Galla’s hoarse yells in Greek to call your people to retreat become the rhythm at which you let loose arrows to find the Viking warriors. You tell yourself it’s just like hunting deer, you tell yourself it is not men and women you kill. Brothers, sisters, friends, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.

You tell yourself it is just like hunting, but the tears clogging at your throat and making pain and rage accompany your moves as you let the arrows loose show you that you don’t believe your own lies.

It doesn’t matter how fast you move, how efficient your shots are, there will always be more of them. And you know this, and fear has a cold grip on your heart, even as you continue trying to take out any straggler that chases after the retreating Greeks.

So, the bodies dropping and the injured yells bring the attention to you, and you buy Galla and the others as much time as you have arrows and legs to run on.

Running helps when the Vikings can be distracted by something else, but after you took down some of his countrymen, this warrior seems to only have eyes for you. You scramble to lift the sword you took from your warrior before they took off, and, cornered as you are, you are forced to face the offending Viking.

The Viking strikes first, but you block his attack with the sword. The blunt force of his swing makes it so that the axe stops just shy of the intended blow to your head, opening a deep cut on your forehead as it is slowed by the sword.

Wincing past the pain you hold your ground, facing the hungry gaze of the warrior with your own, although you are forced to close one of your eyes as the blood from the cut in your forehead starts dripping down your face.

The man’s attack has failed, but he smirks, though, before wrenching the weapon from your hands with a twist of his axe.

You can do nothing but stumble back, you Goddess’ name on your lips as you face him with wide eyes.

He mutters something in his own language before discarding your sword and moving to strike again. This time you are defenseless, and can only step back and try and dodge his continuous blows with increasing panic.

Blood, probably his own and his enemy’s, stains his mouth, his face, his hands. He still smiles, and you wonder if bloodthirst becomes more literal than what Sieghild explained in her tales of her people.

His movements stop suddenly, though, and he falls limply to the ground, a small axe protruding from the back of his head.

“I told you you’d need to know how to fight, little one,” Sieghild boasts as she approaches you. The axe leaving the dead man’s skull makes a horrible sound, but she’s not bothered by it, choosing instead to say, “Even you Greeks must see the advantage of fighting like a Viking.”

An arrow in his knee, you feel the iron piercing the muscle, the bone, the tendons. The edge of the shield breaking the bones in his face, the sound it makes. Screams of pain, that you silence with another arrow in the eye.

The King’s hungry smile when he spared you.

You shake your head, returning your thoughts back to the moment, and regard the woman in front of you with a smile.

“Galla told me you chose to stay behind.” She states, and years knowing her let you know of the reprimand shining past the gruff tone. Her hand, bloodied as it is, reaches for the cut in your forehead, inspecting it with the eyes of someone that saw countless wounds and fought in countless wars.

“I wanted to distract the warriors from the path they took.” You offer in explanation.

“For someone so…small you sure take a lot of risks, my child.” She sighs. You’re about to answer when the thrumming of the ground underneath your feet stops you. Sieghild’s movements stop, your breath dies in your lungs.

Bees swarming. You remember an Arab merchant telling you about Varangian armies, and he spoke of chaos and deadliness and bloodthirst. And as you watch the Varangians flank the battlefield, archers at the ready, warriors beating their shields, while the King that crossed the sea to assist his brother commands them to hold with a single gesture; you cannot help but think why didn’t the merchant talk about the grace of it all, the beauty in the blood.

“That boy carries his father’s cleverness with him. And his mother’s favor.” Sieghild mutters in the strange calm that settles as Ivar the Boneless and his brothers taunt Stithulf, dare him to continue the fight and face certain death or retreat.

“You knew that before.”

“So did you. You tried to warn Narses against facing him, little one.” She says, and the name makes a pit of guilt and grief form in your heart.

“Maybe my warnings are the reason he is dead now.” You bite out, voice quivering and eyes burning.

The shieldmaiden turns to you, lips parted and eyes wide. You offer her a nod and a tight-lipped smile, a small sign that it is okay, that…that it is Fate.

You promised Narses you’d kill him yourself for sending your people to die, and grief and pain do not stray you from that resolve. He sentenced your people to die at the hands of these Varangians, it is only right he leads them to the Underworld.

It doesn’t help the pit of pain and absence and fear and cold that forms at your chest, but…but it makes it easier to burden.

Murmured words in Norse startle you out of your thoughts, and you find Sieghild’s eyes still on you, expression still stunned and in a mix of awe and terror.

“When the last of the chains of nostalgia fades away even as she clutches it in her arms.”

“What did you say, mother?” You ask, taking a small step closer and looking into her eyes searching for any answer.

But the shieldmaiden is quick to put on a smile on her face,

“You told me before you had no interest in what Lady Freyja has to tell me, little one.” She mocks, but there’s a shadow in her expression, a strange darkness looming behind her eyes.

A familiar one.

“You are the one that taught me-…”

“I taught you to be your own woman!” The Varangian roars, and for the first time you realize exactly the kind of fire the women from her homeland have, that made them capable and free. “I taught my daughter better than this!”

“What choice do I have? We need the support from Narses’ army, we need someone to lead the men into battle the way I know will grant us victory!”

Two long strides, and the tall and imposing shieldmaiden is standing before you, a mix of reluctant softness and angry stoicism in her inked face.

“You fight. You fight against the notions these men have about you, you fight against that boy that only listens to what you have to say when you promise him love in exchange,” Her green eyes burn into yours, “You fight, little one. That’s what I taught you to do, what you were born to do.”

“Narses is a good man, mother. I will not fight him.” You reply, as calmly as you can even as your chest caves under a strange pressure, as evenly as you can even if the words leaving your lips taste like lies.

“You wouldn’t give your love without a fight though, minn dóttir.” Her hand grasps at your chin, and there’s a strange storm in her gaze, “I won’t lose my daughter to that boy’s whims.”

“I am not lost to any man.”

Her lips curve into a smile, a little savage, a little Viking.

“I know. You are my daughter, after all.”

“He was a good man, mother.” You offer quietly, and even if the binds to Narses, the binds you set on yourself and your mother hated the most, are gone, there’s still the same dark desperation, that same stubbornness you saw in her eyes that day you told her about your choice to marry him.

“Not good enough,” Is all she replies, and her eyes focus somewhere past the two of you, on the center of the battlefield where everything seems to have stopped. Sieghild sighs, “And your Gods and mine know that, little one. Your Mistress may have touched your soul, but Freyja lays claim to your heart.”

With your eyes on the thick of battle, you watch Stithulf and his trusted men lay down their weapons, and slowly retreat. You have been defeated.

____

“I told you only death would follow,” You say, your back against the foot of a table as you sit on the cold ground, your bloodied hands in your lap, motionless. You allow yourself a small laugh, manic and broken as it is, “You fought for so long, sacrificed so much, and you couldn’t even make the Varangian King bleed.”

You followed the Saxons back to their decadent city, and now sit past their walls awaiting the death that will follow. The city may have held for long enough that the Saxons could secure an escape, back when your people were with them and they didn’t have more corpses than soldiers.

But now, now it is just a matter of time before the Varangians return to finish it all.

Stithulf turns to you, cold fury shining past his gaze, but you hold his stare. The man walks over to you, armor rustling and making a sound that rings in the ears that have heard nothing but war for so long now.

He bends down to be at your level, face close to yours and lips set on a snarl.

“You ordered your people to pull back.” He accuses, but you shrug in response.

The pretense of what a good little fucking woman you ought to be to make these fools content with their idea of supremacy is long gone from your mind. You will die without masks, and if it means earning a few deserved hits from these Saxons for not shutting your mouth, then so be it.

“It was never our war, Christian.”

“Where have they gone to!?” He asks, ignoring your words. His fascination with how the Greek forces work shines through his bloodthirst and anger as he regards you. You know the reason why he went to Narses for an allegiance in the first place is because of the tactics, the fighting style, of your people; and you know he longed to make them a part of his own army.

But you will leave your own under the boot of a Christian the day Persephone calls for your soul to become one of her Furies.

“You will never find them.” You promise through a tired and battle-worn smile, morbidly delighting yourself in the way he seems to grow more enraged.

“How are you so certain?”

“The Varangians, Vikings, will find us first. They will kill us all, and you know this.” You sentence, standing up. You cannot help it when your eyes fixate themselves on the drying blood staining your hands.

You wish you could say most of it was Christian, or even Varangian.

But no, the blood of Greeks stains your hands. The blood of thousands, even if only less than eight hundred died today.

“And why are you so certain?”

“If you had retreated before that King came from across the sea-…”

“Narses told us your mother is Viking, how are we certain you did not plan this, plan to betray us?” One of his trusted men speaks out, limping from his place by the war table. You watch the deep and bloodied gash in his thigh, wondering why that old man survives being incapacitated while in battle but Narses is to fall.

You shake your head mutely before offering him a hollow chuckle.

“Me betraying you would imply I ever faked loyalty for you, or pretended to care for your survival.”

“You live, witch. Any sane man would question why.”

“You think…what? That I have helped any of the sons of Ragnar defeat you?” You let out a small laugh. “No, I did not. I will not let you blame me for your own weakness.”

You move to leave the tent, but Stithulf’s hand wraps around your arm. His voice is low when he speaks.

“If you tell your soldiers to fight with us, I can-…”

“I am not Narses, you cannot fool me with empty promises,” You interrupt, wrenching your arm from his grasp. Less than two hundred Greek warriors still remain in this city, and the Saxon wants still for every last drop of their blood. “The Greeks that remain here will not die quietly, but do not fool yourself into thinking you can ever command them.”

He stalks even closer, looming over you with enraged factions, and you cannot help the pang of fear that the murderous intent in his eyes sends through you.

His sword leaving its holster startles the room of men into silence, and you feel their attention set on the two of you. The blade finds a home right under your chin, piercing mildly at the soft skin.

Your breath quickens in fear, and when you swallow past your dry throat you feel the tip of the sword inflicting sharp pain in your neck.

Stithulf smiles darkly, “I could kill you now and leave them leaderless, heathen.”

But you refuse to let him see the fear in your eyes, instead promising, “Make me a martyr and you will not survive the night, Christian. The Greeks will kill and die for me.”

Even as you leave the tent behind, you hear the heavy footsteps of the Saxon behind you. A call of your name, and you stop. Not your title -Anassa, Hiereiai-, not an insult -heathen, pagan-, not your lineage -Daughter of Athens, Daughter of Sparta-. Your name.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done so in front of your men.” You state without turning around, and the Christian reaches your side with his sword holstered.

“I don’t want to kill you,” He insists, shaking his head, “But I should do it regardless. You are a smart woman, which makes you dangerous.”

Not even a muzzle would keep your next words from leaving your lips, “Dangerous? Is a man dangerous for being knowledgeable?”

“If he has nothing to lose, like you, yes.”

“What are you saying, Stithulf?”

The Saxon sighs, an act of regret and humanity you don’t believe for a moment.

“I’m saying you should know that you have forced my hand, Greek, that I had every intention to have you wage war alongside us, had you chosen to do so.

_____

Hi, I’m kinda amazed you got this far down lol, but thank you so much for reading! This is one of the first projects in a while that I am really loving to write, and I hope you like it!

Please let me know what you think, I am one needy fuck when it comes to feedback :)

[remmushound]

Curse of the Clans part 7! @brightlotusmoon @scentedcandlecryptid @digitl-art-monstr @selfindulgenz

Leonardo was extremely hesitant when Bishop had opened a rift and insisted he go through it. His brothers weren’t given such treatment, yet Bishop insisted, and Leonardo promised he’d follow his brothers call. The method Bishop used to teleport the mutant was nothing like the rift travel Leonardo was used to. There was no instant separating one place from the other; instead of a passage, a tunnel between spaces in time, the world changed between blinks. Bright lights and chirping birds changed to cold water and near complete darkness. His feet traced the muddy bottom of... wherever he was, his arms immediately taking to gliding through the water as natural as walking. His eyes searched up until he found a brightness above, and he kicked off of the bottom to soar toward the heavenly light.

The slider burst through the surface of a lake, gasping not for breath but for heat. The air around him felt even colder than the water to his soaked, unprotected skin. He swam in a circle trying to find the best way of escape, but all he saw was endless white banks covered in snow, surrounded by a forest of first-coated trees. There was no warmth in sight and Leonardo felt a knot growing in his throat. He could only keep himself warm for so long before his body would give out and be forced into what Donatello referred to as reptile mode and, not long after, torpor. He knew his core temp was already dropping, and he had to consciously work to raise it so he wouldn’t freeze. He had to get out and he had to get warm, and he had to do it fast.

Scrambling onto the shore took a lot more effort than he would have liked to expend. Several times, the snow caved under him and knocked him back into the icy lake, but finally he managed to claw himself out of the water and scramble to his feet. The only clothes Leonardo had on were his shorts, and they were practically frozen to his body and dripping chill across his exposed legs. He had to find a cave or some place to get shelter, find something dry to start a fire. He took off his pants; it wasn’t like anything could be seen anyway, and they would only trap the cold of the water. He knew better; his camping experience had taught him something worthwhile after all. The best thing he could do currently to stop from freezing was to walk, and so he did.

There was no clear path, so he had to make his own. He pulled the odachi from where it was secured safely on his back and used it to slice through brambles and low-hanging branches, slicing himself a way through the trees. To keep his mind focused, he kept repeating his task over and over again.

“I need the blessing of a ronin’s ronin… I need the blessing of a ronin’s ronin…” He said over and over. He eventually found his way to a footpath and was able to tuck his sword back in its holder so he could wrap his arms around himself to preserve warm.

One second Leonardo was walking and the next he was on the ground, pinned by a greater force with a knife held to his throat. Leonardo’s instincts kicked in before his training did and he had the quick sense to press his forearm against the attacker’s chest and inner arm to force a stalemate while the other creature fought with all his might to bring the knife down upon the turtle.

“Ninja scum!” Spat the creature, his lips pulling back in a snarl to show bucked teeth. His voice was not English, but Leonardo understood the fluent Japanese. “You are not welcome here!”

Leonardo searched for an out. He couldn’t fight the creature forever and he needed to get into a position where he could meet the attacker head-one. His free hand grasped desperately in the snow, searching for anything hard to use for his advantage. Upon finding nothing, Leonardo did the next best thing and grabbed a handful of mud and snow to slam into the rabbit’s face. He only recognized the creature as such when the rabbit gave a furious snarl and stumbled backward to paw at his eye, wiping the brown from his otherwise pure white fur.

Leonardo was up and ready before the rabbit had time to recover, holding his odachi in front of him as a threat display. The anxiety in him hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but the confidence that battled the anxiety told him he could handle himself if it fell to fighting. The rabbit fell into an attack stance, one hand replacing the knife in his belt while the other reached behind his back and pulled out a katana.

“Hey uh.” Leonardo laughed and spun his odachi pointedly. “Mine’s bigger.”

The rabbit didn't seem too amused. He charged forward, bringing his katana down swinging. Leonardo intercepted the blade and deflected it to make the rabbit stumble, then kicked him in the small of his back. The rabbit gave a yelp and fell forward. Leonardo tried to take advantage of the situation to get the rabbit into a pin. Last second, however, the enemy slid between Leonardo’s legs and brought both of his massive feet down upon the back of the mutant's knees. Leonardo feel hard. The rabbit tried to lunge at him spying Leonardo’s weakness, but Leonardo dropped to let the rabbit past him by. The creature fell by the force of his own lunge and Leonardo jumped on top of him as the rabbit spun on his back to try and stand. Leonardo brought his knees to pin the creature by his waist, the rabbit’s arms pinned in the mutant's strong grip.

“No! Don’t hurt him!”

Leonardo’s mind blanked at the new voice-- a child’s voice-- from behind him. Leonardo turned to look, and his eyes found a tiny, fat creature that couldn’t have been more than seven; the fur of his body was a mix of black and brown, but his chest and up was an off-white color. While he didn't have any distinguishable hair, the fur on his head was scruffed up enough to almost be considered a mane. Around his eyes were patterns that could almost resemble the one on Leonardo’s face, except black and trailing down the entire length of his back to the tip of his small tail.

Leonardo looked back to the rabbit with just enough time to witness the oversized feet slamming into his face before everything went black.

***

Raphael took to the hidden city in search of a king. It would help to know where to start, he thought bitterly, and it wasn’t like he could just waltz up to a human king without being shot full of lead. So a yokai king was his only choice, but he wasn’t even sure there were any yokai kings. He had never heard of one in all the time he had spent in the Hidden City. His best bet, he figured, was to wander until he could find something that resembled a king or a crown or anything royalty. How hard could that be?

Several hours later and Raphael was hopelessly lost on the outskirts of the city. He did the only thing he could think to do, which was to keep wandering like he had been the hours before, yet still with no idea of where to go. A sudden calamity caught his attention, but before he could locate the source of it, he was flooded by a swarm of fleeing yokai. None of them were quite as big as Raphael was, but there were enough of them forcing their way past him that he had to exert a great amount of force to walk the opposite direction, toward the event that had frightened so many. For a moment, he forgot his task as his mind focused in on ninja instinct and undeniable curiosity.

Eventually, he made it past the worst of the crowd and was able to run instead of stumble. Through an alley and into a side street. The sounds of a struggle became more apparent the closer he got, and the moment he left the alley he took no pause to take in the scene. While still running, he saw one yokai pinning another and, without thought otherwise, slammed his fist hard into the stomach of the inugami. The dog yokai gave a pained yelp as he was flung from the nekomata and slammed into the bricks of a nearby building with a solid thud.

“Leave her ALONE!”

The cat yokai stumbled to her feet with a furious hiss as she moved close to Raphael’s side. Her fur was spiked up, parts of the white stained red with a small amount of blood, though not enough to keep her from fighting. Her pelt was mostly white, with spots of black and orange throughout that gave the appearance of a calico, except with two tails instead of one lashing behind her. The claws of both her hands and feet were unsheathed and ready for a fight.

The dog yokai of varying sizes and breeds advanced savagely on the duo. Raphael grabbed his tonfa from his belt and, just to show off, gave them a threatening flip.

“Come on pups, let’s see what you got!”

As a single unit of barking fury, the five dogs targeted Raphael. His tonfa swung independent of one another, hitting two separate dogs while the others locked onto his arms or any other part of him they could reach. The cat grabbed one of the smaller dogs and pried them off of Raphael, tossing them to the side and slashing at their eyes with her claws. Raphael grabbed a hold of the remaining two dogs by their scruff, yanked them off his biceps, and cracked their heads together before dropping them. One of the previously tossed dogs tried to sneak up on Raphael but, before she could lunge, the cat Yokai once more tossed herself into the battle and locked her claws around the canine’s neck. Both cat and dog went down in a fury of flashing claws and snapping teeth until the inugami separated and fled down the empty streets with her tail between her legs.

At the sight of their comrade fleeing, that was the sign for the rest of the dogs to follow. Raphael left a few of them with punches to the back to remember him by, not letting his guard down for a second even as he turned to the she-cat.

“Thanks.” The she-cat panted softly, her fur still bristled and her mouth hanging open to suck in sharp gasps of air.

“Yeah.” Raphael said, rubbing the new teeth marks that had just barely managed to break through the toughness of his skin. “You okay?”

“Nothing I won’t heal from.” She swiped her hand over her mouth.

Now Raphael could get a better look at her, the she-cat looked old; some of the fur around her muzzle and eyes was starting to turn gray, though her body was just as glossy and fair as a young cat’s would be. She grabbed a hold of one tail to brush her fingers through the fur once her claws had resheathed, bringing the other to her mouth to groom it flat.

“Why were those goons attacking you anyway?” Raphael asked.

“Ugh. Who knows with inugami? Could be anything that set them off.” She bent down with remarkable flexibility to groom blood from her side. “I’m just not as young as I used to be. You don’t look like you’re from around here…”

Her eyes were slitted as the pupils searched up to watch Raphael curiously, as if she were deciphering the pages of a book.

“Ah, yeah.” Raphael rubbed his neck, “I’m kinda lost.”

“I could point you on your way.” Her sing-song voice purred.

“Thanks! But I’m not really sure what ‘on my way’ is, exactly. I came down this way looking for a king, but I don’t think there’s one here.”

“A king?” She tilted her head, her eyes glinting sharply.

“Yeah. You know, with a crown and stuff.”

“I see.” She nodded her understanding.

“Maybe you could still help me?” He asked hopefully, “I’m really new to the Hidden City. Do you know of anyone who might be considered royalty?”

The nekomata purred in concentration, holding her paws to her lips as she considered. “The oldest yokai I know of are the Council of Heads. Some might consider them royalty? Maybe they can help you?”

Raphael smiled widely. “Yeah— yeah that sounds great! Uh… h-how would I get to them, exactly?”

The she-cat laughed. “I’ll draw you a map.” She held her paw out to him.

It took Raphael a second to understand before he quickly grabbed her hand in his and shook it. “Sorry— manners must have slipped. I’m Raphael.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Raphael. I am Tang Shen.”

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hello! Apologies if this is a bit too specific but I was wondering if you could a heket x reader where the reader is similar to the fox demon, but they use deals as a way to try to flirt. Heket normally chases them off and just generally sees them as a nuisance. Eventually Heket stops because she has better things to do and the Reader doesn't really seem like a danger, they begin to talk and the feelings build up from there.

"So you've returned to pester me, foul fox..."

"Good evening to you, too, Lady Heket." Your voice, low and sultry, rumbled with a deep chuckle as you looked upon the Bishop of Famine standing on the pier with a piercing gaze. "You know, anger doesn't suit you, dearest. Must you always be so cruel towards me?"

As she struggled to come up with a response, your cheeky grin never wavered for a moment.

You'd teasingly ask if the cat caught her tongue..but given her history with a certain feline, that wasn't the most appropriate joke to make. Not even you would go that far.

"Cruel? Hah, you haven't seen me be "cruel" one bit." She scoffed, gently tugging on her bandages. "You infuriate me."

"How so?"

"...because I know you foxes and your deceptive ways. One had visited me long ago, promising me an artifact others would kill for...and gave me such an unfair price. You know what he wanted?"

You shook your head, curious.

"He wanted my best menticide mushroom farmer. And all he gave me in return was a tiny piece of the artifact! A worthless rock!" She snarled. "Then he expects me to come back and offer him more of my own followers to "complete" it...but I refused and threw the damn thing back at him."

"Ohhh..surely you don't mean my mentor, the Teeth of Darkness..do you?" You blinked in realization, though the persistent scowl on her face told you all. "I see now. But as a whole, the Holy Talisman is actually quite valuable. Pity you refused his deal..it could have turned the tide in your favor against the little Lamb."

"..well, I didn't wanna waste my time begging for bits and pieces of rock. And I'm not gonna waste my time chasing you out of my domain."

"Awh, so you want me to stay?"

"N-No! That's not what I...!!!"

Seeing her frustration made you chuckle softly.

Of course, it now made sense why she was especially arrogant with your species--particularly the ones who did this sort of work. The Teeth of Darkness guided you into this practice long ago, teaching you how to become one with the shadows and bargain with clueless folks around the Old Faith without stirring up too much attention from the Bishops.

And clearly...you failed when it came to Heket.

You were negotiating something with Eligos when she suddenly appeared and immediately chased you out of Anura, ordering you to never come back lest there be consequences.

Yet she didn't frighten you, but rather intrigued you.

Not even the Yellow Crown's power could stop you from coming back and going anywhere in Aura you wished. So you've set your sights on her, beckoning her to the marshes where you would manifest from the darkness every once in a while.

Your favorite spot became this very pier, where you learned she often came here if she needed time to think or reflect on her duties.

Yet time and time again...she would shoo you away, and until now you never fully understood why.

Your deals were hardly anything of material value. All you really asked for was a simple smile, but you'd get a frown instead; if you gave her a compliment, she'd insult you in return.

She acts disgusted by your "promiscuous" remarks...but the cover of night doesn't do much to hide her growing blush every time she turns her face away from you.

She's called you a stalker on countless occasions, though you take no offense to it.

Could she really blame you when she stood in the discreet places where you've frequently bartered with other folks? Could she blame you if she never bothered to find a different spot?

This time around, she didn't lash her tongue out or try chasing you away with vile threats. Maybe she was finally understanding that you're not threatening her cult or anything of the sort.

You're just really annoying. A nuisance. An intrusion on her quiet night away from the temple.

"I'm here to make you a genuine offer." You spoke. "You are under no obligation to agree, but it would mean the world to me if you at least listened to it in full."

Heket was silent for a few moments.

Maybe for once..she'll entertain your proposal. It's not like she could just refuse. You might just come back here some other night and offer the same damn thing.

She nodded. "Go on."

"Thank you, dearest. I shall give you my name..in exchange for a small favor from you. Nothing to do with your loyal followers if that's what you fear."

Although she didn't really care to know your name all that much, part of her couldn't help but be slightly curious. So she allowed you to continue, hoping she won't regret it.

"Allow me to walk you back to your great temple, and we can talk and become more..acquainted with each other beyond our negotiations. You may find that not all of us foxes are sly and cunning dealers. What say you?"

She blinked in disbelief.

That definitely isn't what she expected.

"That's it? You just wanna see Anura? You know we can just warp-"

"Oh I know of your little summoning circles, dear bishop. I have seen it all." You answered with a smaller smile. "But I think a small walk together would be most delightful. I sense a certain loneliness in you, especially on this night...so perhaps you'll enjoy the company of an outsider."

Heket scoffed, unsure why her thorny heart felt so warm inside all of the sudden. "We bishops admonish outsiders who refuse to join us..like Sozo and the Mushroomos. They are rotten thieves, praising him when they should be praising me for enabling their addictions."

A soft laugh escaped you. "Well lucky am I not to have a mushroom atop my head. So..do you accept this offer? We could always discuss how to deal with them down the road if you desire."

"....fine. We have a deal, fox." She grumbled. Although she didn't have much to gain from this, she had nothing to lose either.

You, on the other hand, were most delighted that she was finally giving you a chance. Your persistence has paid off well. "Excellent! From now on, you may call me [y/n]."

"Alright, [y/n]. Let's get going."

"Haha..hasty, aren't we? Very well." You floated closer to the pier, eventually stepping on the boardwalk and approaching Heket. A black cloak enveloped your body, with the tip of your fluffy tail slightly peeking out from underneath, dragging behind you.

She couldn't help but notice it wagging in eagerness, and she had to mentally slap herself so she'd stop staring.

You were a bit shorter than she anticipated. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the shadows that made you so imposing.

"Thank you, my Lady." After putting your hood down, you bowed your head respectfully, before gazing up at her. "You lead the way, and I'll follow."

"..are you giving me orders?"

"Is leading not what you do best as a bishop?"

Despite her silence after that, her agreement to let you hold onto her arm and lead you through Anura spoke louder than any word she could've said.

You could see her becoming more relaxed the longer you both walked, with you chatting about the things you admired about Anura. Not to mention her hold on you unconsciously tightening whenever it was her turn to speak..more notably when she talked about her siblings with feelings of melancholy.

This time, there was no hiding the light blush that dusted her face, even with most of her flesh being red enough to conceal it.

Indeed, you've turned this hardened frog into a softie.

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

*hiding behind a wall to see if commie accepts* Tsukasa (ot4) and Sougo(ot..4?), Z (found family)?

Z is for family

Junichiro laughs awkwardly. “I’m so sorry, Mr--Yuusuke, it feels like whenever you come here you end up repairing something.”

Yuusuke shrugs, grins. “I like having things to do with my hands, and there’s no sense in making you waste money on a plumber for something this simple to fix. And I’m going to teach Geiz how to do it too, so if it comes up again and you can’t get in touch with me he can take care of it.”

Blinking in surprise, Junichiro looks past Yuusuke’s shoulder to Geiz, who shrugs. “Woz hates being dirty and Sougo...uh...I kinda don’t think we should encourage Sougo to take apart stuff in the house. Um, no offense.”

“None taken, Geiz, I’ve known him longer than you have and I don’t know that I’d trust him to fix the toilet either, he’s, ah...”

“A little absent-minded?” is Yuusuke’s cheerfully diplomatic suggestion.

“Yes, exactly.”

A frustrated noise floats in from the dining room, and Geiz glances over nervously towards the doorway. “Maybe we should get started on that before Daiki actually manages to lose his temper.”

“I don’t think he’d really lose his temper over something like this.” Yuusuke also glances toward the dining room and frowns. “But then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose at chess this many times in a row.”

There’s a notable silence, and then the sound of Tsukuyomi saying, quietly, “Checkmate,” followed by Daiki’s aggrieved, “Where did you learn to play chess like that?”

“Yeah, let’s head upstairs, either he’s going to actually get upset or he and Tsukuyomi are about to have some kind of serious conversation and he’d be embarrassed if we overheard him, he hates getting serious in public.”

--

In the dining room, Tsukuyomi frowns at her queen and says, “I...I don’t actually know. I know how to play chess, but I don’t remembering...learning how to play chess. Or who taught me.”

Daiki's resetting the chessboard, so he doesn't look up at her, but he does say, "You know, sometimes I envy Tsukasa for having been allowed to forget things." Before Tsukuyomi can reply, though, "But then he'll go saying something like you just said and I remember how lucky I have it."

Tsukuyomi's frown gets a little deeper, but now she looks more confused than frustrated. "What do you mean?"

"Has he ever mentioned that he can't remember his parents' faces? Or their names?"

"He...no, he hasn't."

"Being able to forget is a blessing, but only if it's something you can allow yourself to do. Having it happen to you is a different thing entirely." He finishes setting up the pieces. "Sorry, I'm being gloomy, it happens sometimes."

Tsukuyomi peers at him for a moment before responding. “That’s why you started showing up to talk to Geiz, wasn’t it. Because of something you wish you could forget.”

Daiki still doesn’t look up at her. Now that the board’s reset he’s started fidgeting with the pieces again, picking up both kings and queens and rolling them in his hands. “You’re too sharp for your own good, you know that?” He puts the kings and queens down again in a little square in the center of the board. “I had a younger brother once. I failed him pretty badly.”

“I mean, apparently I had an older brother once, and he tried to kill me.” Tsukuyomi taps the white queen on the top of its little crown. “That’s also why you keep bringing me Watches.”

“Got it in one. You deserve a better brother. I think you four remind us all of ourselves.” Daiki looks down thoughtfully at the little square of pieces. “Hey, look, by the way, it’s you.” He taps the white queen just as Tsukuyomi did. “So I guess that’d make this one Sougo--” the black king, “and this one Geiz,” the white king.

She giggles. “And Woz is the black queen?”

“Well, it’s not a perfect one-to-one. I guess I could go with the black bishop, but guys who go by Bishop tend to be pretty ominous characters and he's not nearly as worrying as he used to be.”

“So if we’re like you guys, then which one of these are you?”

“Oh, we’re not chess pieces, we’re cards.” Rustling, and a Tarot deck emerges from one of the interior pockets of Daiki’s jacket. He slides it lovingly out of the box and flips through the deck, drawing four cards and laying them down on the table next to the chessboard--the King of Wands, the Queen of Coins, and the Knight of Swords, and the Page of Cups. “See? There’s Tsukasa, that’s Natsumi, obviously this one is Yuusuke, and that’s me.”

“You just...had that in your pocket? And...Cups is the one that turned into Hearts, right? You’re the Page of Hearts?”

They’re interrupted by a startled noise from the kitchen, Woz saying, “How did you get that--” as Tsukasa, at the same time, says, “Princess, we don’t play with kitchen knives, give me that.”

“Ooh, sounds like things are getting exciting in there.” Daiki’s face lights up with a genuine grin. “Anyway, you have no idea how much stuff I’ve got in my pockets, that’s right, and of course I am. The Knave of Hearts, he stole some tarts. Speaking of which...” The Tarot deck goes away, and is replaced by on the table by a deck of regular playing cards. “Why don’t we switch games? You know how to play poker?”

--

Tsukasa carefully takes the paring knife from Yuzuki and puts it back on the counter, farther back from the edge than it was before. “I’m pretty sure you grew, I don’t think you could have reached up there last week.”

She grins up at him. “Tall!”

“Yeah, that’s right, you’re very tall.”

Woz shifts nervously as she returns to the kitchen chair she’s been occupying and clambers up onto the seat. Once she’s occupied with her stacking cups again and in no apparent danger of getting her hands on another knife, he visibly relaxes. He picks a piece of dumpling filling from the mixing bowl with his chopsticks, deposits it in the wrapper in his hand, and passes the whole thing to Tsukasa. “I appreciate your assistance with this.”

Tsukasa shrugs and starts to crimp the dumpling shut. “I figure you’re probably not usually cooking for ten people.” Closed, the dumpling goes onto a sheet pan, where there are already at least fifty completed but uncooked pieces laid out.

“You might be surprised. Sougo and Geiz both eat a great deal.”

“And you don’t?” Tsukasa accepts another filled wrapper and looks Woz up and down. “I’ve seen you eat, it’s kind of amazing that you’re so skinny.”

“That’s...not unfair.”

They make dumplings in silence, Woz filling and Tsukasa crimping as the sheet pan becomes fuller and fuller. Eventually they have to get a second pan, and when they’ve got ten dumplings down on that, Yuzuki slides down from her chair with a thump and tugs on the hem of Woz’s shirt. “Woz. Woz. Woz.”

Woz looks down at her in alarm. “Yes?”

She points imperiously to the counter. “Book.”

“Ah...yes? That’s my book.”

A firm nod. “Woz, book.”

“She wants you to read to her.” Tsukasa puts aside another completed dumpling. “Right, princess?”

Yuzuki nods again. “Ok! Read book!”

Woz only looks more alarmed. “Why me?”

“Well, she knows it’s your book.”

“Yes, but my book is...” Woz glances to the side. “My book is not suitable for children.”

Tsukasa’s eyebrows go up. “Isn’t it? If the stories in there aren’t suitable for children then I don’t know what is.” He pauses. “I mean, maybe don’t read to her about the Amazon kids, the Greek ones, but otherwise. I can keep making dumplings by myself, I’ll be fine.”

Uncertain, Woz nods, puts aside the cooking chopsticks, and washes his hands before taking his book down from its spot on the counter. Yuzuki claps delightedly as he sits down in the kitchen chair and climbs up onto his lap with only minimal wincing on his part. “Woz, book! Thank you.”

His mouth twitches slightly, as if he’s trying not to smile, and Tsukasa winks at him. Then, carefully, he opens up the book and turns to a spot about sixteen pages in. “Long, long ago, there was a man who knew how to do one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine things--��

“Big number.”

“Yes, very big. There was a man who knew how to do one thousand nine hundred and ninety nine things, and his name was Godai Yusuke.”

“Like Daddy! Yusuke!”

“Just like your father, yes. And he loved nothing more than the blue sky and to travel and have adventures...”

--

“Hm. A little to the left, please.”

Sougo blinks. “Which one?”

“The Ride Booker. Your big watch is so chunky that it’s actually managed to make the Booker look small, which is pretty impressive.” Natsumi frowns, peering at the screen on her camera, and then shifts slightly as Sougo adjusts the placement of the Ride Booker. “Yeah, there we go, that looks nice.”

She takes several pictures. They’re working outside in the sun, so she doesn’t use the flash, and after ten or so shots she nods in satisfaction and Sougo says, “Do you want me to rearrange them?”

“No, that’s fine, I’ve got what I wanted. Here, toss me the Booker, you can take your watch now.“

“Ok, here. Why did you want a picture of the Grand Zi-O watch?”

She shrugs. “I don’t get to do a lot of still photography, most of the studio’s business is portraits. I thought it’d be a nice change.” The Ride Booker goes into her bag, her camera goes back into its case, and she sits down on the bench they were using as a platform for the set-up. “Besides, the weather’s good today, it’s a nice excuse to get outside and get some fresh air.”

The Grand Zi-O watch fizzes away, presumably back to the bedside table in Sougo’s room, and he sits down next to Natsumi. “It is nice out today, yeah. But I mean, like. Why Rider stuff? Why not, I don’t know, nature photography?”

“Because I don’t get out in nature as much as I’d like, but Rider stuff’s been a lot of my life. Tsukasa takes all kinds of photos of Rider stuff, of course, and they’re kinda great for what they are, but they’re not really practical records. The story of the whole thing matters, and it’s easier if you’ve got clear pictures.”

“The story? What story?”

“Whatever story’s being told. That’s what photography’s for, to tell stories about our lives. You know, like, here’s when Ritsuko got married, and this is when Miki and his sister graduated high school, and here’s when we saved the world the first time and Tsukasa got turned into a giant belt for ten minutes.” She glances over at him and grins. “Anyway, I wanted to get a picture of his transformation whatsit with yours because it’s kind of funny to see him pick up a junior, I think it makes him feel better about himself knowing that he’s not the only one doing what he does.”

Sougo nods, frowning slightly. “Tsukuyomi said you’re a Rider too, but I’ve never seen you carrying anything that looks like Rider stuff, what do you use?”

“Oh, god, she’s around here somewhere.”

“...she?”

“Hey! Kiva-la! I know you’re here!”

And a little purple-and-white bat flits into view and says, “Obviously I’m here, what do you want?”

“Sougo wanted to know what I transform with. See,” to Sougo, “Tsukasa and Daiki just get cards, Yuusuke’s got his stone, but if I need to do hero stuff I have to deal with her.”

Sougo stares at Kiva-la wide-eyed for a moment before saying, “It’s, uh, nice to meet you? Ma’am?”

Kiva-la turns a loop-de-loop in the air. “I like him! No one’s ever polite to me! Anyway,” with a pout in her tiny voice, “Tsukasa said to tell you it’s time for dinner.”

--

The whole building smells like frying dumplings and cooking soup and good food in general, and Yuusuke and Geiz straighten up and put the lid back onto the back of the toilet moments before Woz says, in his most carrying, I-Am-Making-An-Announcement voice, “It is time for dinner,” echoed by Yuzuki’s enthusiastic shout of, “Dinner!”

Yuusuke’s face lights up. “Oh, perfect timing. Here, wash your hands, I’ll wash mine, and we can both head down.”

“Sounds good.” Geiz turns on the water and starts scrubbing his hands vigorously. “Thanks for showing me that, by the way, everyone else here is useless at repairs.”

“I mean, I don’t know that I’d put it that way...”

“No, seriously, I live with Sougo, he’s a space case. And Woz is...he’s Woz. He’s great, but he’s also Woz.” Geiz backs away from the sink and grabs a towel to dry his hands as Yuusuke starts to wash his. “Why’d you want to, though? Like I appreciate it, but what made you want to teach me something like this?”

“I like fixing things, and you seem like someone who needs to find more ways to relax.” Yuusuke accepts another hand towel. “Rider stuff is exhausting, it’s nice knowing how to do normal things too. Wow that all smells good, I’m so excited to eat a meal that I didn’t have to cook any of myself.”

As they head for the stairs, Geiz says, “No offense, but you seem...different, somehow, from Tsukasa and Daiki and Natsumi.”

“That’s because they’re huge drama queens.” Yuusuke grins at him. “I love them so much, you have no idea, but if we were all like that then nothing would ever get done around the house.”

Geiz stifles laughter.

Yuusuke’s grin just gets wider. “See, I knew you’d get it.”

[bigfrozenfan]

Frozen III plot / fanfic

I have read many opinions about Frozen II in the last half year, many of them very contradictory and almost dividing the Frozen fandom. So it took me a while to put everything together to form a personal overall picture. Many people know that I’m an F3 supporter and after a post from yesterday about Elsa’s humanity and how the makers of Frozen see her, an idea came to my mind. This idea would solve many problems and questions and finally bring Elsa back to Arendelle and to Anna. Furthermore, this idea holds a lot of fuel and possibilities for a full-length film with many flashbacks and plots for really every one of our beloved characters. Everyone would get their money’s worth without it getting boring at any time.

It’s been a long time since I tried writing and I’m not good at it. But the form of a ficlet seemed to me to be the most suitable to convey an F3 plot idea with much tension in it. Maybe one of my favourite writers or anyone who would like to dare to take up my idea and write a real fanfic with several chapters. I would be the first who would like to read it!

I hope you like my idea.

Big thanks to @fericita-s​ for beta reading and correcting my text and also for making me aware of a big logical problem that i had overseen! After one sleepy night i solved this issue and now my movie plot idea is even better than before :-)

The story takes place shortly after the events of the reunion and afterwards in the Enchanted Forest…

Of course it had taken a while until the people of Arendelle understood everything, until they accepted the new friends in the far north and the abdication of their queen. It has taken a while before Anna herself was ready to take on the mantle. 

In her new role as Fifth Spirit, accompanied by Gale and Nokk, Elsa was quickly accepted by the Arendellians. Most were grateful after witnessing the rescue of the castle. Some of them, however, were afraid of so much power in their midst. 

Elsa noticed this very quickly and decided to limit her future visits to what was necessary and to enter the castle without being seen.

The official coronation took place in the castle chapel, where all the kings and queens had been crowned. When the choir finished singing, the bishop carefully put the new crown on Anna and she received Arendelle’s insignia from the velvet cushion. Then she turned to her people with pride and dignity. 

Elsa was in exactly the same place where Anna had been during her own coronation. Anna was calm and composed during the whole ceremony. Fear had almost overwhelmed Elsa. She saw in her memory the ice that slowly formed on the scepter and orb as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

As the applause broke out she smiled at Anna. She was so proud of her little sister. Anna looked over at her for a moment and smiled back in relief. Then she carefully put the insignia back on the pillow. She had made it through. She was now Queen of Arendelle.

As they left the chapel in a royal recessional past an overjoyed looking Kristoff, the enthusiastically clapping people of Arendelle, the invited guests and dignitaries, Elsa involuntarily drew a comparison. There seemed to be far more people present than at her own coronation. Some representatives of the Northuldra were even present including Yelana and Honeymaren in their traditional colourful festive dress, now bowing to both of them. The people loved Anna. And Elsa was happy to have made the right decision for both of them and for the kingdom.  

The Coronation Ball in the evening was cheerful and exuberant. Every dignitary paid respects to the new queen. She was glad that the Duke of Weselton was not invited this time and that she did not have to dance with him. This time she could choose her own dance partner and she chose Kristoff. As a precaution she had arranged for Kristoff to get some dance lessons a few weeks before. She still remembered too well how Weselton stepped on her feet back then and Kristoff was a good deal bigger and heavier.

***

Anna, with Elsa’s help, had commissioned the royal sculptor to create a large bronze statue. She wanted to show her parents at a young age, as a monument and eternal symbol of the peace between Arendelle and the Northuldra. Elsa would not be able to be present in person, but she gave her promise to visit regularly. 

Anna’s second official act was to appoint Lt. Destin Mattias as General. He had been loyal to Arendelle all his life and was instrumental in helping her break the curse of the mist. Ultimately, it was Mattias who reached for her hand at the very last moment to save her from falling into the depths of the breaking dam, saving her life.  

Together with Kristoff, of course, and that brought Anna to her next thought. She had been overjoyed to accept Kristoff’s marriage proposal and that would be the next big event in Arendelle. Her own wedding. But first she wanted to unveil the monument. The sculptor had promised her that it would be finished very soon.

***

Peace had returned to the Enchanted Forest.  The Northuldra lived their lives as before, in harmony with the Spirits of Nature. The giants helped the inhabitants over abysses, Nokk helped a bit with fishing, Gale, playful as she was, helped to convert creative ideas into stone sculptures, and Bruni was content to help start cookfires and clear areas with fire as needed for growing food or reindeer herding. 

Elsa had her own kota in the village, but she spent most of her time in Ahtohallan to learn and find out more about the past and about herself and her magic. She even finds out more about Kristoff's past. The only thing she knew about him was that he has been raised by trolls and learned to be an ice harvester. But now she knows everything. About his parents and what happened to them, and also the circumstances around why Kristoff ended up among the trolls.

One balmy early summer evening she sat with Honeymaren and a few others around the campfire in the village and told them a little bit about Ahtohallan. Everyone was quite curious about it because not one of the Northuldra living today had ever seen it. 

At first she decided to reveal only a little of the deeper secrets there and limited herself to the description of the place itself. She wasn’t sure if this would anger the spirits but assumed that she would quickly notice when trouble was approaching. The Northuldra hung on her every word while she talked and now and then someone asked her for more details. But Elsa left out the pictures in the memory hall and the deeper levels of Ahtohallan with the living ice sculptures of her own past. That was a bit too private and perhaps risky. 

Now that she had accepted her ability and her new task as Fifth Spirit, she hardly thought back to her old life in Arendelle. In the beginning she was there every Friday and sometimes stayed over the weekend to be with Anna and help her with her new duties as Queen, but she had changed. Something had changed her. And it became rarer and rarer for Elsa to visit the castle.

Eventually it even became rare to find her in the forest.

The Spirits were appeased and there were no threats and no strangers in the forest. Everything was calm and in harmony. It was almost as if it had never been otherwise. Many peaceful weeks passed.

Until that one day in the early hours of the morning, when one of the Northuldra men was about to go fishing and he found a human lying at the beach motionless half in the water. The man ran back to the village to get help. 

A short time later he returned with Yelana, Honeymaren, and a healer.  They took in the sight before them and drew back in shock. In front of them lay Elsa, motionless and without any clothes. 

The healer was the first to kneel down next to her and check if she was still alive. She confirmed it to Yelena with a relieved nod and together they carried her back to the forest.

When they arrived in the village there was excitement and a small group discussed gesticulating and pointing towards the lichen meadows and other directions. The only thing they understood in the tangle of stories was, that the spirits had apparently all disappeared and were no longer helping anyone as they always did. 

Yelana immediately linked the two incidents and came up with the only possible explanation. Elsa was on her way back to them when all the Spirits suddenly disappeared, and so did Nokk. So Elsa must have swum almost all the way from Ahtohallan through the Dark Sea. A wonder she could survive that at all. If the magic disappeared, this could only mean one thing.

***

Meanwhile, Anna was seriously worried in Arendelle. It had been more than a month since Elsa’s last letter and since then Gale hadn’t shown up either. 

Even Olaf had been acting very strange lately, insisting they remove the ice embellishments from the castle and find more “Anna” decorations.  He was also uncharacteristically calm. He didn’t visit Sven as often anymore and his curiosity and jokes had become rare.  

Anna made a decision. If Elsa did not come to her, she would have to travel to the Enchanted Forest herself. She asked Kristoff to gather all the necessary material and asked General Mattias to accompany her. He agreed as long as he could bring Halima.

Anna agreed and the next day they all left very early in the morning for the north. Sven pulled the wagon, Kristoff sat in the front and Olaf sat in the back next to Anna. Mattias and Halima rode side by side on two of their own horses behind them. Since there was peace between the Northuldra and the Arendellians, they declined a retinue of guards. It was supposed to be a comfortable trip with a reunion of old friends in the Enchanted Forest.

Late in the evening they reached the four big monoliths at the edge of the forest and the sun was already setting. They got out of the wagon and Mattias helped Halima dismount. Everyone was in a good mood and grabbed the contents from the wagon. There were presents for the Northuldra and specialties from Arendelle for a small feast in the village. They had barely finished when a few Northuldra with serious expressions ran towards them and asked them to hurry. Something bad had happened. Anna held on to Kristoff in shock and said only one word. “Elsa!”

When they entered the village there was an oppressive silence and many lowered their eyes as they passed by. Honeymaren ran towards Anna, bowed briefly to the queen and took her hand.

Anna’s lips trembled as they looked into each other’s eyes for a brief moment. Finally Honeymaren pulled Anna gently behind her towards Elsa’s kota and said softly to her that Anna had to be strong now. They entered the low and gloomy dwelling. Then Anna saw her sister lying on a bed lined with furs, her eyes open. Anna rushed towards her, kneeled beside the bed and grabbed Elsa’s hand. She was unusually warm, but did not return her gentle grip. Elsa just looked up and did not react in the slightest. Anna laid both hands on Elsa’s cheeks and gently turned her head towards her. Their eyes met.

“Elsa! What has happened? What is the matter with you?”

Agonizing seconds went by.

Elsa blinked a few times and then tightened her eyebrows.

Her voice was weak and sounded fragile when she finally replied, “Who are you?”

*** 

—

Ok, there were or are some difficulties for me to bring some facts together and explain them conclusively. One of them is the loss of Elsa’s powers and what would happen to her creations. Olaf, the Snowgies and Marshmallow in particular. It was simple and easy to do with Elsa’s ice decorations at the castle (if it should be Elsa’s suggestion or Anna’s decision as new Queen i’m not sure about). Arendelle and especially Anna must not notice in the story too early that Elsa is now a “normal” person. But the other thing? That Ahtohallan is the reason should be clear, after all that was the source of Elsa’s power. But what happens when all the magic vanishes? Would Ahtohallan have a remaining residual magic to ensure the continued existence of Elsa’s living creations? Or would Elsa possess some kind of residual magic that she can no longer use willingly, but is still a deep part of herself? The other thing is how would it be possible to bring back the magic or to "heal" Ahtohallan? Would this be permanent? Would it be wanted? Questions over questions and this time Ahtohallan doesn't know (pun intended...LOL).

Well, the rest of the story remains to be determined…

[alectology-archive]

SJ/M’s plagiarism from fiction/media

I’m hoping to make a comprehensive list of all the sources SJ/M has outright ripped off from in the past. Feel free to comment down below or send an ask if you can think of anything.

SJ/M has very clearly ripped off of GRRM and JRR Tolkien’s works. Same goes for a lot of Anne Bishop’s works, too, and a lot of her favourite authors - so if anyone’s read books SJ/M has stated that she likes please let me know.

Note that this post will keep getting updated as I discover more evidences of plagiarism. Also note that there is every possibility that some resemblances are purely accidental and/or unintentional. So take it with a grain of salt.

(?) indicates a questionable addition to the post.

T/HRONE OF GLASS

- “The Queen Who Was Promised” comes from GRRM’s “The Prince who was Promised” prophecy in ASOIAF, who also goes by Azor Ahai, who wields Lightbringer, and is also known as the Son of Fire. 

- “Aelin” is probably derived from “Aelin-uial” in the Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien. Additionally, it may have been derived from Aerin Dragon-Killer/Aerin Firehair from Robin McKinley's The Hero and the Crown, as SJ/M stated it was one of her favourite novels.

- “Fireheart” is the name of Corlath’s horse in The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley, an author SJ/M admires.

- Empire of Storms, 2016, contains the infamous line ‘velvet-wrapped steel.’ And… so does Fifty Shades of Grey, in 2011: ‘Steel encased in velvet.’ 

- “Valg” comes from Terry Brooke’s The Sword of Shannara, another author SJ/M admires.

- “Hope. You cannot steal it, and you cannot break it." is awfully similar to the line from The Princess Bride about love "you cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds, and you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords". SJ/M has said that she loved the movie.

- The infamous “You could rattle the stars” is a ripoff of Treasure Planet’s “You’re gonna rattle the stars.”

- “To Whatever End” comes from The Two Towers where King Theoden says it just before the battle of Helm’s deep begins.

- “You bow to no one” is said by Aragorn at the end of the Return of the King after his coronation.

- Orynth has white walls and is surrounded by snow capped peaks. It has large white walls and bears an unusually striking resemblance to Minas Tirith in The Lord of the Rings.

- Aelin’s journey mirrors that of Aragorn. The lost heir to a powerful throne, spends years in the wilderness denying their claim, joins forces with the elf/faes to reclaim it and has an immortal elf/fae as consort.

- Nehemia names Aelin ‘Elentiya’, saying, “I give you this name to use with honour, to use when other names grow too heavy. I name you Elentiya, ‘Spirit That Could Not Be Broken’.” It sounds similar in tone and cadence to the way Galadriel describes the light of Earendil to Frodo. The name Elentiya even sounds Elvish, and sits discordant with the other naming conventions in Eyllwe.

- Manon gathers the witches to go to war by starting a series of beacons, lit all across Erilea, from snow-capped mountains to the woodlands - directly from the Return of the King when Pippin helps Gondor call for aid. 

- The wall defences of Orynth are completely sound, except there’s one more way in, through a grate in the water canal - another striking resemblance to a place in Lord of the Rings known as Helm’s Deep. There is even a scene where someone asks if there’s a secret passage the women and children can escape through.

- In EoS and ToD, Chaol is referred to as “Hand of the King”. In GoT the “Hand of the King” is a title given to the King’s advisor.

- The speech that Haldir gave when he arrived in Helm’s Deep, uniting the elven and human forces, is paraphrased at least three times in this book. Most notably when Manon brings the Crochan witches to fight alongside the humans. She actually says “Long ago, Crochans and humans fought side by side…”

- Kingsflame blossoms bloom only when a kingdom is at peace and the rightful monarch is on the throne. Also a very similar plot point to the White Tree of Gondor in The Lord of the Rings.

- The dam breaking in Anielle and flooding is based on the Isengard dam breaking in The Two Towers. 

- Chaol crosses the Narrow Sea to get to the southern continent. In GoT the Narrow Sea is the body of water between Westeros and Essos.

- The “Wyrdkeys” are the Silmarils. There are 3 Wyrdkeys and 3 Silmarils. They’re ancient and powerful stones forged by a being of great power (Feanor, who made the Silmarils, was the most powerful elf of all time). Everyone is fighting over them. And just like one Wyrdkey eventually ends up in the Terrasen Amulet, one of the Silmarils ends up in a necklace called the Nauglamir. They’re also all destroyed/lost at the end.

- Kingdom of Ash, page 543: “It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.But heads. Human heads, many still in their helmets.” In Return of the King, the orcs catapult severed heads (still in their helmets) over the walls of Minas Tirith.

- “What say you, Queen of Witches?”…….“I shall answer Terrasen’s call.” is a blatant rip-off of the scene where Aragorn approaches Theoden after the beacons are lit in the Return of the King.

- Rowan is referred to as, “My friend through many dangers.” which is exactly what Gandalf says about Shadowfax, his horse, in Lord of the Rings.

- The Land before Time, 1988: ‘Some things you see with your eyes. Other things you see with your heart.’

Crown of Midnight, SJM, 2011: ‘Some things you hear with your eyes. Other things you hear with your heart.’

- ‘Spirit that could not be broken’ is seen in Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron (2002) and Throne of Glass (2011).

- It’s possible that SJ/M may have plagiarised Maria V Snyder’s Poison Study(?) (published 2005). Both books begin with the heroine being released from prison and being offered the choice to be freed by working for the very rulers who’d imprisoned them. Also, Valek - Yelena’s love interest - is the greatest and most feared assassin in the country and also acts as a mentor to Yelena much like Rowan does in Heir of Fire. However, I think this is a questionable addition despite similarities because SJ/M began writing Queen of Glass in 2003 and all the aforementioned aspects that are similar were already present in the version she published online.

- S/JM has saved a pin of Connor Kenway from the Assassin's Creed series (AC3) as Rowan and Lorcan on Pinterest. Towards the end of the series they started using hatchets as weapons, which is Connor's choice of weapon, outside of swords, and is used heavily in art which features him. Aelin's assassin suit from the earlier books also had a blade built into it, which was very similar to the hidden blade the assassins in Assassin's Creed use.

Further reading: Why not everyone liked Connor’s characteristic traits being ripped off: https://dragonidk.tumblr.com/post/614614548495859712/i-went-through-sjms-tog-pinterest-board-the-other

Further reading: An article comparing EoS’s ending to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: https://thebookfinch.wordpress.com/2016/09/08/review-empire-of-storms-by-sarah-j-maas-in-which-we-discuss-plagiarism/

A/COTAR

- “Prythian”, the A/COTAR world, is taken directly from Anne Bishop’s Daughter of the Blood.

- The Archeron sisters could be based off the painting “The Acheson Sisters” by John Singer Sargent which features three women.

- The Illyrians could have been based off of the Eyriens from Anne’s Bishop’s Black Jewels series. Both are warrior races with bat wings that use a war blade to fight with. They also both completely refuse their women any right to fight and consider losing their wings to be the absolute worst thing that could happen to them. 

- Feyre tells Tamlin, “The sun was shining when I left you.” which is basically Paris saying, “The sun was shining when your wife left you.” in the movie Troy (2004)

- Rhys proclaims, “Light can be found even in the darkest of hells,” Which is really close to Dumbledore saying (in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban), “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

- Daenerys: “We’re going to leave the world better than we found it.” 

ACOWAR: “Leave this world… a better place than how you found it.”

- “Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.” is a variation of “Pity the living and above all, those who live without love,” said by Dumbledore in the Deathly Hallows.

- A Dance of Dragons, George R.R. Martin, 2011: ‘He is fire made flesh, she thought, and so am I.’

ACOMAF, 2016: ‘Fire - he reminded her of fire made flesh.’

- SJ/M may have also plagiarised The Chronicles of Prydain for ACOTAR wherein Prythian is altered to Prydain and The Cauldron is derived from The Black Cauldron. This may be especially true considering the fact that SJ/M has expressed her love for the books and stated it on Twitter. She also went on to mention that she got the name for Prythian from those books. Similarities to the cauldron can also be seen in the fact that SJ/M’s Cauldron can transform humans into fae while Alexander's Black Cauldron is able to resurrect the dead.

!!!! Further Reading: Noticeable similarities between ACOTAR and The Chronicles of Prydain series: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Chronicles_of_Prydain

- Possible plagiarism(?) of Titanic: Rose is Feyre, Cal is Tamlin, Jack is Rhys. The story is similar - the girl is involved with a guy who seems nice enough, but turns out to be abusive etc. There are similar incidents of the table being chucked across the room/and the study being destroyed. Then you also have the girl being told the other guy isn't nice and she should stay away from him, but then it ends up being the other way round. The guy bosses her about, making her decisions for her and ends up dying for her later on.

- Rhapsody by Laura Thalassa and A/COTAR have awfully similar tropes. Both involve faeries, in both the main female lead leaves her barbaric boyfriend to go with the dark, elegant Fae boyfriend who came to collect a debt.

Further reading: A conversation in comparing The Vampire Diaries(?) to ACOTAR:  https://crescentcitysux.tumblr.com/post/618622356795064320/iolanthepeverells-pokeyfaes

Further reading: Similarities between Shatter Me and the ACOTAR trilogy: https://discountalien-pancake.tumblr.com/post/174823303683/dont-take-this-as-an-attack-im-just

C/RESCENT CITY

- Similarities between the plot of Darkfever by Karen Marie Morning (an author S/JM likes) and Crescent City’s plot: https://polysorscha.tumblr.com/post/183661492639/funny-thing-i-came-across-the-crescent-city

- The Princes of Hel might be from the Seven Princes of Hell demonology (some ancient writings trying to classify demons in christianity). [MINOR INFRACTION]

Sources:

- @sjm-exposed 

- @soartfullydone 

- @falstaffing for “My friend through many dangers.”

- https://readatmidnight.com/2018/10/27/book-rant-kingdom-of-ash/

- strangestoryteller.com

- https://camryndaytona.com/2019/08/sarah-j-maas-and-jrr-tolkien

- @rougeam for “fire made flesh”

- @sylphene for Aerin firehair 

- @sylphene and @paperbacktrash  for The Chronicles of Prydain.

- An anon for the Laura Thalassa comparison

- @hireath24 for the Crown of Midnight quote and “spirit that could not be broken.”

- @pokeyfaes and @iolanthepeverells for The Vampire Diaries comparison

- A reddit thread for the Titanic comparison 

- An anon for the Eyrians

- An anon and @dragonidk for the Assassin’s Creed addition

- @longsightmyth for Fireheart

[roraruu]

wip: step into the darkness

Marianne is seven when her parents begin to act strange around. She remembers it all so clearly, as if a sculptor had etched it into her mind with a pick and hammer.

It is just a few days before the Red Wolf Moon’s death, and three days before her birthday. Their little cottage in the woods of a distant part of Leicester begin to grow colder, as if the winds from Faerghus are blowing directly in upon their home.

Her mother, whom her father says is her mirror image, hurries about the small, cold cottage. Not in her usual way that looks hurried, but in reality is quite calm and measured. From her spot in the living room, by the warm fire, she watches as her mother traces the kitchen quickly, her apron wading in the cold air.

She opens her mouth to speak, but she knows much better than to open it. Something inside her—a voice, an instinct perhaps—tells her not to. Her lips shut as she sits on the rug and stares into the fire. The book of fairytales and legends at her feet, which her father had promised to read her when he got back, stares up at her, begging to be read.

He promised that the trip would only be a few days, not much longer than two. He promised that he would come back with game. He promised, with his darkened eyes and deep voice, that he’d carve her a wooden figure of Seiros with his own two hands for her birthday.

She remembers the curl in his lip when he said the goddess’s name. Like it was burning him alive: sear-rows. A child remembers disgust clearly.

It’s been five days. Her father isn’t back, and her mother is beginning to let her worry show.

Marianne has seen this happen before. Back when she was only four. Her father went missing for three days, out into the woods, and when he came back, it was on the arm of a green-haired knight of Seiros. He had slept in bed for days, couldn’t look at anyone or anything; and he was sick.

And when Marianne had the courage to ask her mother what was wrong with her father, she had only said her father had taken ill.

That was always the excuse: Papa is ill. Father is sickly today. It is best not to bother Papa; he is ill.

Always a reason to leave him be. Some days she felt like she was being spectated upon. She would catch that look in his eyes sometimes: like he didn’t recognize Marianne or her mother; or like he was sorry for them.

The cottage feels cold, though it is snug and the fire is burning hot. Her Mother eventually calls her into the kitchen for dinner—Gautier stew. One of the neighbours brought some cheese and fowl. They always do when Papa disappears.

Mother says it’s just what good neighbours do, but Marianne can’t help but feel that they do it out of pity.

***

Another day passes without father. The cock crows for the dawn and Marianne wakes. Snow blankets outside, for their little cottage is incredibly close to Faerghus.

She’s been sleeping in the same bed as her mother since her father left. It happens often. Having another body in the bed brings her Mother a little sense of comfort, a little safety. And while Marianne is young, she knows the look of woe and sadness well, for her mother wears it often.

Her mother is only 28, but she looks as though she’s past middle age sometimes. Usually when her father is missing she looks like that; but when Marianne’s father is about, she looks so young, like a young girl, who is much too young to have a child of seven years.

Her father however, always looks gruff and tired, like an old billy goat. His dark hair spills out over his face, and a beard that grows in around his chin. Dark eyes too, not quite beady like a goat’s, but more like the ocean that they can see from the top of the church hill. The sea always looks black in the winter.

Her mother wakes before her, gently stirs her once, twice, for there is not a cruel bone in that woman’s body. Some around here say that she is a true daughter of Seiros, kind and just. Others say that she is like an angel from another land.

Marianne doesn’t know which to believe.

They say their morning prayers to the Goddess from the side of the straw bed. Holiness, religion, was born right into Marianne. Her Mother was a sister of Seiros, who served at the monastery in the heart of Fódlan. She doesn’t talk much about those days, she doesn’t talk much about herself. But what she does not speak of herself, she makes it up with talk of the Goddess and her saints and Seiros. Before bed, her mother tells her stories of Saint Macuil, Saint Indech, Saint Cichol and his daughter Cethleann, and of course, Saint Seiros. She speaks of them with such passion, such brightness, that her eyes sparkle as she talks.

Sometimes, if the mood is correct, and if her Mother is willing, she will sing to Marianne. She has the sweetness of all the honey in the land and the tone of the finest songbirds in her voice. She could have been a songstress, easily, yet she is a sister of the faith, a humble cleric. And Marianne isn’t sure why, but she is sure that her Mother has the finest voice in all of Fódlan. But she understands why her Mother is called Silque; for her voice is as smooth and as rich as the fabric.

Prayers pass in silence, both praying for the return of Silque’s lover and Marianne’s father.

They dress and Marianne sits still as her mother combs her hair and braids it into a crown about her head. While she works, she hums. Somedays, they’re happy songs. Other days they are mourning songs. Today it is just a melody from a lullaby that she sang to Marianne when she was just a babe.

(She always sings that when her father is missing. It is a comfort to the both of them.)

They share breakfast; day-old bread and cheese, tea for Silque, milk for Marianne. Marianne eats everything while Silque only prods her food. Marianne does not say anything, knowing that any reproach would upset her mother further. Instead, Silque stares out the window, her eyes searching the snowy hillside for the familiar look of her lover and her child’s father.

Before the sun has even risen, they are out the door and walking up the hillside to the church at the top. There, Marianne’s mother works while the little girl watches or sits out back.

As they walk up the hill, they can see the queue of sick that that lines outside the church; Silque’s patients for the day. She breathes a sigh as she enters the church. Marianne sits in the pews, listening to the hacking coughs and sneezes of the sick.

This has been her life for the last few years. When father is around, she will stay with him and sit while he works. He is a carpenter; building many houses in the area, cribs, bassinets, bed frames, tables and chairs, dressers, armoires and desks; most everything is crafted by his rough hands. And when the bandits get bad, he is a military leader.

Marianne remembers seeing the glinting gold of a helmet and armour, the lush reds and blues of a cape long since worn; the silks of a bishop’s gown and the markings of Seiros upon them. She does not know now, but in ten years’ time, she will come to understand that her parents were not just a carpenter and a cleric, but a bishop and a bow knight in former lives, ones long since forgotten.

The orphans of the church don’t speak to her much. She keeps to herself, reading her old book of fairytales or praying like her Mother would. Sometimes she helps with washing clothes and sewing, other days she does not. One of the children asks what she wants for her birthday—her Mother has said she is going to be eight in two days’s time. She lies and says that she wants a new book from town.

In truth, she only wants her father to come home, and her mother to smile without forcing it.

At lunch, Marianne’s mother allows her to go outside and play. “But,” her soft voice rings out with a sense of sternness. “Do not go past the courtyard. I need to be able to see you.”

“Yes Mother.” She promises. She shrugs on her cloak and steps out the back of the church. She paces the little courtyard a few times, watching as birds and squirrels come to visit her.

She sits down in the snow, her blue dress circling about her. As her father taught her, with his old horse, she stays as still as a statue. Her eyelashes don’t even flutter after she’s shut them. To the observer, she looks as though she is a young princess, with an air of regality and serenity that only the bluest of blood can attain.

The sounds of the nearby forest grow louder. She can hear cardinals cry out, some robins who are looking for food. The rattle of an annoyed chipmunk, the crunch of snow.

She stays like that for a while. Then, slowly, she opens her eyes. In the snow before her is a little bird with a soft coat. She doesn’t dare move, but instead flutters her lashes in a hello.

It greets her back. Why are you still here?

My mother is working in the church.

You need to move little miss.

Why so? Marianne asks, slowly moving her eyes up and around the courtyard.

Something is coming. Can you not feel it?

The air has grown colder. It becomes a little harder to breathe. She turns her head and the bird does not move. I can. She tells it.

Is it a wolf?

No, it’s far more sinister. The woods are clear.

The trees rustle. Then as she turns her body, the bird flies away, calling for her to take cover.

From the dark of the woods, Marianne sees a monster stare back at her. Slowly, it moves closer, it’s nose heaving out breaths as she stays stock still.

In her mind she tries to speak to the monster, her hands curling around her winter cloak. She stares at the beast, taking in it’s dark scales and sharp fangs, it’s claws that could cut her to bits.

Quietly, as if the world has gone silent, she hears it speak.

Fear the beast inside of you Marianne.

Her eyes widen in horror and she stops breathing, fainting in the snow. When she wakes, the beast is gone and she is left shaking. She catches her breath, looking wildly around her for the monster who warned her. Then she begins to worry; what is the beast inside? Of her? Is there a monster underneath her skin.

She steadies her wobbly legs and then returns inside the church. Marianne does not tell her mother of the monster in the courtyard. She remains silent, instead watching as her mother takes patient after patient, never once growing angry or tired.

Someone gives them a bit of fish for dinner, as thanks to Silque for her healing. She promises to make two fish stew with it when they get home.

***

There’s a crash outside the cottage. Silque sits up. Then the door opens. Marianne feels her mother move in the bed. She hears the ancient words on her tongue as she begins to recite spells. Marianne pulls the blankets closer to her, up against her willowy frame as she watches her mother etch out of the room and into the main atrium of the house.

Her mother’s shoulders sag, as if relief has finally weighed down upon her shoulders. Her hands drop to her sides as the sounds of boots against wooden floors grows louder.

“I’m home, Silque.”

Marianne knows that voice. She stumbles out of bed, watching as her father stands stock still. Her mother holds him tight, sobbing prayers to the goddess that he has finally returned home.

And when Marianne catches his eyes, she sees the monster from the forest.

***

Marianne is tucked back into her parents’ bed. She knows that she will not sleep in her own bed tonight; nor will her parents use theirs. They will stay up talking like they always do when he comes home after a long time away.

She lays in their bed and hears the bits of their conversation over and over again.

“Was it your...”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“You cannot control it, why should you be?”

“It’s her birthday soon, you two must have been worried.”

“We were not losing sleep... Or that much.”

“Has she... been acting strange?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean Silque.” She can hear his voice loud and clear. Her father has never been a quiet man. “Is she showin’ the signs?”

“Of... Of Maurice?”

“Yeah. Suppose I mean him.”

Marianne sits up in bed, she swings her legs over the side and lets her feet meet the ground. Through the crack of the door, she can see her parents sitting at the hearth. Her mother reaches for his face.

“She carries my blood after all.”

“Do not treat it as a curse. She will not die—“

“You can’t know for sure, Silque.”

“I know Seiros’s gospel like the backs of my hands. She never said that Maurice was damned.

“Only that he is the Beast and hated by everyone.”

Marianne takes a step back. The floorboards creak loudly. She sees her father’s head turn to the door, staring at her through the crack. In his eyes, she sees the beast that stared at her in the woods. Her heart stops and she back barrels into the bed, climbing inside and pulling the quilt to her neck.

She clasps her hands together, and falls asleep praying to Seiros.

***

Silque clings to her lover tightly, as if he will disappear before her very eyes. She would rather die than let that happen again.

She does not see the look of terror in Marianne’s eyes. Instead, she looks up at her lover, who has been gone for upwards of a week. She breathes a prayer to the goddess before he sidesteps past her and kneels before their daughter.

“Have you been good for Ma, kid?” He asks.

Silque cannot think of anything aside from the fact that he is home. Before she knows it, Marianne is tucked back into bed and they sit before the burning hearth. She prepares him a meal and readies hot water to clean him. His face is marked bloody with brushes from the bush and dirt and soot.

It pains her to not know where he has been.

“Was it your...” She cannot finish the word. He doesn’t speak the name of it at all. The Crest of Maurice, the Crest of the Beast.

He nods. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“You cannot control it, why should you be?”

“It’s her birthday soon, you two must have been worried.” He says. He can’t bring himself to look at her.

“We were not losing sleep...” Silque lies, the sin weighing on her stomach. She turns to the little bowl of hot water. “Or that much.”

“Has she been actin’ strange?”

Silque stares at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Silque.” His eyes meet hers. Suddenly, it’s very clear that there is a beast beneath the surface of his skin. “Is she showin’ the signs?”

“Of... Of Maurice?”

“Yeah. That bastard. She carries my blood after all.”

Silque reaches for his face, her dropping the cloth into the bowl. She holds the frame of his face in her cracked hands. “Do not treat it as a curse. She will not die—“

His gaze sears hers. “You can’t know for sure, Silque.”

“I know Seiros’s gospel like the backs of my hands. She never said that Maurice was damned.” Silque pleads.

“Only that he is the Beast and hated by everyone.”

The creak of floorboards turns his head. Silque ignores it. Their little cottage is old, and the sound of settling is well-known to her. She has heard it so many time when she laid awake in bed, waiting for him to return home.

“He is not hated by me.” Silque assures her lover.

He blinks slowly as she swallows. “Who housed you this time? Was it a do gooder or the woods?” She tries to make a lighthearted joke. “It looks like you made a home in a rosebush, darling.”

“Lukas housed me again, sweetness.”

Her eyes lift to his. There are dark circles below his eyes, bags from a lack of sleep. She turns to get the cloth and dips it into the water and rings it out once, twice before brushing it against his dirty cheek.

“I should ensure to thank him with some kind prayers and fruit preserves.”

“Certain he’d like that.” He says holding his gaze.

“Did he...” The words will not leave her tongue at first. She steels herself, then forces it out like the smiles she’s been forcing since he disappeared. “Did he see you as a beast?”

He scoffs a little bit before dipping his head in a nod. He sighs. “He found me while he was on a hunting trip in his county. Called me out of it with your song.”

Any frustration and anger washes away from Silque with those last three words. She blushes a little, turning her cheek as she dips the cloth into the water. “I am glad it still brings you peace.”

“It’s because it reminds me of you.”

She burns as red as the fire and turns back to him to wash away the dirt and cuts. She could use her white magic on him, but a little selfish part of her likes to use first aid. There’s a tenderness in it. A softness that makes her heart warm and makes her blush; it dulls the ache and sadness that has follow her since he left.

“I should hope so. It is what brought us together after all.”

He shuts his eyes for a second and nods, as if revelling in the memory. She won’t lie to anyone, most of all herself: she thinks of it often. Of when she was only a sister in the monastery, where she stood in the Cathedral light and sang a song of her own composition, her own lyrics and her own heart.

When she heard him call out from the shadows, and when she took her first step into the darkness.

“Lukas’s lands are far north. Near the coast. How did you make it so far?” She finds herself asking as she cleans his face.

The silence between them speaks volumes. He must have blacked out and forgotten until Lukas brought him to with her song. The sweetness in her heart begins to bitter, eating at her core as she looks down to his hands and stares at the cuts and bruises upon them.

“The Beast took over.” He says at last. “Couldn’t stop it.”

“I see.”

“Somedays I think it would be better if I just got the Crest removed. Paid someone in the Empire to take it out of my blood or whatever they do.” He mumbles. “If they can put them in, they should be able to remove them, yeah? It shouldn’t be that—”

“I could not bear to lose you my love.”

He meets her gaze. Her eyes begin to water with tears. She realizes that it has been almost an hour since they began talking, an hour since they sent Marianne to bed with both her parents, an hour since he came home.

“Still. You shouldn’t have to put up with this bullshit.”

“I am not putting up with anything. Your Crest is apart of you, and I would not have you remove it, even if there was no threat at all.” She leans a little closer to him. He reaches out slowly to touch her cheek. She melts into his palm.  “You are my only love, Python.”

He lifts his gaze to her. Slowly, Silque draws closer to steal a kiss, pulling herself into his lap. Python’s head meets the crook of her shoulder. His heat begins to warm her cold body.

“You certain she ain’t showin’ anything? No fits, no starts? No anger? Wanderin’?” His voice reverberates throughout her body, shaking to her core.

“Nothing, Python. I swear she isn’t.” She whispers in a solemn promise. “She is the survivour of the curse. She is exempt, saved from it, by Sothis’s grace.”

And for a moment, Python believes his lover’s fallacies, her blind devotion, her bittersweet promises.