#every story drops another piece of foreshadowing

[rosemaze-reveries]

“witch’s night” at belphegor museum...?

is it too copium to assume that’s the same museum rebecca is displayed in

🧐 something something crimebrands are manifestations of memories, and most of those paintings depict cbs in-game... this feels awfully similar to nacha’s dream exhibition: capturing something intangible (dreams, memories, happiness) to frame as a work of art?

[sas-soulwriter]

Hello , here are some really basic writing tips.

Intriguing Openings: Start with a bang! Drop your readers into the middle of action or create a mystery that begs to be solved. Make them curious from the first sentence.

Character Backstories: Dive deep into your characters' pasts. Share their quirks, secrets, and defining moments. Readers love discovering what makes characters tick.

Sensory Descriptions: Paint a vivid picture using all five senses. Describe the smell of freshly baked cookies, the feel of a soft summer breeze, or the taste of a sour lemon.

Plot Twists: Keep your readers on their toes with unexpected plot twists. Surprise them by turning a seemingly predictable story into something extraordinary.

Cliffhangers: Leave your audience hanging at the end of a chapter or post. A well-placed cliffhanger will have them eagerly awaiting the next installment.

Metaphors and Similes: Add color to your writing with creative comparisons. For example, "Her smile was as bright as a thousand suns," adds a vivid and poetic touch.

Character Relationships: Explore complex dynamics between characters. Highlight their conflicts, alliances, and the evolution of their relationships throughout the story.

Symbolism: Incorporate symbols or motifs that carry deeper meaning. They can enhance the overall theme and give readers something to ponder.

Narrative Voice: Experiment with different narrative voices, such as first-person, third-person limited, or even second-person, to find the one that suits your story best.

Foreshadowing Mysteries: Drop subtle hints and clues early in the story that will become crucial later on. Readers love piecing together mysteries.

Unreliable Narrators: Consider using an unreliable narrator to keep readers guessing. They might misinterpret events or hide critical information.

Flashbacks as Puzzle Pieces: Use flashbacks strategically to reveal key aspects of the story or characters. Make them fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Dialect and Dialogue: Give characters distinct voices through their speech patterns and accents. Engaging dialogue can showcase personality and culture.

Emotional Rollercoasters: Take readers on an emotional journey. Make them laugh, cry, and experience every emotion alongside your characters.

Settings with Personality: Make the setting almost like another character. Show how it impacts the characters and the story's mood.

Evoke Empathy: Share characters' vulnerabilities, fears, and desires. Readers relate to flawed, authentic characters with whom they can empathize. Let them fail.

Experiment with Structure: Play with non-linear timelines, multiple perspectives, or fragmented narratives. Challenge traditional storytelling conventions.

Clever Wordplay: Incorporate puns, wordplay, or clever language usage to add humor and depth to your writing.

Cinematic Scenes: Write scenes that readers can visualize as if they were watching a movie. Use dynamic action and vivid descriptions.

Leave Room for Imagination: Don't spell everything out. Allow readers to use their imaginations to fill in some blanks.

Remember that storytelling is an art, and there's no one-size-fits-all approach. You can use these techniques to improve your unique style and the story you want to tell. Most importantly, have fun writing.

And remember to drink enough water!

If you want to have more of this , than click below and follow me.

[mikhailwrites]

MWIII Campaign thoughts&opinion

⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD (OBVIOUSLY)⚠️

Alright, here we go. Modern Warfare III. Disclaimer: I've been part-timing as videogame journalist (not in EN, obviously) for the past 10 years so this might read a bit like a review which this is not.

It's been a year since we watched the 141 sit in the bar in Chicago and look at the photo of one Vladimir Makarov. And the day of reckoning is finally here, at least for those of us with eaely access to the campaign.

The game opens, surprisingly, from the Konni perspective. As one of Konni soldiers, you infiltrate the prison to free your boss. First look at Makarov is menacing and leaves an impression.

Speaking of Makarov, however, I can't but feel like the writers had dropped the ball. It's obvious they were trying to go for the unhinged psychopath vibe but honestly, so many Makarov's lines borders on ridiculous, oftentimes crossing the line entirely. At times, I felt like I'm watching an old 007 villain and I don't mean it in the good way.

Most glaring example was in the Flashpoint mission. As Price and Soap capture Makarov after bombing the stadium in Verdansk, the terrorist then taunts and mocks them, revealing to know their names and threatening them with a revenge. The dialogue is, frankly, on a bad side and Makarov in that scene sounded to me more like a spoiled, rich teenager than much feared leader of a private army with ambition to start another World War.

It also contrasted wildly with the continuation of the scene where we see Soap almost lose it, tackling Makarov and pressing a gun to his head while Price tries to dissuade him from killing the criminal on the spot. That bit was well executed and I really liked it.

What I also liked was the Passenger mission and the very unique perspective we got as players, feeling the helplessness of the victim as it's forced to play role of a terrorist, solely based on their ethnicity. The "You're not a terrorist, but you look like one," line felt very powerful, especially in the context of current affairs.

The whole campaign felt very rushed and, in my opinion, the total commitment to the "race against the clock" hurt the narration a lot. There is not a moment of respite and every piece of the puzzle is delivered in a manner so hurried, I sometimes had trouble following it.

Especially in the Danger Close mission as we, similarly to MWII, operate Shadow Company gunship to provide air support, and out of nowhere, we get a shout that there's a helo nearby and Makarov's in it.

We then proceed to shoot the helicopter down and Makarov is seemingly KIA. Well, he's obviously not but the whole scene is delivered in such a luckluster manner that I was wondering if I perhaps missed some cutscene or debrief (I didn't) and was asking myself if the developers are even serious.

The overall pacing is off, especially compared to MWII and this leads to the lack of impact and emotional response.

Which brings us to the more sensitive part of this post. Being a Ghost/Soap shipper, I was happy to see the two interact and to pick up the rapport established in the previous game. Like many others, I, too, would appreciate more time with them, but I would appreciate more missions and longer campaign rather than cut other characters' screen time.

When they are on the screen, banter is usually quick to follow. Soap and Ghost interact easily with each other, hinting at a natural progress of their relationship. The Milena interrogation is especially great in this regard.

And then there's that ending. Honestly, I knew someone would die. I think it was pretty much given. Still, I had my bets on Ghost, thinking that Soap was way too fresh and had his whole career ahead of him to be sacrificed. Well, I was wrong.

In the confines of the story, it makes sense it's him. There is major foreshadowing happening in the Verdansk mission and when Soap ends up going with Price at the end, well, it was clear. Soap almost killed Makarov years prior, Price stopped him, and now Makarov comes and kills Soap right in front of Price. The choices and consequences. It makes sense.

But.

But it serves no purpose. It's literally the last mission, so what could've served as the major catalyst for the big finale - rest of 141 coming for Makarov for some good old revenge - just ends up rather sour. Especially since Johnny, during his last struggle, as he saves Price's life, doesn't even manage to kill Makarov, only injuring him, albeit badly.

It gets worse when you realise that during both games, Soap didn't get any justice at all. In MWII, he seemingly kills Graves, taking a revenge for the betrayal and the Alone mission. Only for Graves to casually reappear later, stating he wasn't in the tank that the game clearly stated he was in.

And now he loses his life without taking Makarov with him. It's... beyond sad for the character to get treated this badly by the narration.

The team's response to his death is a bit mild as well. It starts well, with Ghost scrambling to him as soon as he spots him, feeling for vitals even though it has to be clear to him that he's gone, that felt gutwrenching. But after that? It's... lacking some stronger emotional response. They say their farewells to Johnny, a single sentence each (and, my god, did they truly think the "he was the best of us" clichè would work on any level whatsoever?), scattering his ashes, and that, too, as great as the animation was, just... felt a bit hollow and artificial.

There are ways to kill a beloved character to make it feel truly heartbreaking and meaningful. The scriptwriters here should've taken notes from Destiny 2's Forsaken DLC for example. They could've used Soap's death in a myriad of ways, including making player to choose between, say, saving Soap and letting Makarov escape. Or between saving Soap and defusing the bomb. Or just about dozen other narrative choices that would make Soap's death more meaningful and would have much bigger impact on the player.

As it is, I cannot help but say my own farewell words: Johnny died, but what for?

[queenofbaws]

hi queenie i find myself humbly at your doorstep again (if there was a bowing emoji i would put it here) so question! do you outline your stories? and if so, how? another writer i admire was nice enough to lay out a "tutorial" of sorts but i have so much trouble with the small stuff. like i have so many Big Moments planned and tiny tiny moments planned but the medium moments? do you have any idea on how to plan the medium moments???? i'm going crazy! 😩

(as always, your answer is appreciated and cherished)

why hellooooooo quill!!! what a treat to find you on my doorstep! please know it is i who is bowing and scraping - it's always a delight to be visited by THE hawke/varric queen! ;)c

extremely long story short: i do outline my stories! i live in constant awe of people who can write by the seat of their pants. alas, like the humble ant, i am always digging out pathways to follow later...usually the pathways are intricate. maze-like. bottomless. 😫 hehehe but i know E X A C T L Y what you mean, finding ways to connect everything can be...so much, especially when all you really want to do is get to those big, juicy moments, AHHH!

i'll throw my general process under the cut, and i hope it'll help in some way/shape/form!!! 💖

OH FUCK, I THINK I HAVE A FIC IDEA an outlining process by theicyqueen

hehehe okay, so as always, this is my general process, and what works for me might not work for others, so by all means take EVERY LAST THING I SAY with a boulder-sized grain of salt ;P

for the most part, my outlining process for oneshots and multichaps is roughly the same: (1) i get a central idea i want to expand on, (2) i write that fucker down in as much detail as possible, (3) i sit squinting at it like that kate beaton comic with edgar allan poe for a week or two waiting for a divine vision to hit, (4) profit. in all seriousness, though, this is typically my order of operations:

get the main idea down: this could be an overarching idea for a story (e.g., hawke and varric attend a fancy party and a murder mystery occurs) OR a big, juicy influential scene (e.g., incensed at hubert being an asshole, varric hurls a pillow at him and uncovers a secret door hidden in the wall!)

think about where you want to go from there: do you want this to be a oneshot? a multichap? how much MORE do you want to add to that main idea, essentially, or how far do you think you can stretch it?

get the biggest scenes down first: you know the ones. the ones you REALLY want to get to. write them down NOW. just trust me on this. WRITE THEM DOWN RIGHT NOW I STG!!!

if there are little scenes in your head, get those down too: don't worry about getting them down IN ORDER, just get them down! you think you'll remember them later: you will not. i love you. you will not remember them later. you're so smart. you will not. remember. them later. this is the writer's curse.

put those scenes into some sort of skeleton: here's where you start thinking about the order you want scenes in. where do you want those big, juicy things? where will your smaller moments fit in between them? what KEY POINTS need to occur before juicy scene b so it makes sense to the reader? what KEY POINTS will have to come AFTER juicy scene b to make sense? if you don't quite know where to put something yet, keep it separated, either in a separate doc, or just off to the side; don't touch it again until you have an idea of where it should go chronologically

look at what you have so far: sometimes, if you're lucky, the way to connect these pieces together will become apparent once you see what you already have laid out in one place. life is beautiful when this happens, but it doesn't always, so don't beat yourself up if you just CAN'T figure out how to get from point a to point h - let it sit. let it simmer. let it STEW. maybe eat some stew. it can't hurt.

consider the evil bits >:)c : what this means FOR ME is usually foreshadowing. is there some big twist you want to drop breadcrumbs for throughout the rest of the story? think about what that might look like! if you decide, for example, that you want to reveal a character was evil the whole time by the end of the story, think about what little nugget of foreshadowing you could insert sneakily into the beginning - a lot of the time tiny, almost insignificant details like this can help trigger bigger scenes in your head, "connecty" scenes, if you will. other examples of "evil bits," might be winks to canon material, easter eggs referring to other works of yours (or a friend's!), wordbuilding info that doesn't fit anywhere else, or not-so-subtle inclusions of your own headcanons that you have no earthly reason to include other than to make yourself smile (for example, in the project i'm working on right now, i'm making it a point to have travis hackett smell a girl's hair against her will! this is not a necessary detail by any means, but god help me my characterization of that freak will be known 🙃). it sounds fake, but seriously, sometimes the tiniest details can help you connect things later. the human brain is inscrutable.

determine whether you NEED to fill every gap: if you can't think of a way connect two scenes no matter how hard you try, it's ENTIRELY possible that they just don't need to be connected. at all. the reader doesn't always need to see characters move from one classroom to another, and we don't always need to see their skincare routine before they go to bed. those might be important scenes to include for what you're writing, don't get me wrong, but if they're not??? just...just skip 'em. DON'T connect the scene before and the scene after. if you're writing a oneshot, ask yourself: could i put a line break in here and just keep going? and if you're writing a multichap, the question is similar: can i just end the chapter here and pick up with the next one? sometimes you just don't NEED a medium-sized scene at all. just skip it!!!!!

talk to a friend who has no idea what any of this means: i'm. i'm so serious. if you're writing fandom stuff, please ask a friend with little to no knowledge of that fandom if you can talk at them about your story for a minute. if you're writing something original, please ask literally any friend at all if you can talk at them about your story for a minute. you will be. shocked. the words that come out of your mouth once you start doing this. shocked. sometimes there's stuff up in your brain you didn't even know was up there. i can't recommend it highly enough asldkjflakdjf

when in doubt, consider a humble "blanket paragraph:" i feel like...i feel like a lot of us...who got into creative writing...and who took creative writing classes...came to hate the simple blanket statement. but we shouldn't. we should love it. sometimes you don't need a scene at all - sometimes all you need is, "and then they ate dinner and watched some movies before bed." that's it. that can be your link. it can. i promise. i promise.

i really, truly hope that helps you in some way! or, if nothing else, kickstarts something in your own way of planning 💜

what a hobby we chose, huh? what a hobby. :P

[lincolndjarin]

Best Kept Secret : What If...?

a series of alternate/unused bks story lines!!

contains spoilers for all of bks!!

alternate torture @ the end

i grappled with this a lot. i very strongly believe that the worst thing you can do with your characters in a high stakes situation is coddle them. if i've learned anything from dnd it's that you cannot be afraid to hurt you characters.

yet for the first time in my life i've become so attached that i just couldn't do it.

the tongue in a box scene was something that caused me a lot of turmoil. in the original cut it was elaine's tongue, but i talked to my friend catie about it and we agreed that cutting off a lesbians tongue is fucked up. then i considered actually cutting off din's tongue, i thought that that would make for something really interesting with the big reveal if he couldn't talk to her but it just seemed too brutal? i couldn't really wrap my head around it so i eventually just made it someone elses tongue.

my replacement for that was din's leg, that was something that sort of came on at the last second, i gave him the limp as foreshadowing and then said fuck it, lets take the whole thing.

dress maker

the scene in chapter 4 where din walks in on her in the bath was originally a much longer sequence where a modiste visited the castle and there was a lot of stuff around making new dresses for her and din was going to walk in while she was getting changed.

eventually i scrapped the entire concept and gave elaine the seamstress trait instead.

multiple parties & balls (masquerade)

i briefly mentioned this in the q&a but in the original bks outline there were a lot more parties and big scenes like that. i realized pretty quickly that balls and parties are a visual medium. the reason why i like those scenes so much in other things is because they're so visually appealing which is harder to do when writing. there was going to be a readers birthday ball, a few other parties or wedding for kodos siblings etc but it always felt like filler.

the masquerade was my dream sequence that just never really fir naturally fit with the story so i eventually had to let it go.

no breakup/rules storyline

there was no break up in the original bks story board. instead, everything after chapter 7 was gonna be based around breaking each and every rule.

each chapter following would have been dedicated to breaking a few of the rules up until the last one that would have been; no falling in love, stop when i say to stop, and no kissing would have all been one big climax chapter. it would have been very little women in the 'we have got to have it out jo' sort of sense where she begs him to stop talking but he just keeps confessing.

eventually i realized that a rule or two break every chapter wasn't very sustainable. it was a fun idea and it might work in a different setting but bks at its core is supposed to be an overly dramatic period piece and there just wasn't enough conflict with that so instead i went with the breakup.

alternative ending

i had a similar ending for quite some time and one day i was listening to music and thinking about bks and realized that she loved naboo. originally they fled after kodo was killed. they built a cabin somewhere far away etc. etc.

but the character seemed to make more sense as someone who would want to do right by the people she had grown to love within the kingdom so i decided to make it a sort of thing where she disassembled the monarchy.

(there was also an ending where she faked her own death, framed kodo, and he was ripped apart by the citizens of naboo)

and of course i briefly considered genuinely killing din and having her raise the baby on her own. but the idea made me so truly upset that i just couldnt do it.

hoth story line

not much to say here other that there was going to be a thing where she went back to hoth to visit her family accompanied by the mandalorian. another thing that was fun as a concept but ended up feeling like filler so i dropped it.

elaine plot twist

another case of me really loving elaine and being conflicted about her character.

originally elaine was going to tell kodo about their relationship. it was going to be a situation where kodo suspected something and threatened lysa forcing elaine to take action but eventually i decided to use my backup which was leo since there had been foreshadowing for that anyway

neutral kodo

for quite a while i planned for kodo to be just a bad husband and not a villain. but i needed more conflict and i needed a driving force and he was easy to mold into that.

there was an alternate storyline where he fell in love with the reader and “killed” din out of jealousy

[totallynotokguys]

Lego Monkie Kid Rewatch: Season 3

Episode 1

I love rewatching media that rewards you for it. This show is good at dropping subtle hints about future plot points that you will only catch once you know the plot point. For example, the Samadhi Fire!

When Monkey King (or Tang, the enthusiastic geek that he is) is first explaining it to everyone, the show gives you an image to kind of keep your brain on track with his words.

Immediately two things pop out for those who have seen past this season: red and green fire. Obviously this represents Red Son and Mei, past and current wielder of the Samadhi Fire.

It is such a cool little detail to have that most people (like me) would just think was there to be pretty but later on realise, "Oh hey, foreshadowing!"

BUT WAIT! I'm not done!

Next image we see of the Samadhi fire has the red and green... but also something else.

Is that... blue?

Is this another hidden detail of foreshadowing? Is there going to be a third holder of the Samadhi Fire who represents the blue? Or am I just hyper focusing on every minute detail because the show's attention to detail in its story telling has made me paranoid.

Who knows?

All we know so far from season 5 is Red Son is experimenting with the Samadhi Fire and they both apparently still have a piece in their soul soooooooo- we'll see.

[mamawasatesttube]

🌿🍦🦋 🦴

🌿 ⇢ give some advice on writer's block and low creativity

diagnose the cause. is it burnout or just block?

if it's burnout: take a total break stop trying to write and go read a book. do something to help you find inspiration without trying to squeeze out every last drop you have left. let it build back up

if it's block: force the words out anyway. just write one sentence a day. i often find that when i'm struggling with block, trying to add just like 50 words at a time (a very low goal!) makes me feel more like adding another 50. and maybe another 50 after that.

🍦 ⇢ name three good things about a character you hate

oh MAN. okay. lets see.

lex luthor can genuinely be a really interesting and fun villain. he IS pretty iconic as such, and i do think his xenophobia and genocidal intentions make for really good conflict in superfam stories. (through gritted teeth) thats three statements right

🦋 ⇢ share something that has been on your heart and mind lately 

this afternoon ive been bothering britta about car questions for the purposes of tim fic and in the process of this discussion we got onto the topic of "looking up songs about cars for potential fic titles" and i discovered this song, which ive decided is my personal tim/ari breakup anthem bc its so fucking funny. yes i know the car wasnt the real reason they broke up. however its so FUNNY. look at these lyrics.

You sure know how to hurt a girl Fewer hugs and no more kisses Just water for your carburetor And bearings for your pistons Rev her engine for your pleasure Caress and fondle her steering wheel But when you moan and hug her gear shift Stop! Think how it makes me feel

🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing? 

lord of the rings my beloved. the silm my beloved. tolkien's writing was definitely formative for me (you can tell by how rambly i get slkdjf). i also really love the way brandon sanderson does worldbuilding, and i've enjoyed what of stina leicht's writing i've read as well!!! i'm a big fan of asimov's plot twists and foreshadowing, plus the way martha wells does unreliable narration. i think these are all my current fav authors.

Writers' Truth & Dare Ask Game!

[phyllistines]

Ted Lasso s1e3 Analysis

I recently rewatched the third episode of Ted Lasso’s first season, and I noticed a ton of stuff. I’m gonna preface this by saying I know that trent wasn’t written to come back, and it was in fact James Lance that inspired Jason to add Trent in more, but there are a lot of things that tie back to tedependent, things that show it was here from the beginning, and Jason could have easily decided to just build off of that. Ok, now into this weirdly complicated analysis about nothing at all.

The first season of the show, specifically the first three eps, is dedicated to introducing what’s important to ted. Of course every first season of every show ever is for introducing characters, but there is a clear effort in the first three episodes to showcase what will motivate ted and what will be important to him.

first ep: beard,(his friendship with him) and his job

second ep: rebecca, family, the team

third ep: team functioning properly, friendships, trent

immediately trent is established as something important to the show and to ted. the first big (one on one) interaction between them is literally a date. besides that, it’s the first time we see trent (sort of) drop his guard. the reason for this is the spicy food, it catches trent off guard, and distracts him enough to not only stop talking about journalism, but actively struggle to talk about work. it’s a forced type of opening up, and it’s barely anything at all, but it is still there. it’s almost foreshadowing, the way trent is forced to drop his journalist facade when around ted can point to how he later fully drops it on purpose. there are some other themes that loosely tie back to season three as well, specifically the next episode (ep 9 as of writing this). The main conflict between roy and ted in s1e3 is about ted refusing to stop jamie from picking on nate. the fighting is the main story w roy and ted in the episode, and it eventually leads to ted and trent bonding. trent even chimes in to a convo between roy and ted to add some clarification. the next episode could really lead to some classic tedtrent action, seeing as the main conflict is sure to be colin and isaac fighting, and trent is arguably more involved with them than he ever was with roy’s storyline. Another interesting little theme i noticed was the fact that ted connects with people through food. (very basic but bare with me) He brings rebecca biscuits everyday to get to know her better, (he calls trent a cookie at one point too) he gets sam food when he’s homesick, he and beard have a weekly sandwich swap tradition, and his friendship with keeley begins to develop when he innocently feeds her a sandwich. Almost every meaningful relationship in the show surrounds food, with Ted having the most out of anyone. (other food relationships include Sam naming his restaurant after Ola and cooking with him, nate meeting his gf at his favorite restaurant, and then ted’s whole experience at the american restaurant aka “home”) we also see the entire team connect over a big meal three times in separate seasons. trent is present for one of these, establishing him as a person worth connecting to, even if he’s not officially part of the team yet. The final little piece from s1e3 is something that trent says in his lil voiceover at the end of the episode. “His coaching style is subtle. It never hits you over the head. Slowly growing until you can no longer ignore its presence.” Sound familiar? It’s incredibly similar to his lil speech/rant he gives to Ted at the end of “The Strings that Bind Us”: “By slowly but surely building a club-wide culture of trust and support through thousands of imperceptible moments, all leading to their inevitable conclusion.” Trent’s presence in this show has been prevalent and it’s all been leading up to this final season.

[cq-studios]

We talked about Ven’s dream, but are there any other moments in the series that stand out to you as potential KHUX references?

Okay, so, this is gonna all be from memory — with the occasional reference to the novels (I have bookmarks lol) so take the things I say with a grain of salt…

Also it’s kind of long so, under the cut we go!

The first one that comes to mind is something exclusive to the novels but when Ven and Vanitas re-fuse in the BBS an unspecified voice says this:

Which feels very Darkness coded. The “I’m home” part especially, since it’s most likely that it was removed from him at the same time as Vani (this specifically is also why I still believe Vani and Darkness are separate entities, even if they might share a body).

It doesn’t really make sense why they’d refer to themselves in the third person like this, especially since we do have another plausible explanation.

On a different note

You cannot convince me that it was not intentional that the Dream Eater Theme is one of the only tracks in the franchise to have vocalizations (the only others I can think of would be ML Dearly Beloved and One Winged Angel? Could be forgetting some tho).

Like what kind of twisted foreshadowing is that?

And the fact that it’s so ‘childish’ too. Obviously the Dandelions weren’t that young (like not under 10 I mean) but it still drives me crazy. Just AHH.

I’m not very confident this one is intentional (I have no idea when KHUX started being planned. I doubt it was all the way back pre-2008, but who knows?) but in Days (only the game, not the cutscene movie) both Marluxia and Larxene consider recruiting Roxas in their coup.

I believe Marluxia is the first one to bring it up and I can only imagine that was because of his connection to Ven. Not really much else to say here lol

Last but certainly, nearly, tangentially on topic is the Keyblade War story Yen Sid tells Sora and Riku before their Mark of Mastery Exam.

And like, yeah, no kidding CQ, but hear me out, I think it’s how it connects to Union X that makes it interesting.

So my idea is that the story actually mixes the Keyblade War MoM presumably fought in (the one ‘when he was a boy’ he tells Luxu about) with the one that he made the Foretellers cause (the one in Chi).

Green and Bold are the former

Pink and Italics are the latter

Blue, Bold, and Italics are ones that could plausibly be both

“Long ago, in the age of fairy tales the world was filled with light — a gift, many believed, from an unseen power known as ‘Kingdom Hearts’. You see, Kingdom Hearts was protected by its counterpart, the ‘X-Blade,’ so that none could ever lay hands on its mysteries.

But in time, the world was overrun by legions who wanted the light all for themselves, and the first shadows were cast upon the land. These warriors crafted ‘Keyblades’ in the image of the original X-Blade and waged a great war over Kingdom Hearts. We call this the Keyblade War.

But though the war extinguished all light from the world, the darkness could not reach the brightness inside every child's heart.

With that light, the world was remade as we know it today, with countless smaller worlds shining like stars in the sky.

As for the real X-Blade, it did not survive the battle. The two elements that created it, one of darkness and one of light, shattered into twenty pieces — seven of light, thirteen of darkness.

And as for the source of all light — the one true Kingdom Hearts — it was swallowed by the darkness, never to be seen again. As long as it remains there, even the brightest world will have its dark corners. After all, light begets darkness, and darkness is drawn to light.

For this reason, some decided to use the Keyblade — a weapon designed to conquer the light — to defend the light instead. These were the first heroes of the Keyblade.” - Narration by Yen Sid, Dream Drop Distance Novel, Page 165

So I’m gonna go over each coloured line one by one just to clarify what I think they’re referring to.

Anything said about the X-Blade is automatically about MoM’s ‘childhood’ Keyblade War to me (Green) as we do not see it or hear any reference to it at any point in the X Saga. Not even when MoM is talking to the Foretellers. Hell, I’m not even sure it’s ever mentioned in Dark Road.

The mythos could just be made up. But the X-blade is real and does summon Kingdom Hearts (a real or a fake one is yet to be decided). But also if this was a MoM Keyblade War thing, and he never told anyone about it, how would the rest of Keyblade society know? Maybe at some unseen point during MoM and Xehanort’s meeting he was told. I’m not sure. It’s a little rocky but I’m using what we have to go off of

And I am pretty sure that the X-Blade would be a thing MoM was exposed to considering it’s status as the thing all Keyblades are based on.

For a comment on the first few blue lines. I personally believe this is true for both wars, but that the wording leans a bit more into the Chi war.

The pink lines afterwards are obviously referring to the Dandelions and restoration of worlds

The next blue line…

So, we have no heccin’ clue which Kingdom Hearts is real. Like, is it yellow? Is it blue? Is it the god damn door from KH1? (It’s not the door from KH1. The door from KH1 is the Kingdom Hearts of Worlds and not the one we’re talking about lol) Not even some people working on the games are entirely sure according to one interview lol

And because of that I cannot tell you during which war the true Kingdom Hearts disappeared.

Most people, including myself initially, would assume it was in the war we see in Chi, and, honestly, I don’t think they’re in the wrong for thinking that. I think that’s what we’re supposed to think. But Yen Sid says that “the one true Kingdom Hearts” was “never to be seen again” and all instances of Kingdom Hearts appearing (both colours I mean) have shown up on at least 2 occasions.

In Fragmentary Passage (I think???) there’s a cutscene of Luxu watching the (Chi) war and the Kingdom Hearts shown there is blue. The same blue as in BBS. In KH3 its yellow the same colour as the confirmed fake Kingdom Hearts shown in Days.

If either of those Kingdom Hearts were real then they both would’ve very much shown up again by the time Yen Sid is speaking to them.

The last pink line is most likely referring to MoM taking on the Foretellers as his apprentices and them forming the Unions.

See I spent all that time explaining my thoughts about that Keyblade War legended and now I look at them so unconfidently… but it took so long to write it all out I’m gonna keep it in anyways lol

Anywho, that’s all folks.

Feel free to either add on to my points or tear them to shreds, if you’d like. I love a discussion. And prefer to be corrected if I get something wrong.

[banananutsmuthie]

Congratulations on your writer anniversary!

Would you rather: See Weki Meki blow up in Korea with their remaining comebacks but they disband after their contracts expire? Or keep the group for another 5 years with their steady growth they have now?

What’s your favorite work you’ve written? What’s the most difficult to write?

What are some of your favorite works now? Any favorite writers at the woment?

I really like this picture of Yoojung :)

Assuming normal contract length of 7 years, it would mean they have 2 years left. I think it'd be better to get 5 more years out of them if its guaranteed in that situation.

I would probably say YouWeMe Part 9 was my favorite to write. It's not the hooniest, nor is it popular. It's not even my best work and it's not even reader insert, but what I loved is finally piecing all the foreshadowing and events of the previous parts of YouWeMe together and revealing everything to the reader from the perspective of Yoojung. YouWeMe was my pet project and seeing readers send asks after every part released got me excited with the thought of, "Oh man, you thought the red notebook was the plot twist, wait until the real plot twist drops!"

For most difficult to write, I'd probably say Fairytale was very draining because of the amount of research I had to do for the medieval vernacular. Like no cap, I googled the etymology of a lot those words and made sure it was at least within that medieval time period, words like "Ræd, and "Badde". Then there was the research into things like what I would find in a dungeon, and which fairytales I could use as a template for the story. I even spent a lot of time on the descriptions of all the members, trying to liken real-world event that happened to them in ways that would fit in the story. For example, Wendy's real-life injury portrayed in the story as "forgetting to drop the drawbridge for her", or Irene's controversy with her stylists. It was so much work that by the time I got to the smut part, I was already pretty drained.

As for the last question, there are A LOT of excellent writers and a lot of extremely well-written fics. Many of them you probably already know. So instead, I wanna shed a spotlight on some writers and fics that fly under the radar/aren't as active, because they absolutely deserve the praise and accolades as well.

@themanthemyththeverite - Anytime I read any of Verite's work, I'm always in awe of his prose, no word is wasted in his storytelling. Legitimately one of the best. Probably the one writer where I read his work and think, "God damn, I wish I could write like that." That is not hyperbole. Hope you're doing well, good sir!

@sorrowedgazed has two of my favorite angst fics with time machine (ft Minju) and this is how you fall in love (ft. Chaewon). They tug at the heart strings in ways that I never expected on this platform.

@cataboliac - I spoke with him recently even though he hasn't been active; he's legitimately one of my favorite people on the platform and an overall likable dude. I'm not usually a fan of AU and know nothing about WJSN, but super hero Yeoreum in Super Yummers: Chapter 1 had me immersed in the story from the first paragraph. It's been over nine months since it released and I still think about it to this day.

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

Nesta in her book was really smarter than Feyre. Maybe Sjm's writing improved.

I have heard wildly different things about that book! Ultimately I am done with ACOTAR and will not be reading lol. But despite hating basically every moment of that series and ToG, I really liked her Crescent City books! I think she’s genuinely improved a lot and managed to pull off many of the ideas she’d attempted one way or another before.

The characters are solid, there are clear themes, and the mystery is really good? There is pacing? There are red herrings that make sense? The twists (multiple!) are foreshadowed and pieced together slowly instead of being dumped on the reader all at once??

I think she loses steam a little by the end (I still haven’t managed to make it all the way through the third book dhfgf) but for SJM the difference is truly night and day. And generally I think first books have always been her strength and she’s floundered trying to continue her series. So the quality drop by book three is still much, much better than the nosedives happening in ToG and ACOTAR, so it’s still noticeable improvement in terms of knowing how to continue a story well.

[quoteablebooks]

Genre: Fiction, Adult, Fantasy, Romance

Rating: 4 out of 5

Content Warning: Death, Violence, Blood, Sexual content, Body horror, Torture, War, Sexism, Suicide

Summary:

Pull three people out of prison--a disgraced paladin, a convicted forger, and a heartless assassin. Give them weapons, carnivorous tattoos, and each other. Point them at the enemy.

What could possibly go wrong?

In the sequel to CLOCKWORK BOYS, Slate, Brenner, Caliban and Learned Edmund have arrived in Anuket City, the source of the mysterious Clockwork Boys. But the secrets they're keeping could well destroy them, before the city even gets the chance...

*Opinions*

I was really excited to get to The Wonder Engine after I finished Clockwork Boys, especially since the ending felt extremely abrupt. Upon reading the Author’s Note I found that T. Kingfisher wrote the two books as a single volume, but it was far too long to be published, so it was split into two. Still, it makes it a little more difficult to rate and review this book because while it feels like one long story, it is supposed to be two books that stand on their own. 

As I mentioned, this book picked up immediately after the end of Clockwork Boys, with the group in Anuket City attempting to find a way to stop the Clockwork Boys before their magical tattoos eat them or they are killed by individuals in the city. While the group is more cohesive, tensions run high when they work toward stopping unstoppable creatures that no one knows how they are mad or how they work. The tension gets even worse when Caliban and Slate continue to dance around one another and Brenner does not take kindly to that. T. Kingfisher does a great job of weaving in the main storyline with all the other plot threads that she dropped along the way. Nothing was super surprising because as soon as the answer was revealed you saw all the foreshadowing that had been laid out beforehand. 

There are absolutely brutal parts of this novel, there is an assassin of the group after all, but none of it seemed to be done for shock value. Even the final enemy that they encountered was extremely disturbing, but in a way that made sense given it’s connection to the Clockwork Boys. The action sequences were thrillings and every character continued to have their strengths and weaknesses to make the group work. Kingfisher also finally answers what Slate did to make her leave the city in the first place and the final pieces of what Caliban suffered and did in service to The Dreaming God. It is hard to talk about anything else without giving spoilers, but this is a well constructed story. 

Anuket City did not see like a fully realized city, but the areas that the group went to in them felt alive and visceral. The Grey Church was probably my favorite location that the group goes to, even with the Crow Cages, but the arcanists quarter and gnoll Quarter were teeming and living things, but Anuket City was just words. Kingfisher did do a good job of setting up a society in a large city, with the gnoles being vial but ignored, and moving through narrow spaces. The titular Wonder Engine was spectacular, if slightly horrifying, and an image that will stay with me after reading the novel. 

I love the way that T. Kingfisher writes her characters. To start with, they are all 30 and over, aside from Learned Edmund who is 19, and they act like it. That is not to say that their relationships aren’t messy, but that they realize this and have physical limitations that seem to be forgotten in a lot of other fantasy novels. The banter and interaction between the entire group was also truly entertaining and something that Kingfisher does extremely well. You love to hate Brenner and something truly love him, want to smack Caliban for being so nobel, to want to shake Slate for not trusting what is in front of her, and Learned Edmund is just so terribly naive. Each one of them is a full character with pasts, desires, skills, and weaknesses. Something I have found in the three books I have read from Kingfisher, all fantasy, is that she really writes character and humor is a way that I adore. 

The romance between Slate and Caliban is the most frustrating will they won’t they slow burn, and I absolutely adored it. The thing is that Kingfisher write miscommunication in a way that is completely relatable, aka one of the characters stick their foot in their mouth and the other character responds appropriately. I also appreciate that Slate acted appropriately after the destruction of fight around the Wonder Engine, but there was still a realistic happy for now for these two characters. Not my favorite Kingfisher romance, but one of my favorite romances overall. 

T. Kingfisher is slowly working her way up as my favorite authors and how she writes characters and dialogue makes me happy as a reader. This is a 4 star book for a lot of small issues that add up to knocking off a star rating, but still a very enjoyable reading experience. I highly recommend this duology. 

[cvm-jpfilm]

Ōshima – Cruel Story of Youth

Wow! This was a movie. I truly cannot process what gave way for this script, but it is wild. In an ironic way, the nonsensical nature of the characters and their actions made for perhaps the most enjoyable movie to watch thus far. But that's if you don't take it too seriously; in my opinion, when I really tried following the movie, I just got mad. I think there is some serious commentary packed into this movie, and for me, it is almost ruined by the stupidity of these characters. Every character is selfish, almost all of the guys are rapist, and the cruelty is comically exaggerated. On another note, this movie marks our first experience with color film and a 16:9 aspect ratio. For a 1960s film, the cinematography and film quality hold up quite well compared to today's movies. I was especially surprised not only with how vibrant the colors were but also with how much more each shot could contain.

I think the Cruel Story of Youth is a commentary on the relationship between the U.S. and Japan in the postwar period. It's the focus of a small scene and offhandedly mentioned a couple of times, but I think the backdrop of the student protests are integral to the film's message. Historically, I think the film depicts the postwar student protests in Japan against the US-Japan Security Treaty. The original treaty permitted the presence of U.S. military bases in Japan along with a mutual protection clause if any of the two nations were to be attacked in Japan. The protest in the film is most likely the student protest against the revision to the treaty, which although it contained many benefits to Japan and restrictions to the U.S., did guarantee that U.S. bases would stay for at least 10 more years. With clear tensions around this time, I think the movie depicts the relationship of Makoto and Kiyoshi to that of Japan and the U.S., respectively. I wonder if the political message pushed any indecisive youths to move against the treaty. In my eyes, I see that unbalanced relationship of Kiyoshi (U.S.) and Makoto (Japan), where the U.S. can just place military power in Japan unilaterally, as unfair.

Additionally in this film, sex is power, influence, and connection. Parties hold influence over each other through forcing and withholding sex, knowing who's having sex, and extorting sex. A good example of this is in the scene where Kiyoshi catches Yoko and his friend together. Fueled by his jealousy over how everything about his friend's relationship seems to be benefitting him, he strikes that weak point. This is where one of my favorite shots in the movie is:

After making backhanded compliments to his friend, he realizes the power he holds over him while wiping a glass. Foreshadowing what is to come, Kiyoshi drops the glass and it shatters, symbolizing how he will destroy his friendship by leveraging that power. What's more, Kiyoshi immediately discards of the pieces without a second thought, demonstrating his disregard for the consequences of what he is about to do. And surely enough, he goes on to do just that by first pressuring his friend to do what he wants at the threat of his affair going public, and then telling Yoko about the affair to revel in seeing his friend's relationship crumble.

I also think the depictions of rape to be in line with this example. Constantly throughout the movie, characters force themselves upon each other to exert their dominance. Kiyoshi with Makoto, Kiyoshi's mistress on Kiyoshi, and almost every guy in the movie on Makoto. In this film, sex is something that is taken from someone, where the strongest take from the weak, a simple display of power.

[besidesitstoowarm]

"Journey's End" thoughts

doctor you suck shit

okay again i'm gonna blow through the plot stuff bc i don't care it's not the part that matters. the doctor avoids regeneration by channeling the energy into his hand. mickey and jackie are here now! martha goes to germany and the daleks are speaking german lmfao. the daleks have an instrument called the crucible and taught the doctor by dropped the tardis into an incinerator...

bitch you THOUGHT!!! the hand is calling out to donna and she touches it and gets slammed w regen energy and then the hand grows into naked david tennant. tentoo has arrived! a dalek shoots jack but he's fine. we learn tentoo has one heart bc he's half human! his singular heartbeat "rippled back" which is what donna was hearing that drew her to the hand and he says "we were always heading for this" HAVE I NOT BEEN SAYING?? THIS WAS ALWAYS GOING TO HAPPEN SHE'S BEEN DEAD SINCE THE BEGINNING

martha tries to use the world-exploding key and gets teleported to the dalek ship and they explain they made a "reality bomb" using the aligned planets as a scope. like the planets aligning in hercules to release the titans. davros gets on his bullshit "you take ordinary people and you turn them into weapons" he's not wrong actually. the doctor does very much do that. "always running and never looking back because you dare not, out of shame" again got it in one

donna's powers activate bc she got turned part time lord by the regen energy! regenergy. sure. she's the doctordonna and ten remembers the ood foretold such. always listen to the ood. so now there's three doctors! jack says "i can't tell you what i'm thinking right now" bc he's narsty. dalek caan has betrayed the daleks by letting all this shit happen "i saw what we did, creator, and i said no more". tentoo explodes every dalek. i'm fine with that who cares

k9 is here! everyone teams up to drag the earth back home to its proper place. the tardis is functioning appropriately bc it finally has enough drivers and it's sweet to see everyone get along. rose, jackie, and tentoo get dropped off in their parallel universe bc she needs to babysit him?? "he's me, when we first met" so she gets a project man. i'm glad rose gets her very own tenth doctor to fuck but this is kind of a copout ending for her sorry. that said "how was that sentence going to end" "does it need saying?" and then tentoo DOES finish it and kisskiss. good for her genuinely

everyone else goes back home and donna starts glitching out bc a time lord brain can't live in a human body and it's going to kill her. he takes all her memories, wipes her brain, as she's crying and begging him not to. it's hard to watch, it's very violating, and it's a bullshit copout for her too. i know rtd has said he does not like the way the episode ended but honestly couldn't untangle the knot in a satisfying way and i do get that, there were a LOT of pieces in play. still bullshit to me tho

he drops her at home and warns wilf and sylvia that they can't ever tell her the truth or it'll kill her. he gets wet in the rain pathetically and the episode is over. as i said last time, this story makes no fucking sense but the fanservice really does work for me and everyone is so charming, all the pieces falling into place from the season-long foreshadowing, it really is a great story. not my fave finale, i'm too much of a sucker for s3, but i think it was probably the best possible way to get all these characters involved in a way that felt natural for them and useful for the story

up next i'll do a series retrospective! i'll probably let the specials sit as their own mini-series and do another after the regeneration. farewell for now to donna noble

[wordsnstuff]

Guide to Writing Mystery Thrillers

Patreon || Ko-Fi || Masterlist || Work In Progress

–

Horror vs. Thriller: Fear vs. Suspense

The main difference between thrillers and horror is the effect it has on the reader. Yes, both genres are meant to “scare” the reader, but with a thriller, the ending is less predictable. It’s about the building tension that comes with the unknown. The writer’s goal is to unsettle the reader, make the fear of the unknown be the main aspect and make their heart rate rise steadily over the course of the plot. Horror is repeatedly scaring the reader, though the tension is lesser because a horror story is one of inevitable doom. It’s not so much about if, but rather when and how. Thriller is about that sweet, slow dribble of ice water down the reader’s back, while horror is splashing them repeatedly in creative and shocking ways. 

Balancing the Tension

With the tension being the most important element in a thriller, you must balance this carefully and you can do so by utilizing the mystery aspect. You can build the tension with events and the steady state of unknowing, but you can also use the mystery to relieve or ramp up the suspense. Mysteries introduce time-sensitivity into the plot, as well as identifiable risk and payoff, but it also preserves that feeling of unpredictability. You need to be careful to keep the tension thick enough that the plot twist is surprising, but not unexpected. Readers should expect a dramatic shift in the trajectory, but they should be completely shocked at what it actually is. 

Suspension of Disbelief

Mysteries and thrillers do not have the luxury that thriller does of a reader coming in with their sense of what is and isn’t “realistic” being thrown out the window. Readers of the mystery thriller genre expect an air of credibility and when their predictions and deductions are thwarted for something completely illogical, it isn’t a pleasant surprise. The suspension of disbelief comes in the details that may or may not be stretched for fictional purposes, but the meat of the story, the mystery and all the steps within, do not have that wiggle room. Exercise deep, critical thought when developing the plot development and the characters themselves because the reader is paying attention. 

Choose the Right Antagonist

Antagonists in mystery thrillers are a great opportunity for creative freedom. Yes, readers expect the antagonist to surprise them or be clever, but your job isn’t to fool the reader, it’s to impress them with how cleverly you masked or built up the reveal of the antagonist; the result of their sleuthing. You don’t always have to choose some minor, seemingly insignificant character to be the antagonist at the end. There’s so many roads you can choose, such as making the protagonist the murderer, a family member the thief, the romantic partner the deceiver, etc. Don’t try to avoid cliches in this part of the plot, because it’s impossible. Every possible ending has been done in some way or another. Try to be original in the way you reveal them and be clever about developing the antagonist to have as much impact on the reader as possible. 

Meaningful Death

Death isn’t as rampant in thrillers as in other suspenseful genres, but it’s still important to note that all death should have a purpose and a consequence. It should always serve the plot, and it should always have an observable effect on the characters. Killing characters (especially main characters) to build suspense or stakes doesn’t work and it reads as lazy. Keep the purpose and consequence in mind, and be open to death and where it takes the story. 

Common Struggles

~ How do you create a good mystery thriller plot?... It depends on what you like about the genre. If you prefer to have the majority of the story surround the actual mystery and the development of its nuance, then focus the plot around that and sprinkle the suspense throughout. If you want the mystery to be the catalyst for a bigger, more complicated emotional conflict, then structure accordingly. It’s really about what you want to say and how you would want to hear it. 

~ How do you balance a subtle build up without making the twist look like it came out of nowhere?... Action and reaction. Every twist and turn should be traceable to a series of identifiable events throughout the previous chapters. Your readers should be able to see the breadcrumbs when they read the story a second time. That’s how you know the subtlety works, rather than dropping two or three breadcrumbs throughout 16 chapters and then drop the whole remaining loaf in chapter 17. 

~ How do you create a spooky, thrilling atmosphere?... Writing style. It’s all about writing style, I promise. Utilize some of the staples, like shorter sentences leading up to an explosive moment, visceral vocabulary about something seemingly mundane, etc. Over-describing things to have that “this normal thing doesn’t seem so harmless anymore” or under-describing things that the reader would assume requires more focus. Either turn up the volume or turn it way down. These little aspects in the vocabulary and structure you use add up and work wonders for tension and suspense. Also:

A Guide To Tension & Suspense

How To Perfect The Tone

~ How can I make the reader like the villain, despite their actions?... I have a couple resources for this, which you may find helpful:

Writing Good Villains

Creating Villains

Villains with good intentions

Other Resources

How To Write A Good Plot Twist

How To Foreshadow

Flipping Character Traits On Their Head

Plot Structures

Calculating Emotional Reactions

Keeping Characters Realistic

Tips On Writing About Mental Illness

Character Who’s Smarter Than You

Making Characters Unpredictable

How To Engage The Reader

Including More People of Color In Your Story

“Male characters are more relatable”

Writing Good Villains

Creating Villains

Showing Vulnerability Without Death

Character Driven vs. Plot Driven Stories

Resources For Crime/Mystery/Thriller Writers

Tips on Writing Pyschological Thrillers

Resources For Writing (Global) Period Pieces : 1900-1939

Resources For Writing (Global) Period Pieces : 1940-1969

Historically Accurate Dialogue

Creepy Ex-Girlfriend

Tips on Introducing Backstory

Writing Other Eras

Resources For Writing The Mafia

Guide to Story Researching

Commentary on Social Issues In Writing

Resources For Writing Sketchy Topics

On Writing About Sensitive Topics

Avoiding The Romanticization of Mental Illness

–

Masterlist | WIP Blog

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[roman-writing]

kept impulse dormant (Year III: The Test)

Fandom: The Wheel of Time

Pairing: Moiraine Damodred/Siuan Sanche

Rating: Mature (there are explicit previous chapters tho)

Wordcount: 9,805 (keeping this under 10k was the real test)

Summary: The White Tower is not at all what Siuan expects, and neither are the  people she meets within it. A prequel to "New Spring" covering the three  years of Moiraine and Siuan as Novices.   (some minor book spoilers)

Author notes: this story was supposed to be finished, but my wife asked about what happened during the Accepted Tests and a few people have been asking about a Moiraine POV, so here we are. The Accepted Test from Moiraine’s POV.

Read it below or read it here on AO3

BEGINNING NOTES

-some book spoilers, but mainly for those book readers who know what we’re looking for. The Test canonically involves creating alternate realities that someone must face. You can just treat the imagery seen in the Test as messy symbolic foreshadowing. Please note that not everything that appears in the Tests is at all how events play out in the books. There is some truth to the Tests, but never the kind you might expect.

—

—

Moiraine has to run her hand along the central column of the narrow winding staircase to steady herself as she follows Merean down. They have been descending the White Tower for what feels like floors innumerable. One staircase leads to another, each more tightly spiralled than the last, until Moiraine feels like she’s back in the bowels of a centuries-old castle she had explored as a child, play-fighting her eldest sister with sticks they had found, until it wasn’t playing anymore, until both their tempers had — as they always invariably did — gotten the better of them. 

She wonders now if this, too, will end in tears and bloodshed. 

Finally they step into a large room, domed, cavernous, carved into the very bedrock beneath Tar Valon. Cold lights flicker along the walls, and in the centre of the circular room there stands three silver archways. Where one ends another begins, the three contained by a silver circle engraved in the floor, a single seamless gleaming piece. Beneath each arch there shimmers light like a veil, too bright and too opaque to see through to the other side. 

Several Aes Sedai sit, cross-legged, upon the ground where the arches touch the silver ring. Demira Sedai in her brown-fringed shawl stands beside a plain table that bears three chalices. Moiraine scans the Aes Sedai present with a quick glance, identifying a few she knows, only for her eyes to widen and then drop to her feet.

Tamra Ospenya is right there. Light, the Amyrlin Seat herself.

Merean stops before they can fully cross the threshold. She turns to Moiraine and points back towards the archways. “Through each doorway, you will face your greatest fears. No one will ask you what you have faced; you need tell no more than you wish. Every woman’s fears are her own property.” 

She waits for Moiriane to nod before she continues, “Once you begin, you must continue to the end. Refuse to go on, and no matter your potential, you will kindly be put out of the Tower with enough silver to support you for a year, and you will never be allowed back. You may turn back now, and you will not be made to leave The Tower. You may turn back twice, but on the third time, you will be made to leave us. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” says Moiraine. 

“Good.” Merean shifts the blue shawl over her shoulders. “To seek, to strive, is to know danger. You will know danger here. If you will survive, you must be steadfast. Falter at your peril.” 

Then she turns and continues further into the room. Moiraine trails in her wake. She slowly curls her hands into fists at her side, feeling her nails bite deep into her palms. The pain grounds her, makes her feel more present; it drives away the anxiety burnishing in her gut, if only a little. 

They come to a halt before the silver ring in the ground, and wait. 

“Whom do you bring with you?” Tamra asks, her voice echoing along the stone walls.  

“One who comes as a candidate for Acceptance,” Merean answers.

“Is she ready?” 

“She is ready to leave behind what she was and, passing through her fears, gain Acceptance.”

“Does she know her fears?”

“She has never faced them, but now is willing.”

“Then let her face what she fears.” 

This part at least Moiraine knows. Methodically and as calmly as she knows how, she gets undressed. She cannot take anything through the archways and she can bring nothing back. Three years of being a Novice has not yet managed to stamp out her sense of Cairhienin propriety, not fully. When she’s finished undressing and wearing not a stitch, she doesn’t give into the urge to cross her arms and instead settles for crossing her hands loosely before her and gripping her opposite wrists. 

Merean’s next words hold the same ritualism as those shared with the Amyrlin Seat. “The first time is for what was,” she says to Moiraine. “The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.” 

The veil of light beneath the first arch shines like the surface of water, like one of the lures Siuan had taught her to use once down by the banks of the river, barbed with hooks for an unwary fish to clamp its mouth around and so be caught.

She can still go back. She can refuse. She doesn’t.

Moiraine walks forward. The light is everywhere. The light is everything. The light is the world and the world is — 

The world is larger. Everything has been scaled up. The ceilings higher and elaborately coffered. The walls bowed and towering. The furniture lush and several sizes too big for her to sit upon unless she clambers up with little grace. She is already seated on a couch, feet dangling over the floor.

She sits in one of the drawing rooms in the wing of the Sun Palace dedicated to her father and his children. Ancestral portraits and large gold-framed mirrors cluster the richly panelled walls. All of them have been covered with white cloth like mourning shrouds. Snow drifts down outside, visible through the tall narrow windows. She is wearing white, without even the colours of her House to denote the station that is her due. Her shoes are pristinely ivory, but her stockings are damp; she can vaguely recall being scolded for running out in the snow earlier that morning. That seems like a lifetime ago.

Her father stands before the enormous fireplace. Dalresin’s usual straight-backed posture has drained away, and he grips the mantlepiece as if it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. A full silver tea set rests upon the table in the centre of the room between the couches and chairs. Nobody touches it except Taringail. Moiraine’s eldest sister, Anvaere, watches their brother stir honey into a teacup and tap the spoon against the blue-patterned porcelain. The sound rings out like a knell, the only sound in the room apart from the crackle of the fireplace and Innloine’s steady weeping.

“Would you stop with the crying already?” Taringail mutters, exasperated. “You’ve been at it since yesterday.”

Innloine sobs into her silk handkerchief. Moiraine shuffles a little closer on the couch they share, and awkwardly pats her older sister’s knee. Innloine grasps her hand in a painful grip and doesn’t let go. Moiraine immediately regrets her decision.

“Leave her alone,” Anvaere says coldly, her dark eyes boring into Taringail without blinking.

Taringail takes a sip of his tea. “It’s unseemly, all this weeping. She’s a Damodred, for Light’s sake. She might as well act like one.”

“At least she has tears,” says Anvaere accusingly.

Taringail lifts his cup towards Moiraine as though in a toast. “I haven’t seen Moiraine cry, and she’s supposedly the baby.”

Shrinking against the couch cushions, Moiraine wishes the room were larger, large enough to swallow her whole.

“This whole thing is a farce anyway.” Taringail snorts and shakes his head. Of the five of them, he is the only one not wearing white. His Courtly garb is as sleek and dark as his hair. “A state funeral? What a charade. I agree with Uncle Laman — she doesn’t warrant it.”

Anvaere’s face is a mask of icy rage. “She was our mother.”

“She was your mother,” Taringail corrects. “My mother was a woman of proper breeding and station, not some filth off the streets who happened to spread her legs wide enough for someone to take notice.”

Anvaere grabs a teacup from the table and hurls it at Taringail’s head. He ducks, dropping his own tea to the ground in the process, and the cup shatters against the far wall. Shards of porcelain scatter across the polished wooden floorboards. Moiraine winces. Innloine cries harder. Anvaere’s on her feet, bristling with anger.

“You almost hit me,” Taringail says, sounding incredulous.

“Now, that’s enough.” Dalresin turns from the fireplace. The light of the flames flicker in the sharp hollows of his cheekbones. He appears gaunt, as though he could not stomach the very thought of food. “Taringail, I’ll not hear ill words about my wife on the day of her funeral, of all days.”

“Oh, now you defend her!” Anvaere barks out a bitter laugh. “Tell me: where was your spine for all these years? When your brothers and cousins sneered at her? When they called her a whore grasping above her means?”

“I did everything I could -” their father starts to say, but Anvaere throws her hands up in anger before he can finish.

“That funeral was a complete disgrace! You couldn’t defend her in life, and you cannot even defend her in death!” she shouts. Her words ring through the air. “Well? Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me!”

Dalresin doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything.

“You are weak and a coward,” she hisses. “You are fucking pathetic.”

“At last, something we agree upon,” Taringail says dryly.

Anvaere jabs a finger in his direction and growls, “Shut up. Don’t you dare speak to me, you worthless piece of -"

“Stop fighting,” Dalresin says wearily. “I can’t do this. Not today. Please just -”

Taringail steps to the side of their father so that he and Anvaere can glower at one another across the low-slung table. “You can’t talk to me like that. You’re nothing compared to me. I am going to be the Prince-Consort of Andor. I am going to save this House from ruin. I am going to — Would you be quiet already?”

The last he snaps at Innloine. His hands are curled into fists. There’s more brewing in the room than just tea. Moiraine steels herself for the worst, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice.

“I said: leave her alone!” Anvaere stands between Taringaill and the couch upon which Innloine and Moiraine sit. Moiraine can just see her father’s and brother’s faces around the straightness of Anvaere’s shoulders and the bulk of her skirts. Dalresin looks helpless and tired beyond recognition.

Anvaere’s voice drops to a low swooping note when she speaks. “You think you are going to be something great, and you don’t even recognise that you’re being pushed to the side already! Laman is marrying you off to Tigraine Mantear because he sees you for the snake you are! You will be noosed behind the Lion Throne like some prized stallion — stud fee paid for and bought! You will be barred by law from ever taking the Sun Throne! You will never have what you so desperately covet!”

With every word from her mouth, Taringail’s face grows more and more red. The muscles of his jaw bunch up and a vein throbs at his forehead. She has scarcely finished speaking — her words still echoing along the ceiling — when he suddenly snaps and lunges for her.

Anvaere snatches up a knife from the table before it’s knocked aside, silver and tea flying across the floor. They are upon each other like wolves, teeth bared, snarling wordless invectives. With a shout of surprise, Dalresin tries to push himself between them. Taringail has Anvaere’s knife hand by the wrist from when she had a moment before tried to stab him in the neck.

Innloine gives a little shriek of terror and Moiraine jumps up to grab hold of the back of Anvaere’s dress. Hauling back on the fabric with all her weight accomplishes very little. She is too small, too skinny, too young. Anvaere is older than her by only four years, but the difference between twelve and sixteen might as well be night and day.

Anvaere’s head snaps back when Taringail finds it with his fist, but it only seems to spur her on. Anvaere manages to wrench her knife hand free and slashes wildly. Taringail howls. The knife handle sticks out of his upper arm.

“You bitch! You fucking bitch!”

Taringail tries to scramble for her, knife still stuck in him like a side of steak. His expression has transformed into something Moiraine has never seen before, something ugly and utterly livid, but somehow Dalresin manages to haul him bodily back. They lurch away a few paces until Taringail begins to wrestle himself free.

When Anvaere tries to move forward, Moiraine grabs her arm. “No, don’t -!”

Anvaere rounds upon her with a blind shove, and snaps, “Don’t touch me!”

Moiraine stumbles. She slips on a fallen saucer and cracks her forehead against a corner of the overturned tea table. The world spins. She attempts to stand but slumps into a seated position on the ground. She can’t see out of one eye; it stings and blood drips down in a steady sheet from her brow onto the clean white fabric of her dress.

Groggily, she blinks up to find Anvaere looking at her with an ashen expression, her eyes wide, a bruise already beginning to form on her cheek. Dalresin is still trying to drag Taringail out of the room while Taringail spits and snarls like an animal. He says something that makes Anvaere turn again with fury painted in every line of her body, tense and ready to —

“Stop it!” Innloine cries. “Oh, stop it, both of you!”

Anvaere stops. Jaw set, she spares Moiraine one last stricken glance then goes storming off in the opposite direction from their brother and father. The door to the western parlour slams shut behind her, and Taringail’s foul curses fade down the hall outside along with Dalresin’s placating murmurs.

When Moiraine feels something touch her shoulder, she flinches back. It’s only Innloine, kneeling down beside her.

“Let me see,” Innloine says softly.

Her hands are gentle, yet Moiraine braces herself as though for an incoming blow. A small gasp escapes her as Innloine touches the gash across her eyebrow with her handkerchief. Innloine makes a soft cooing noise as though to a beloved hunting hound that has gotten its paw trapped in a snare.

“You should find Aine Sedai and have her Heal you.” Innloine’s hand drifts down to cup Moiraine’s cheek, her thumb stroking against her bloodied jawline. She sighs. “I hope it doesn’t scar. You can’t afford to have your pretty face marred. Oh, my dress!”

With a glance down at herself, Innloine begins to fret over the red spots that have gotten onto her hems. She rises to her feet and departs, muttering to herself about how difficult it is to wash blood from silk. When she’s gone Moiraine is alone amidst the silent wreckage.

The crackle of the fireplace pops suddenly. Logs slip against one another. For a long while Moiraine sits there, unmoving. When she sniffles, she gets blood up her nose and has to sneeze. She wipes her face with her forearm, leaving a long red streak along her sleeve. She will be scolded for that later. Then she clambers to a kneeling position and begins to pick up the broken pieces all around her.

The silver archway appears. She does a double take. It shimmers in place like a beacon in the darkly-panelled room. Moiraine hesitates.

She can’t leave now. She needs to pick up all these pieces. She needs to pick up all these pieces, or her mother will be cross. Her mother will be —

Her mother will be —

Letting the shards of sharp porcelain clatter to the ground, she stumbles upright. She is still crying when she reappears on the other side of the doorway. Gritting her teeth, she wipes at her face and gets control of her breathing.

She looks down at her hands, fully expecting them to be bright and boldly red. The blood has vanished, but the memory of the gash on her forehead still aches. Some days even now, years later, she looks at herself in the mirror and can imagine the scar that would've sliced through her eyebrow had Aine Sedai been less proficient at Healing.

Demira takes one of the chalices from the table and approaches. She pours cool clean water over Moiraine’s head. The shock of it is bracing, it brings her back to herself and washes away the clarity of the scene within the ter’angreal like old blood washes down the drain. 

“You are washed clean of what sin you may have done,” Demira intones, “and of those done against you. You are washed clean of what crime you may have committed, and of those committed against you. You come to us washed clean and pure, in heart and soul.” 

Moiraine shivers as the water drips to the stone floor. She moves woodenly when Merean herds her towards the second archway and says, “The second time is for what is. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.”

For a moment Moiraine doesn’t move. She watches the ripple of light beneath the archway, straining to see what lies beyond it. Her eyebrow gives a twinge of phantom pain, and she touches it. Then, straightening, Moiraine steps forward, and light consumes her. 

She is standing in a long hallway that curves in either direction, as though it would eventually meet in a complete circle further along. The marble stone is bright yet weathered, ornate yet weighty. Iron-banded doors stand at attention between arched columns that march along the walls on either side, and on the floor a runner extends in a long unbroken line.

She should know this place. It should be a corridor like any corridor in the White Tower, but she has lived here for years and never has she come across such a place during her time in Tar Valon.

Her hands bunch into fists around her skirts. Gone the Novice whites. Instead, she’s wearing Accepted robes, banded in all the colours of the Ajahs.

Every door, every column, every mason-worked stone appears too uniform. As though someone has simply repeated one instance many times over. The patterns are too smooth and repetitious. Here, a smudge on a column capital exactly the same as the smudge on the next. There, a crack in the floor exactly the same as a crack three paces further along.

Moiraine follows the consistencies with steps faltering then purposeful. She strides down the hall for so long, she’s sure the end must come soon, but it never does. It loops round itself until she’s dizzy, until her footsteps have quickened to a trot, then to a flat out run.

A figure appears around the bend, walking calmly towards her, and the tension in Moiraine’s shoulders goes puddling onto the floor the moment she catches sight of Siuan.

“Oh, thank the Light,” Moiraine says, and she races forward to catch Siuan in a bone-breaking hug.

Siuan grunts, returning the hug with a warm laugh. “Are you trying to make me heave up my breakfast?”

“Sorry.” Moiraine steps back but she keeps her hands around Siuan’s arms as though she might slip away into the thinning air without a trace.

Siuan is also wearing Accepted robes and Moiraine exhales a great sigh of relief. They’ve passed. Both of them. They’re alive, and they’ve passed, and they’re here together.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Siuan remarks with a small laugh. When Moiraine doesn’t return it, Siuan frowns and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I –” Moiraine shakes her head and tries to smile. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s rubbish, and you know it.” Siuan cups her cheek with her hand and Moiraine can’t help but lean her head into it. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

Breathing in shakily, Moiraine nods.

“Then tell me.”

“I just –” Moiraine says. She makes a helpless gesture to the corridor around them. “I have such an odd feeling. About everything. All of this. Something’s not right, and I can’t — can’t quite place my finger on it.”

Even as she speaks, her voice trails off and her eyes focus on the runner that spans the length of the hallway. It should bear all the colours of the Ajahs in a repeating order, but something is off. She moves away from Siuan and takes a step further along the runner, counting the colours until she gets to six and stops.

The colours are repeating again after six, but that can’t be right. There should be seven. She checks the bands on their robes. Sure enough. Six.

“Moiraine?”

She turns and Siuan is watching her with a puzzled furrow in her brow. Moiraine points towards the runner. “The blue is missing.”

Siuan lets out a relieved huff of laughter. “Is that all?”

“I think this is serious.”

“What? The colours of a rug?” Siuan snorts, then walks forward to gently clasp Moiraine’s hands between her own. Whereas Moiraine’s hands are soft, Siuan’s are warm and work-rough; Moiraine had always liked how they felt against her skin. “I thought you were going to tell me something important. Like finally spilling the news about your family.”

Moiraine frowns. “My family?”

Siuan rubs her calloused thumb across Moiraine’s knuckles. “I know you’ve been trying to keep it quiet for a few days now, but you shouldn’t keep secrets. Not from me.” When Moiraine doesn’t reply, Siuan says, “I know your uncles died. I know Aine Sedai has been asking you questions again. Questions about your family, about lines of succession.”

Moiraine’s head jerks. She blinks in confusion and the cold trickle of dread that drips from the crown of her head and down her spine. “I don’t know what you’re –” Moiraine starts to say.

The memory is fuzzy, but there, creeping into the back of her mind and tapping insistently at the space behind her eyes.

Moiraine shakes her head past the odd feeling. “Yes, I – I remember, now. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Why would that be a worry to me? It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

“Well –”

“Which means it’s important to me.” Siuan smiles gently at her and something in Moiraine’s chest unspools at the very sight. “Just because I don’t talk politics, doesn’t mean I don’t know how they affect us. How they affect you.”

Moiraine nods. “Yes. Yes, I know.”

“Then what will you do?”

“About what?”

Siuan lets loose a huff of laughter. She lowers their hands so that they hang comfortably between them. “About the Sun Throne. Obviously.”

Moiraine’s mouth opens. She tries to speak, but the words elude her. It’s how it’s always been. Thoughts of succession are as paralysing as a needle dipped in poison and hidden within a cushioned chair. Her hands clench around Siuan’s before she can stop them, and she grits her teeth as though she could bite through the marrow of fear trapped at the base of her tongue.

“I can’t leave the White Tower until I’m an Aes Sedai,” says Moiraine. “They won’t allow it.”

“That only buys you a few years, at best.”

“Yes, but that should be enough time for us.”

“Us?” Siuan gives her a puzzled smile. “That’s the reason why you should take it, not flee from it.”

Moiraine can’t muster up a single response to that.

Siuan glances around as though for eavesdroppers, then leans forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “I could be yours. In Cairhien. As Sun Queen, you can appoint an Aes Sedai advisor, and I could be by your side. We could work towards something great! Together! Think of what you could accomplish! The first Aes Sedai Queen in a thousand years! You’ll be something for the history books,” Siuan says, and her eyes are alight. “You’ll be something marvellous.”

Moiraine stares. “You don’t mean that,” she breathes. “You can’t mean that.”

“And why not? If it were me, I wouldn’t let an opportunity like this slip between my fingers.” Siuan tightens her grip on Moiraine’s fingers. “And neither should you.”

Siuan hasn’t blinked, not since the conversation started. Her fingernails dig into Moiraine’s palms, biting deep until Moiraine winces. “You’re hurting me.”

Siuan’s expression hasn’t lost its keen and avid edge. Her nails are sharp as talons. “Why don’t you see? You were always meant for this. All those years, watching your family shred itself into bite-sized pieces, knowing that the only one who could pick them all up and put them together again was the person you’ve been fighting not to become. The irony. It’s enough to drive anyone mad.” The blackness of Siuan’s eyes bleeds out along the edges like drops of ink in water. “But if you won’t do it for you, at least do it for us.”

Slowly, Moiraine shakes her head. She yanks her hands from Siuan’s and backs away. “No. No, this isn’t right. You’re not her. You’re not the woman I –”

Her teeth snap shut on the words before they can leave her. Siuan’s mouth curls in a smirk honed to a cruel edge. Where once her eyes were warm, now they gleam, knife-dark, knife-bright.

“The woman you — what?” Siuan asks. When she takes an unblinking step towards her, Moiraine takes an uncertain step back. “What were you going to say? The woman you know? The woman you love?”

Moiraine’s mouth works but no sound comes out. Something curls around her throat like a strangling vine.

“You think you love me? Is that what you think this is?” Siuan laughs, and it’s almost pitying. “I thought you were more practical than that. I thought you saw this for what it was. A good time. A mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more.”

“That’s not true,” says Moiraine with far more strength than she feels. Her hand trembles when she points at Siuan. “You’re not real. None of this is real. I need to – to –”

Her eyes cast around for anything that can help her, but the curving hallway is empty but for them, and the runner, and the arched colonnade, and the doors. Darting towards the nearest door, Moiraine flings it open and rushes through, slamming it shut behind her. She leans against the iron-banded wood, breathes heavily, and shuts her eyes. When she opens them again, a small cry leaps up into her throat.

Siuan is standing before her. A sword is planted through her chest and blood pours down the white of her robes, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She tilts her head to one side and smiles.

“You’re so desperate for this not to be real, but you already know the truth. Why else would you be running?” Blood bubbles at the corner of her mouth, runs down the side of her chin. “Always running. It’s the only thing you know. It’s what you do best, Lady Damodred.”

Moiraine doesn’t answer. She runs.

Behind her she can hear Siuan call her name. Mockingly at first. Then confused, pleading. Then she screams and it’s a sound of agony. Moiraine doesn’t turn around.

She’s sprinting down a new hallway that is identical to the last. It even curves in the same direction. In her haste, she nearly trips on her long hems. Reaching blindly out, she seizes another door handle and wrenches it open.

Another hallway. Just the same. Doors upon doors, and the sound of approaching footsteps echoing behind her. The pressure around her throat and chest tightens, squeezes like a clenched fist around broken glass.

She doesn’t know what this place is. She doesn’t know why she is here. She only knows that there is supposed to be a door. She needs to find a door.

“I want –” Moiraine gasps. Her lungs burn for air. She pulls open another door and lurches through it into the same hallway, the same interminable labyrinth. “I want out. Let me out. Please. Please, let me –”

Something tangles in her chest, branches out in her lungs. She gags for breath. Stumbling to a halt, she grabs at the nearest column for purchase but staggers to her knees, retching. Her stomach lurches and trefoil leaves spill from her mouth. They splatter to the ground in a mass of green and gold, like glittering winged insects.

The footsteps behind her quicken, they grow louder, they echo. Moiraine crawls forward but has to stop when her stomach twists itself into knots again. The leaves force their way up her throat again and she chokes on them, strangled and struggling for breath. The last time she has seen leaves like this was in the central square of Cairhien, amassed upon the branches of a centuries-old tree, the symbol of House Damodred – the Tree and the Crown.

She wrenches her head up to find a silvered arch glimmering like the surface of water beneath the summer sun. The footsteps are fast upon her. Moiraine scrambles on all fours through the doorway, and a shimmering light blooms until it devours the world entire, replacing it with a familiar dark room, filled with familiar dark faces.

On the other side Moiraine is still crouched upon the ground. The stone floor bites into her knees. She heaves for breath, her chest and shoulders rising and falling in great shuddering gasps. She coughs. Tendrils of hair are slicked to the sides of her sweaty face and neck. She coughs again.

Reaching up, she sticks her fingers into her mouth and slowly pulls out a single green and golden trefoil leaf. It unfurls like a butterfly, dripping with spit. With a shudder of revulsion Moiraine flings it to the ground and curls herself away from it.

Mutters fly around the room.

“You shouldn’t be able to bring anything back with you,” one of the Aes Sedai says. It’s Demira, holding the second chalice. Her expression is concerned but there’s no mistaking the curious glint in her gaze. “What did you do, child?”

Shaking her head, Moiraine swallows thickly past the dryness of her throat. When she speaks her voice is raspy and she has to clear her throat before continuing, “May I have some water?”

A few of the Aes Sedai exchange glances, then Tamra says coolly, “No. You must finish the Test.”

They allow her to push herself shakily to her feet before a chalice full of water is poured over Moiraine’s head. 

“You are washed clean of false pride. You are washed clean of false ambition. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul.” 

Demira tips the last of the water out, and a drop lands on the bridge of Moiraine’s nose. She flinches, but doesn’t wipe it away. 

Merean watches Moiraine with a guarded expression, but when she speaks her words are as steady and ritualistic as before. “The third time is for what will be. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.” 

Turning towards the final archway, Moiraine hesitates. There is no turning back. Not at this stage. That option is far behind her now. All she can do is continue on. One foot in front of the other. And light swallows the world whole once more. 

"Your Majesty."

Her head jerks around. Moiraine frowns and a young man before her quails. He and another beside him – matching like a pair of handsome footmen – both bow deeply until they are bent double at the waist. They are wearing identical tabards that fall to their knees, fields of blue with a gold sunburst across the chest and white ruffs at their necks. Household servants, perhaps. Squires, most likely.

“What did you call me?” Moiraine asks and her voice is sharper than she was used to, deepened with use or perhaps age.

The two exchange a glance. The one who had addressed her waivers before looking up, only to drop his eyes and mumble towards her feet. “Your Majesty?” he repeats uncertainly.

Moiraine stares at his downturned head for a long moment then looks around the room. No, not a room – a tent. A grand and lavish tent, to be sure, but a tent, nonetheless. She is seated at a writing desk, her hand poised over a letter she had been penning moments before. Ink blots the page. Stacks of finished letters sealed with black wax wait to be taken away. A full-sized bed has been painstakingly made up in the centre of the room instead of a cot, complete with travelling trunks and a full-length mirror with clawed feet beside a bathtub large enough for her to sprawl in should she desire. All the comforts of a palace on the road. 

Sitting up straighter, she balances the quill in its holder and uncrosses her legs. The long blue velvet riding habit brushes around her ankles. The Great Serpent ring gleams upon one finger, and on her other hand the royal seal of Cairhien, heavy and gold. A bit of black wax clings to part of the oval face. She scratches it off with the nail of her manicured thumb.

“How long have I –?” Moiraine has to clear a bur from her throat, and starts again. “How long have I been Queen?”

Both squires remain tense, and one hesitates before answering, as though fully expecting this to be a trick question. “Twenty three years, Your Majesty.”

Moiraine breathes in sharply, and they flinch, heads bowed. If she casts her mind back, she can almost see them, the years, the memories. They shamble in the distance like faceless figures through the mist.

Her uncle had died, and she had ascended the dais in his stead, a crown placed upon her head. Once, the nobility had tried to revolt. Once, Lord Galldrian of House Riatin had mustered enough support to march on the capital. Once, she had put whole towns to the sword. Once, she had lined the streets of the capital with the heads of traitors — one for every corner, for every street lamp. Once, she had stalked through Cairhien with saidar on her lips and blood soaked up the hems of her dress. Once, she had confiscated estates all across the countryside, throttling the flow of coin into those Houses who had forgotten the meaning of loyalty, who had forgotten their place, letting them die the slow death of obscurity and ruin.

Now, they are afraid to speak her name. Now, the Sun Throne is secure beyond all measure. Now, her rule is absolute.

Moiraine gestures to the squires. “Stand up. What did you say to me earlier?”

They both straighten slowly, neither of them meeting her gaze even now. “About the length of your reign?”

“No, before that,” she snaps, and has to bite her tongue. The anger that has always festered beneath the surface has been given an outlet, and years wearing a crown has allowed her to give in to all her worst impulses. “Before that,” she repeats, softer this time. “You said something to me.”

“You asked us to bring your armour. We have it here for you.” He points towards one of the travelling trunks. 

Nodding, Moiraine stands. She motions imperiously towards them and moves to stand in the middle of the tent before the long mirror. While the squires open the chest and begin to set out its contents, she undoes the stays of her riding habit. The rich blue velvet falls in a puddle around her feet, and she steps out of it to kick it aside towards the bed. Beneath, she’s already wearing a loose shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers. 

It’s an orchestrated dance, and one to which she’s grown well accustomed. Far more well accustomed than she would like. She lifts her arms for a worn gambeson to be tugged over her head. Then the squires bring each piece of mail and plate and begin the laborious process of affixing them. 

The armour is as practical as it is ornate, the breastplate emblazoned with the sunburst crest of Cairhien. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, at how much older she looks, how much thinner. She is all wiry muscle and hard lines. There’s a coldness to her dark eyes, a hardness that she does not recognise. She has a scar over her left eyebrow, slicing it in two, and another at her upper lip. One a childhood stumble, the other a battlefield wound. 

The articulated plates of the gauntlets click when she curls her fingers into a fist. She bears no weapon other than a long wickedly sharp knife strapped to the side of her hip. The gilded handle matches the styling of her armour, the blued steel plates and the sleekness of the cloak hooked beneath her spaulders, so dark as to appear like the sky at midnight, embroidered with the sun’s rays like lances across the ink-dyed cloth.

One of the squires kneels down and offers up a small wooden box as though it were a royal sceptre. She turns the latch and opens the lid to reveal a bracelet nestled in black velvet. With great care she takes it. The bracelet looks like ivory but isn’t. Upon closer inspection it depicts a naked acrobat bent completely backwards so that its wrists are tied to its ankles. Turning the bracelet over, she slips it over her armoured knuckles and settles it at the wrist of her left hand.

It shouldn’t fit, but it goes easily, then shrinks down to the perfect size again. Touching it seems to bring her comfort, so she slowly twists it in place around her wrist.

The squires flit about her like nervous birds. They tug at her couters and the straps of her gorget to ensure nothing will fall off in the heat of a fight. She rolls her ankle to test the sabatons and shrugs against the new weight across her shoulders. 

A man ducks beneath the tent. He wears a helmet in the Malkieri fashion, obscuring much of his features in the dim light of the tent. His armour is lacquered and bears the scars of battle already, yet there is no cry of horns outside, nor the rush of feet and call to arms. Glancing at the squires, he tilts his head meaningfully towards the exit. Both bow and depart without a word.

Alone in the tent with Moiraine now, the man tucks his hands smartly behind his back and stands at ease in her presence. Regardless, he gives the impression that he could at any moment leap into a dervish of action with the sword sheathed across his back. She can’t see much of his face beneath the helm, but she doesn’t need to. In some ways, Moiraine knows him better than he knows himself.

How strange. She can read every microscopic twitch in his posture like an open book, but she can't even remember his name.

Moiraine studies him in the mirror without turning around to face him. “What news?” she asks.

“We’ve received word from the scouts of the enemy’s position. We need to give the command for the armies to alter our position on the Field of Merrilor accordingly,” he says. “The Amyrlin Seat waits to meet with you. It’s time.”

With a brisk nod, Moiraine says, “Very well.” He straightens his shoulders, and she notices the small movement. Turning, she asks, “You have something else to tell me?”

For a moment he does not speak. Then his words come like a blow. “Siuan Sanche is dead.”

Moiraine blinks back the shock that pours over her, cold as a plunge into a midwinter lake. “How?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “It was not a few hours ago. I felt it. I felt –”

His voice breaks. Crossing the tent, Moiraine reaches up and places a hand on his shoulder. He exhales a shuddering breath at even so simple a touch, even when he could not possibly feel it through so many layers of amour. 

“Do you wish for me to take the Bond?” she asks softly. “You should not have to bear this alone.”

He hesitates. Between the carved slots in his helm, his eyes glimmer with unshed tears. He shakes his head, and his words are rough when he replies, “No. You need to be focused for the battle ahead.”

“What I need,” she says, resolute, “is for you to be by my side. Do not throw your life away. Not yet.”

A wordless sound echoes faintly from within his helmet, small as a choked whimper. He nods but catches her hands when she lifts them both to begin the weave. “But after?” he asks. 

His fingers tighten around her wrists in a grip bordering on painful. He doesn’t mean to; his hands are shaking. “If we both survive this,” she says, “we can discuss your fate then.”

Appeased, he lets her go. She places her hands on either side of his helm as if to lift it away but stops when something drips. Not unshed tears, then. No matter. She doesn’t need to touch his skin for this.

The intricate weave of spirit drapes over him like a shroud. Beneath her hands he shudders. When it is over, Moiraine winces at the sudden knot of anguish that is him in the back of her mind. Her first instinct is to mask the Bond, to shrink back from that grief, but she tamps it down with an iron will. The grief does not belong to him alone, and they will not be alone. At least for a little longer. 

“You should have told me of her passing sooner,” she murmurs, releasing him. 

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. That bundle of additional emotions in the back of her mind contracts like a heartbeat, like a pulled muscle. For all that turmoil, he simply stands there, awaiting instruction.

“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.” Moiraine sighs, then shakes her head sadly. “Come, then. Let us not tarry any further.” 

They cannot afford to wallow in grief. There is no time for mourning. Not now. Not later.

From the trunk, she grabs the last remaining piece of her armour: a helmet that has been forged to serve as a crown. Spikes of gold erupt from all around the brow like a wreath of gilded horns. The man holds open the tent flap for her with a shallow bow. Outside, the world is burning. Flames lick the sky. A storm-dappled war steed is being held by one of the squires. It paws at the ground.

This is it. The end. Everything she has prepared for, everything she has worked for so tirelessly and for so long. The weight of armour is nothing compared to the mantle of years across her shoulders, the sheer weariness like a physical ache in her bones. She does not need to steel herself and go with the knowledge that she may never return. Dying for this cause is the easiest part.

She places the helmet upon her head. War drums strike in the distance, followed by the low mournful peal of a horn shivering the air. Moiraine does one last check over her armour, twisting at her vambraces, passing her hand over the bracelet, feeling the sweetness of the One Power well up like an echo at the touch. With this she could blaze like the sun itself on the battlefield. She could fell a legion with a sweep of her hand. 

She has unsheathed her dagger with a flourish and is about to sheathe it again, when she sees something flicker at the corner of her eye. It isn’t, as she first suspected, the flutter of her cloak in the mirror. It is a silver arched door, shimmering with light. 

The way back will come but once. Be steadfast. 

“No,” she whispers. “Not now. Not -”

"Moiraine?" She turns at the sound of her name, spoken imploringly. The man holds up the tent flap higher for her. "They’re waiting.”

Her gauntlet creaks around the hilt of the knife. She grits her teeth past the impotent rage filling her mouth with the taste of iron, fury ferrous as blood spilt. Facing the door, she says, “I have to go.” 

“What are you talking about?”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t bear to look at him for a second longer. The first step away from him, from the battle and the destiny that awaits, makes the earth tremble beneath her feet. Moiraine forces herself to take another. 

“Please. We can’t win without you. We need you.” His voice cracks. “I need you. I can’t -"

She doesn’t look back. She can’t. If she does, she’ll break. The last thing she feels as she walks through the door is a tug at her cloak, as if he has grabbed onto the trailing end of it and is trying to yank her back. Eyes burning with unshed tears, teeth bared in a rictus snarl, Moiraine whirls around and slashes. 

The knife freezes a hair’s breadth away from Merean’s neck. 

A startled gasp flits around the room, quickly smothered. Everyone is staring at her, at the way the tendons stand out on Moiraine’s forearm and the back of her hand. The tip of the knife trembles in her shaky grasp. 

Moiraine is breathing heavily, eyes wide. The surprise and fear glints in Merean’s gaze, but fades almost immediately when Moiraine lowers her arm and drops the knife to the ground with a clatter of steel against stone. The sound rings in the silence. Nobody comments this time about how she shouldn’t have been able to bring anything through the archway. A trefoil leaf seems trivial in comparison. 

Merean holds out her arm and stands aside in a gesture for Moiraine to walk forward. At the other side of the room, the Amyrlin Seat waits. Drawing in a deep breath, Moiraine moves. She kneels before Tamra, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room following her. It is Tamra herself who holds the final chalice, who pours it out slowly over Moiraine’s head, the water lapping across her shoulders and down her back. 

“You are washed clean of Moiraine Damodred from Cairhien,” Tamra says. “You are washed clean of all ties that bind you to the world. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul. You are Moiraine Damodred, Accepted of the White Tower. You are sealed to us now.” 

Moiraine does not feel clean. All she feels is cold and tired. The water they have poured over her does nothing to combat the sweat and terror that still clings to her skin. 

She pushes herself to her feet and someone — she doesn’t care to identify who — passes her a towel and the clothes she had stripped out of before. They are neatly folded. Even the bit of braided cord she uses to tie back her hair is coiled atop the fabric. 

Mechanically, Moiraine dries herself off and then pulls on the Novice robes. She sits on the floor to tug on her socks and shoes, and has to swallow down the sudden swell of tears when her socks get wet, thinking of being twelve, of being scolded for playing in the snow on the day of her mother’s funeral, of getting her stockings and mourning dress wet because she would rather be outside in the cold than inside with her family. 

Moiraine sits there, staring blankly at the space between her feet. People move about her but she pays them no heed. She has to gather the pieces of herself together before she can stand again, feeling muddied, feeling like she has been crouched at the bottom of a long dark empty well for days, unable to clamber free. 

While all of the other Aes Sedai have made their way towards the exit or are in clandestine conversation with one another, Merean remains behind, waiting. She is holding the knife between her hands. Moiraine momentarily forgets how to breathe when she sees it again.

Without a word, Merean hands out the dagger towards her. Slowly Moiraine takes it. The gilded handle has been crafted for her hand and fits into the snugness of her palm as though it belongs nowhere else. Turning the knife over, she uses the flat polished edge to look at her reflection. 

A slice of herself stares back. There are no scars. There is no leanness to her face, making her look more like her father. No cruel slant to her mouth, making her look more like her brother and uncle. No hardness to her eyes, making her look more like her sister. 

There is only herself. Tired. Dishevelled. Young. Too young by half. 

“Moiraine.”

Moiraine’s head jerks up, her hand tightening instinctually around the hilt of the knife. Merean is watching her closely. She tilts her head towards the exit. “Come, child. I will escort you back to your rooms.” 

Moiraine nods mutely. For a moment she flounders for what to do with the knife — there is no sheath for it; she will need to have one made; perhaps it could make a suitable belt knife, even if it is a bit long for the task — before she simply lowers her arms and holds it at her side, knuckles white. With a shuddering breath, she follows Merean out of the chamber, and she does not look back. 

Night has poured out over the land. Moiraine catches glimpses of it through the arched and camed windows as she is led through the Tower by the Mistress of Novices. The city below twinkles like a blanket of stars. It may have been hours that she was in the domed basement chamber. It may have been days. She cannot tell.

Moiraine can barely keep her eyes open. Her feet drag across the floor. At one point along the way she nearly runs into a column. Merean has to steer her with a gentle yet firm hand at her shoulder.

“We’re nearly there,” Merean murmurs, and she drops her hand to Moiraine’s elbow to guide her. “Not long now.”

Moiraine has to resist the urge to tug her arm free. Even the simple feeling of Merean touching her is too much; it makes the space seem too enclosed, her dress too tight, her mind too loud, the memory of anger and bitterness and grief blood-bright on the back of her tongue. 

They finally reach the Novice Quarters, and Merean lets her go when they stop outside of Moiraine’s door. 

“Sleep now, child,” Merean says. “One of us will come around tomorrow to show you to your new quarters.” She offers the briefest of smiles. Somehow on her it still seems cold, the action never quite reaching her eyes. “Well done.”

Moiraine watches her go. It’s only when Merean has rounded the corner and out of sight that she turns back towards her door, opens it, and steps inside. In the entryway, Moiraine goes stock still. 

Siuan is there. Siuan is pacing her room, already ready for bed. Her chin jerks up when the door opens and she gives Moiraine a relieved smile. “Thank the Light,” she sighs, then grins at Moiraine’s stricken expression. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Moiraine blanches at the sound of those familiar words. A chill settles over her, sticks to her skin like wet cloth. The door shuts behind her, clicks in place, loud as her heart, loud as a war drum ringing out across the Field of Merrilor.

Siuan’s grin is quickly replaced by concern. She strides forward and cups Moiraine’s face with both hands. “What’s wrong?”

Moiraine opens her mouth to speak but cannot find the words. 

Siuan glances down. “Why do you have a knife?”

Moiraine’s hand trembles around the hilt. “I brought it back,” she says hoarsely.

“They let you bring back a knife? I wasn’t able to bring back anything except for horrible memories,” Siuan jokes weakly. 

“They didn’t — I didn’t mean to. I just — My Test was –” Moiraine starts to say, but stops. 

Eyes widening, Siuan says with a panicked note, “But you passed, right?”

Moiraine nods. The movement is jerky.

“Oh, thank the Light,” Siuan sighs. “For a moment I thought – But it’s all right. You’re all right.” A pause and then Siuan asks, “Are you all right?”

Moiraine’s mouth drops open. She cannot force the lie upon her tongue. It dies in the back of her throat. She steps away from Siuan and drifts towards the bedside table. Carefully she sets the knife down. It gleams in the lamplight, a fragment of her reflection still dancing on its mirrored surface. If she looks too closely, the flame of the lamp looks like the gleam of a golden crown upon her head.

"I saw -" Moiraine begins.

"You don't need to tell me."

Moiraine’s head jerks up when she hears the words. Siuan is watching her with a fierce and fervent gaze.

“Whatever it is,” Siuan continues, stepping closer, “you don’t need to tell me.”

Biting her trembling lower lip, Moiraine tries to quell the relief that pricks at the corners of her eyes upon hearing those words. 

"What can I do?" Siuan asks, and her jaw is squared in that determined way of hers. In the low lamplight, she is beautiful and steadfast and wholly herself. "Whatever it is, I'll do it. Just say the word."

Tell me this is real, Moiraine thinks so hard her chest aches with it. Tell me this is impractical. Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me. Tell me –

Moiraine swallows the impulse back and touches her throat with a wince. “Can I have some water?” she asks.

Siuan’s face relaxes into a small, relieved smile. “Of course.”

When she turns away to stride over towards where the pitcher of water rests atop a small ablutions table, Moiraine sinks down onto the bed. She looks down at her feet; it is disorienting that they reach the ground. Somehow she expects her legs to be sheathed in metal. Somehow she expects a carpet on the floor with the wrong number of colours. Somehow, she expects her legs to be shorter, for her to be younger again, for the world to be so large she slides straight down its gullet and into the burning red stomach of mountains. 

She takes off her shoes and sets them neatly aside just beneath the bed. She’s too tired to ready herself for sleep otherwise. Instead Moiraine buries her face in her hands, elbows digging into her thighs as she rubs at the soreness behind her eyes.

She glances up as Siuan returns with a cup of water. “Thank you,” she murmurs, then drains the whole thing in one go. Afterwards her throat is still scratchy and sore, like she’s only just shaking off the last day of a winter chest cold. If she breathes too deeply, she can almost feel her lungs clogging up with leaves like a river mouth.

She clears her throat and sets the cup beside the knife. The bed dips beside her and Siuan sits down, close enough that their shoulders press up against one another. Moiraine has to bite back the urge to shy away when Siuan rubs her back, and she hates herself for even the shadow of this doubt. 

“Mine wasn’t so great either,” Siuan says softly. “You were –” She makes an abortive sound, then seems to rethink her decision and shakes her head. “It’s done, and it’s not worth repeating fears designed to bait us.”

Grasping Moiraine’s opposite shoulder, Siuan pulls her closer so she can press a kiss to the side of her head. She lingers there. She holds Moiraine slightly too tight, slightly too long. Moiraine turns to look at her.

“Do you want to sleep here tonight?” Moiraine asks.

Siuan exhales a slow unsteady breath. She nods and their foreheads press together. Moiraine closes her eyes. She leans into Siuan and feels her do the same in return until their noses brush their cheeks.

After a long moment, Moiraine pulls away. Still in her stale Novice robes, Moiraine lies down in bed. Siuan clambers in beside her, and the two of them are quick to wrap themselves up in one another beneath the blankets. Siuan shivers and tucks one of her feet between Moiraine’s calves.

“How are your feet always so cold all the time,” Moiraine grumbles without any barb to the words. She rearranges her legs slightly so that both of Siuan’s feet are nestled somewhere warmer still.

“A better question is why is it always so bloody cold in this bloody Tower when we have some of the world’s greatest channelers around?” Siuan huffs and pulls the blankets up so that both of their heads are covered, so that they’re enveloped in the growing warmth of their bodies together. “You’d think one of the Brown Sisters would’ve invented a more efficient way of heating the place by now, but no.”

It should be impossible, smiling after a day like today, but somehow Siuan can always manage to make her smile no matter the circumstance. Chuckling softly, Moiraine shuffles a bit until her head is more comfortably situated on the pillow shared between them. One of Siuan’s hands scratches idly along Moiraine’s back through her dress in a way that would normally have Moiraine arch against her like a cat. Now, Moiraine merely sighs in relief.

They’ve passed. Both of them. They’re alive, and they’ve passed, and they’re here together.

Burying her nose into the crook of Siuan’s neck, Moiraine breathes in the warmth of her skin, feeling Siuan’s arms tighten around her in turn.

For now, nothing else matters.

 --

--

END NOTES

-and in place of a dark lord you would have a QUEEN! NOT DARK BUT BEAUTIFUL AND TERRIBLE AS THE DAWN! TREACHEROUS AS THE -! ahem. sorry.

-I just think Moiraine with scars would be neat (and hot)

-yes, i gave her knife from the show a backstory. Because i can. And also because BOOK SPOILERS - lmao I just think it would be hilarious that the knife Moiraine brings back with her from her Sun Queen alternate reality is not only the same knife she uses on Rand in the season 1 finale but ALSO the same knife she uses to kill Merean at the end of New Spring. And Merean being the one to hand it back to her after the Test? Delicious. Too good an opportunity to pass up. You know i had to do it to ‘em.