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thursdayplaid · 5 years ago

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Mighty and Dreadful Chapter 2: I’m Pleased Enough to Skip the Bite

Filavandrel saw his mother and his brother slain and everything went white and howling behind his eyes. His mind felt like it was stuck in a moment like leaping off a cliff, too late to return to solid ground and nothing beneath his feet. He hovered there, in a land of confused agony accompanied only by the ragged sound of his father’s breath. After that were moments of terrible wakefulness.

He woke to his father's face. He woke to the cold and a terrible pain.

He woke to a strange black tower like a claw against the white of a snowy sky.

He woke to some raven creature bigger than a child perched on his chest, its beak dapped with his blood.

And he woke to Jaskier, his small hands already calloused and hard. Jaskier told him to fight, to survive, that he would help him. The boy’s face was small and soft and yet inside his blue eyes burned a white-hot fire of strength and determination. And because Filavandrel was weak, because he feared death, because he took harbor in the first shore that was steady and not a terrible juxtaposition of a slow death and an agonizing grief, he held on to that lifeline and doomed two souls.

He didn't remember much of what happened, his memory was hazy and disconnected. What he did remember didn't make much sense and Filavandrel had sufficient concern his answers wouldn't be answered honestly to not bother asking the other witchers in the first place. He had been in a river of... of... was it blood or something else? He couldn't move, his body wouldn't obey him, he had sunk seeing nothing but a diffuse light through red, and then there were arms around him, pulling him upward. It had hurt, everything had hurt. There were little black-eyed creatures who said things that made him scream out his pain. Through it all, through it all, there was Jaskier. A head shorter and dragging all Filavandrel's weight as he sang loud enough to drown out those horrible words that scrabbled through the air to chase after them.

And then Filavandrel woke again as something else. As monstrum. He wanted to name the miserable giant of a raven staring at him with white eyes Monstrum, but the witcher who smelled of soft fallow ground and green things - Triss - insisted he name the thing something else lest he regret it. He was wrapped in the sheets that stunk of his blood and the potions that caused his transformation, everything smelled like too much. The cold cut over the overwhelming rush against his senses, without it he was certain he would be overwhelmed entirely. The witcher carrying him smelled different, not like the meaty sweaty scent of the Dh'oine. She smelled warm and dry, not like parchment but similar to it in the feel inside his nose. He could feel how strong she was in the curl of her arm across his back and the way she carried him as though he was weightless. He could hear her slow and steady heart beside his ear.

They walked and walked until they reached the woods outside a Dh’oine town full of ugly Dh’oine architecture. Everything was brown or gray and stank. He could smell the filth of it from where they made camp. The world had become a cacophony to his senses: the indistinct sound of voices from the town, the sound of birds, the rustle of the wind. His nose was full of blood and the scent of sweat and leather, forest musk and the potions in Triss’ bag. Even things he didn’t know he could smell like the green of the grass and the softness of Zola’s hair. If he had tried to explain to himself a week ago what it was he was smelling he wouldn’t have understood and even how he wasn’t sure how to spool out his senses other than there must be other qualities to green and soft things that his nose couldn’t pick out before.

Zola laid him down on the pile of sheets he'd been wrapped in and crouched down on her heels beside him to breathe soft and deep, her raven perched at the nape of her neck with its wings drooping. "Where are we?" he asked. He didn’t want to extend enough trust to ask her, she was dh’oine, but he had been held against her for days and had long since synced his heart to hers.

"Outside of Gulet," Zola answered easy enough. "We need to rest and sleep before we go on. We've been awake for too long."

Triss set down Jaskier too far away. He squirmed out of his wrapping to catch hold of the stinking sheet they'd wrapped the boy in and drag him close, the boy’s raven hopping after it. The boy was dense for being so small, but felt light as Filavandrel tucked him in beside him. That was where Jaskier belonged, next to him, pressed close. The familiarity of Jaskier's weight, his shape and warmth, soothed something in Filavandrel that had been snarling for days. Sleek and pretty even after that long flight, Jaskier’s raven landed close to preen at the both of them. When Filavandrel’s monster landed like a boulder next to them, he pushed it away. He didn’t want it attacking that sweet bird or to get any ideas about Jaskier.

"Are we just going to sleep on the ground?" he asked, tucking Jaskier's head under his chin.

Triss laid down on the other side of them, pillowing her head with the potion bag. "We don't have any money and people are trying to kill you. We're sleeping on the ground."

The other woman, Tissaia, sat close to Zola, bundling her cloak into a long pillow. She hadn't said anything in ages, after looking over everyone she laid down and pulled Zola down next to her. Zola sighed and allowed herself to be arranged into a comfortable position. Her soft heart-shaped face looked strained, lines of weariness creating planes on her face. With a sigh, Tissaia threw an arm over the bigger witcher as if to force her to sleep by force of will.

Still, Zola's eyes stayed open, looking over them. "How are you feeling? Any pain?"

"Is there anything you could do if I was?" he asked. "You haven't done anything for Jaskier."

"We kept him from being murdered," Triss said, voice sharp, her raven cwaed in agreement from overhead.

"Triss," Zola snapped back at her.

Triss huffed and turned to face away from them.

"There are things we could try," Zola told him. "If you were hurting."

Filavandrel's hands clutched at the soft fabric of Jaskier's tunic.

"He’ll be okay,” Zola told him. “It can sometimes take up to ten days for a witcher to wake back up again. Jaskier has always had strength of spirit. If you're feeling up in the morning we should begin your training." Zola paused to consider him, he considered her back. "You're stronger than you were before. You could hurt yourself or others without meaning to do so."

"I didn't ask for this," Filavandrel told her.

"I know." She was too understanding. Her voice too kind, he was angry, he wanted to fight! To snap his teeth at her throat! He yowled, a sound that snapped out between his teeth without meaning to make the sound. She lunged at him between the opening and closing of a blink, she rumbled low in her chest, her eyes glowing the yellow of lightning.

He went still, curling his body around Jaskier.

"You're alright," she told him, pulling back again. "Just remember that you’re stronger than you were. You can hurt Jaskier without meaning to with him asleep like that. The transformation will make you feel more aggressive. It'll last a couple of days and then things will even off for you. If you start experiencing any... strange hungers, you must tell us right away. It may not feel like it, but you're one among us now. We'll do all we can to help you."

Jaskier's heartbeat was slow and even. He shivered.

"It's cold," Zola told him. "Come move closer."

He didn't want to, he didn't want any of what was happening. The weight of Jaskier in his arms worried him though, the boy wasn't responding. He was limp and weak, stiller than sleep. Filavandrel moved the two of them closer to her warmth. He was certain he wouldn't be able to sleep, but she tucked the sheet around them both and made a gesture that sunk him down into slumber.

When he slept his dreams were terrible, he yowled and thrashed against iron bands and the sky was red and gray and white and full of ravens. He was hungry. He was so hungry he screamed and he begged his mother to feed him but she just said, Ahh, ahh, ahh. He clutched at her belly and begged her. He was so hungry and he bit and he ate and ate until his body refused to take any more. He closed his eyes against where he had sunk his teeth, but he knew, he knew. He should stop, he never should have started and the sky was red and gray and white and Jaskier was there and his eyes were black and he sang I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

He woke to the sensation of a hook pulling at his ribs from the inside. He flailed on the grass, yowling like a lion cub. Jaskier was laid back beside him, Zola bent over the two of them.

“Leave them, leave them!” Tissaia snapped, voice sharp. There was a scuffle of sound and movement, the witcher women moving around their makeshift camp. The strength of Zola’s arms held him down until she could tuck he and Jaskier together like too folded hands. They were the both of them leaned against her chest. Filavandrel’s tongue roamed along his teeth. They felt sharper and caked and sticky with something.

“Did I bite someone?” he asked.

“Hush,” Zola murmured into his hair. “Hush, you’re alright. You ate when you were adjusting to your changes. You’re back now, that should be the last of it. Jaskier is fine too. I was just taking him to see if I could get a little water in him.”

“Don’t take him away,” Filavandrel said into the side of her neck. “I need him, don’t take him away.”

“We won’t,” Zola told him. “We won’t. You’re alright. It’s alright.”

He heard Tissaia murmuring to Triss as they dressed a deer for breakfast. The smell of the blood and the flesh of the deer was sweet and delicious. He didn’t know why they hadn’t just put their faces into its belly. It smelled delectable. “Something went wrong didn’t it?”

Triss’ shoulders were tense and high, she didn’t say anything. He leaned against the side of Zola’s body, hating how much comfort he found in her strength. He felt so angry. They had known what they were doing was dangerous, letting Jaskier risk his life like that. There had to be others who could have been chosen, others who were older and stronger. They hadn’t, they had gone with the easy option. They had let Jaskier go through with it.

“It’s too soon to know,” Zola whispered to him.

He looked up at her.

“It can take days for a witcher to wake sometimes,” she reminded him.

He grumbled.

She made a soft huffing sound at him, a sound like a laugh. They sat quietly watching Tissaia stab sticks through sections of venison with more force than was probably necessary. “I was the thirteenth child of a poor farmer,” she told him after a long silence. “My parents could barely afford to feed my siblings. Once I was off the teet I had to care for myself. When a witcher came to the farm to kill a forktail that had been stealing the goats the law of surprise wasn’t even evoked. My mother just handled me over. I don’t remember much, not what she wore or whether it was sunny or cloudy. I can’t even remember what the house looked like. But I remember the way she handed me over and the way she turned away.”

Her voice was soft and warm, he could feel the movement of her slow breathing through her armor.

“Triss was the law of surprise,” she told him. “So was Jaskier. Witcher Vea had him stay with his parents until he was four or five. Longer than most. I think she was holding out hope she’d find another school to take him. The process the School of the Raven uses works better on girls.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

“None of us were wanted, none of us were loved enough not to give up,” Zola said. “Not until we began our training and became something more. The promise of becoming a witcher was the promise of belonging – both with other witchers and in the world. We would become a vital piece of the world, gain a purpose. You were already wanted, already had a place to belong. We’re going to do our best to understand how you feel about what happened. Please try to understand as much as you can from our perspective.”

He didn’t particularly want to, but that was part of diplomacy. He nodded.

Zola squeezed her arms around him. “It will take a couple days, but we’ll see about getting you back home.”

Filavandrel sat up straighter. “Can’t we go any faster?” he asked. “I can wear a hood, or cover my ears some other way.”

She shook her head, mouth a tense line. “We have no money and all of us have white hair. It makes us noticeable. Witchers are hated by humans enough as it is. And Aedirn tends to attract witchers from the School of the Viper.”

“Are they our enemies?” Filavandrel asked.

“No, we’ve worked with them in the past when it was necessary, but they can be cruel and opportunistic. We’re vulnerable. It’s better not to take the risk.”

He almost snarled something at her, but then stopped by some instinct he had learned between that stone bed in the ice and this too much clearing in the forest. Zola had felt so strong carrying him, like a part of the mountains hemming in around the icy valley, but… But she was only a few years older than he was. With her cape and outer robe were set aside he could see she was barely out of adolescence, not yet an adult. The other women who were sent out to protect the two of them, they were young as well. His rage was edging toward fear. What did any of them know about surviving? How were they meant to survive? He was more grateful than ever to be brought back to Dol Blathanna.

The rest of the journey home meandered, at first so he only saw glimpses of things that were familiar, and slowly becoming increasingly certain he could go back to his bed, so back to his life, go back to his friends.

Now he was awake he was expected to walk, watching the bundle of Jaskier in Zola’s arms up ahead. While he walked Tissaia instructed him on what she said were the very basics.

“I’m going back home,” he told her.

She looked down her chin at him, the movements of her body effortless and smooth. “It won’t do you any harm to learn along the way, now focus. You see one drowner, what do you do?”

He rolled his eyes. “Look for more, they travel in groups. Stay out of the water. Use igni. Pay attention to smell, to the movement of the wind.”

“What are their immunities?” she asked. She continued on like that, lecturing him and then asking questions until his eyes crossed. At first, he grumbled, but there was nothing else to do but walk and worry. They saw the borders of Dol Blathanna on the second day, and he took off running for it, Tissaia traveling in even steps beside him.

Things are tense and strained and Filavandrel didn’t understand. He wanted to go to his rooms, to his father’s rooms, but people asked him questions until Zola had to make soft humming sounds at him to keep him from snapping at them with his teeth. There is question after question, the court physician is there. Bjorn loomed huge and brutal in the corner of his vision. He didn’t understand what was happening. This was his home. This was where he belonged. It went on long enough that Zola and Triss bundled up next to each other on a bench with Jaskier between them and slept. Filavandrel knew he was confused. He knew things were disjointed. He knew his waking and his dreaming were all muddled together into something bare-toothed and frantic as though time had become a staircase he was falling down. With Zola and Triss out of commission, Tissaia stepped forward – her face severe as an Elders, her words sterner than the strictest of her tutors. The two of them are brought before his father’s most trusted councilors and tried with an earnest ferocity not to run out of the council chamber to where Jaskier rested. The room was cold and white and gray with fine carved chairs and the smell of sweet blossoms floating through the long windows surrounded by fluted columns. Tissaia did not touch him, not even just to lean close. Her nostrils flair and her fingertips rest on the council table. Tarienne had red hair and was tall - she centuries on Tissaia, Ilariel was a good friend of Athelinuin – they would play music together often. Still, Tissaia refused to buckle – bullheaded and not giving a hands breadth of space to them

“He has changed,” Ilariel said. “He is not like us anymore.”

He felt a sort of grief and rage in his chest.

“Filavandrel is strong and brave,” Tissaia said, her back very straight and her nostrils flaring slightly as she paused to look over the two elves. “He is even stronger now he has gone through the transformation. He is an asset to his people.”

“Why should this dh’oine tell us what our people needs?” Ilariel gestured at them.

“I’m not a human,” Tissaia said. “I’m a witcher. One that is from a School that has long been allied with the elves. King Fidháil was good friends with Grand Master Borch. Our School has offered aide to your people many times. Some of you know Grand Master Borch. You know that normally witchers don’t get involved, we are impartial. We manage monsters and take our pay, but we have made ourselves your friends.”

“For some profit,” Ilariel pressed.

Filavandrel looked at Tarienne who gave him a tense smile back.

“For your own profit,” Tissaia said, sounding much older than she was. “We have saved your prince and brought him back again to you. There is no interference here. I don’t understand why there is a debate.”

Tarienne smiled a tight smile, more of a wince. “There is a concern that Filavandrel is too much changed. His behavior has been… odd.”

“You have not spent more than an hour with him,” Tissaia said, voice gone sharp.

“We have spent ten years with him before hand,” Ilariel said. “He is different. He is monstrum. He does not carry the grace of his line.”

Red started to bleed in around the corners of his vision.

“He is getting used to his new senses,” Tissaia told them, part of a lie. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to get rid of him or if she was trying to help him get back home. “He will be more himself once he has had time, surely being home will ease him back into himself.”

Tarienne tilted her head to the side, “Despite the others worries and some of my own concerning what was done to the son of a dear friend and beloved leader, Filavandrel is an elf. He is one of us and we should welcome him again back home.”

Ilariel made a snide noise, making a sharp gesture through the air that made Filavandrel tense up, his body leaning forward. “That is not an elf! That is some changeling stitched together by creatures that had the ear of our king for far too long.”

“Ilariel,” Tarienne said sharply.

“Look at him! He is not some half-elf. He is unnatural!” Ilariel snapped back.

Again, Tissaia’s nostrils flared. “Our school was founded as an attempt to prevent the end of the world. There is an ancient prophecy telling of signs before the world turns to death and ice. The prophecy of Ithlinne, a prophetess of your own people. It begins with the murder of your people at this place, the blood of the Aen Seidhe will flow here. This is not a secret, it is a threat, and one that our School has done all it can to prevent.”

Again, Ilariel made a sharp aggressive movement at him, Filavandrel followed the movement with a twitch of his head. “More likely a chance to massacre our families while we prepare for an army that won’t come. The dh’oine are satisfied as long as we stay here, they have no desire for our land.”

Blinking at the elf, Tissaia said. He had learned enough of her face to know she wished to be indecorous but contained herself, “If there’s no threat coming, who do you think will massacre your families? And why or how would three young witchers and two children massacre your whole people? You speak nonsense, I know not why when all our secret desires are to return a child to his people.” Her voice was dry and her face had turned coldly stoic, giving nothing away.

Taking a step forward, Tarienne reached out to Tissaia. “I apologize. His grief makes him a fool. He doesn’t know what he says.”

“I know precisely what I say. King Fidháil was a fool to trust you,” Ilariel snapped back. “Take that thing back with you. It should have been Athelinuin who was saved. If there had to be a loss here, perhaps it is best that it was only Fidháil to his own foolishness.”

With a yowl, Filavandrel launched himself at Ilariel. He can see in his head what he will do. He will take the creature by the hair and he will put his teeth in his neck and tear open his throat and then he will eat his heart and - His plan was cut short as Tissaia caught him out of the air as though picking an apple from a tree and slammed him down onto the ground. A sound came from his throat like a yowl or a roar or a snarl all mixed together. She pinned him with her body, made a rumbling sound against his back that made him go still and watchful under the strength of a superior predator. He scratched across white quartz of the floor unable to scratch at Tissaia and finally just snapped his teeth ineffectually at her. She rumbled again and he went still. The deep instinctive part of himself that lurked low and crouching understood by some unspoken scent or touch that Tissaia was greater to him and only sought to care for and protect him. The weight of her body brace over her back was as much to keep pain away as to keep him from foolishness.

He went still under her, rolling quiet yowling sounds around his mouth.

“Perhaps it would be wise not to taunt a child with the death of his father,” Tissaia said, her voice husky instead of smooth as it had once been.

“Ilariel,” Tarienne said. “You’ve done enough harm. Excuse yourself.”

“You saw what he’s become,” Ilariel said.

“You have shamed yourself today. Leave,” Tarienne hissed, angrier than he had ever heard her before.

The red took a long time to go from his gaze, but Tissaia didn’t falter, she held her position steady until he went still and limp. Zola would have picked him up, Triss would have spared him a look, but Tissaia just stood. He stood with her, so tired and aching inside his chest.

Tarienne was seated at the table with her face in her hands. She took in a deep breath and then let it out again. “He belongs here, of course. Just not now.”

Filavandrel slipped his fingers under the leather armor at Tissaia’s thigh. He pressed his face against her side. He felt himself begin to shake and cry.

“You can train him you said?” Tarienne said.

“Yes.” Tissaia spoke the word in an abrupt full stop. “The transformation prepares a witcher to survive hardship and monsters. The changes affect the mind as well, once Filavandrel’s body has become used to the change he will be himself again. Perhaps a new self, but himself.”

Tarienne nodded, still not looking at him. “Bring him back then. Not before.”

Tissaia let him hold onto her as she walked out of the council room into the antechamber. He used to play Aswai here when he was still young enough for it to swallow his whole attention.

“I ruined it for myself, didn’t I?” he asked her. He could here the footsteps of his people like the flapping of dove’s wings, but could not see them.

“What you did was dangerous, for yourself and the rest of us.”

He let out a wet hiss of breath.

“There are witchers of the School of the Griffin or the School of the Wolf who are taught to ignore their emotions, who have almost perfect control,” Tissaia told him. “Then there are witchers like us who feel them as though they were our ravens on our shoulders.”

“Like us?” he asked.

Her smile was tight, she reached out and pressed a hand to his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if you were provoked. You could have killed him, you wanted to tear out his throat with his teeth, didn’t you?”

He swallowed.

“You have the speed now, and the strength. And the teeth for it,” her eyes were not cruel, but they were intense, fierce. “It is your job to protect people, not slay them.”

It didn’t feel fair, but Tissaia and the others were the only ones he had to hold to. He was no one to them, but they called him one of their number.

“If you go to a village and they short you on a contract or throw stones at you and you tear out their throats, everyone turns on our School. We would pay in blood for your mistakes. And who’s fault would that be?” she asked him.

He swallowed. “Mine.”

“No,” she said, her hand tightening on his shoulder. “It would be mine for not killing you. The same as it would be the fault of the others for not putting me down. We all carry each other on our backs now. You as well.”

“I’ll train hard,” he promised her.

Her face softened. “I know you well.” Then after a pause she squeezed his shoulder again. “I should have let him feel your hot breath on his throat. He deserved to piss himself a little. Would you like me to go fetch something of your father’s? Perhaps your brother’s? Or something of your own?”

Filavandrel pressed his face back against her side. Ilariel and Tarienne hadn’t asked such a thing of him. He knew Tissaia could smell his tears, but she didn’t comment on it. “My brother commissioned a lute for me. It’s in my room.” He knew it was a nonsensical thing to want. It would be in the way and it would be of no benefit. He didn’t even know how to play it yet.

She led him through to where Zola and Triss were sleeping under the anxious eye of a couple guards. “It won’t be for long. Zola, wake up. I’m going to fetch a few things for the prince and then we will leave.”

To their surprise Jaskier popped his head up and looked around confused, his brow furrowed and his mouth pulled into a small puzzled line.

Triss jolted up, wrapping her arms tight around the witcher boy. "Jaskier! You're safe! Are you alright? How do you feel? Are you hungry"

The boy just looked more confused, with a blink of his large golden eyes he shuffled out of her arms to stand pressed against Filavandrel's side.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfic #the witcher au #filavandrel #reverse witcher #long post #4000+ words #cross posting on tumblr because I do what I want

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xray-vex · 2 years ago

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FINALLY done! - more drawings I did for "fallow land & bigger sky" by @rattlerbit; these images are for Chapter 12.

The above series was originally going to be a single drawing but became a triptych as i worked on it. So it goes!

- Procreate, 1 hr

- Procreate, 10 hrs

Read this incredible work here -

fallow land & bigger sky (68894 words) by getmean Chapters: 22/22 Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Characters: Crew of the Revenge (Our Flag Means Death) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Ideation, Self-Harm, Healing, New Beginnings, this is a story about healing and forgiveness of others and self, but it's also about grief in all its various forms, pastoral fantasies, splitting wood as therapy, welsh springtime, Reunions, Oral Sex, Frottage, and my favourite:, Erectile Dysfunction Summary: Spring is as much of a dying season than it is a living one. Ed had died in the spring. -- after season one, ed fakes his death, and ends up on a welsh island populated solely by nuns. there he makes wine and tends the old wood-fired boiler, thinks about his mother and makes friends with a teenage nun; dreams in horrific red and black. then one night a rowboat eases ashore, and his safe, drunken wheel of routine gets shattered for good.

#our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd fan art #fallow land & bigger sky #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #edward teach #stede bonnet #thin tellin shell

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naranjapetrificada · 1 year ago

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Fic recs based on what bits of s2 promotion made you go 👀

So obviously we only have a couple days left and I shouldn't have put this off for so long, but I've been making connections between fics I've encountered and questions raised by the teaser, trailer, and BTS video and thought I'd share some of them. Light (extremely light, like you've just emerged from an isolated cave light) s2 spoilers possible, although it's still mostly speculation?

Anyway this obviously got very long, so I'm throwing in a break now so I don't slow your scroll.

Maybe time in nature helps Ed do some healing?

Fallow Land & Bigger Sky, which I can't ever seem to shut up about was such a rewarding and healing read for me. Especially recommended for people who are interested in Ed's inner life, healing journey, and coping mechanisms, maladaptive or otherwise. Also folks who are excited for him to have an animal friend like Stede Bunnet, although in this fic it's a sweet little black lamb that he sometimes carries around in his shirt.

It begins with Ed having spent a year since The Dock living incognito on a remote (but not deserted!) island trying to get his head around everything that happened and looking for something like peace, however he can get it. It's written in an evocative, poetic way and includes some incredibly lovely flashbacks, believable character growth, important realizations, and tender emotional moments. The vibes are more pastoral than castaway, but Ed is still given time and space to do the work he needs to do in rugged, isolated surroundings so it still scratches that itch for me.

[There are definitely some triggers to be aware of but it feels like the author did a good job of mentioning them at the beginning of each chapter.]

Maybe they do some healing together?

There's no need to reinvent the wheel so I'm going to borrow heavily from an earlier post I made about healing and fanfic two make the case for these two:

Brace Yourself and Nestle into Me: The premise is that Ed and Stede figure out that they're into each other around episode 7, and they're deliriously happy to know that they feel the same way about each other. But Stede has some (understandable) sexual dysfunction around being queer thanks to the horrible society that he grew up in. Ed is a darling trying to help him through it all, and along the way he realizes he also has some of his own hangups he needs to work through, and that they can both support each other's healing.

I appreciate that this one doesn't treat healing like a straight line because it never is, and emphasizes that trust can't just be implicit, you really have to talk it through as a crew, even if it's just a crew of two broken middle-aged men who are desperately in love with each other. It also gets into some of the stuff I've been talking about on here about grieving your former selves and the selves you never got to be, which was validating as hell. That sounds heavy and there are concepts that are literally part of modern therapy modalities woven into the story, but there are also warm and loving and hilarious moments too, including this gem:

“Also can you just imagine how proud little horny baby gay Stede would be know you would be to know that whatever he went through, today you’ve got your own ship and are getting completely railed by Blackbeard? I mean, just absolutely dicked down by the most famous pirate in history? He would lose his mind.”

Adrift Between the Dreaming Seas: Based on my usual filtering on ao3 I probably never, ever would have come across this fic if it weren't for a recommendation someone posted here. It's got fantasy elements, allegory, metaphors stacked on metaphors, talking animals, and so many other things that would have kept me from ever discovering it on my own. My life would be poorer for it.

Basically Stede is cursed to be a lighthouse keeper on an island that seems to move around the world. Animals show up and the ones who talk to him are members of the crew, and Ed is an actual kraken. It's all this symbolism about monstrosity and trauma and maladaptive coping and the messiness that is Stede's kindness scraping against his self loathing. I shed tears of many kinds along the way, and it made me think hard about community and recovery and the things we do to and for ourselves and others.

It's just a lovely little gem of a story that made me feel so much so deeply while also making me laugh much more than I was anticipating. I'm so glad I gave it a chance.

Maybe there's a massive, life-altering storm?

A World of Tempestuous Things, which is nearly finished and has been such a rewarding, moving journey to follow as it explores another take on their reunion story. There's the expected angst and misunderstandings, but also wit and warmth and longing and rage and these casually devastating historical asides, some of which still haunt me out of the blue because of the staggering and inescapable nature of the passage of time. Speaking of passages and being haunted, dig if you will, this picture:

so little time to dwell amongst strangers as a citizen of the world will never, ever stop reverberating in my head like a cymbal crash and I guess that's just something I live with now. @lostakasha, you've given me the existentially beautiful prose version of tinnitus.

Maybe Stede's slut party era is finally upon us?

If so, good for him, he deserves it so much.

When the Light Shines In is a missing scene/lightly canon-divergent take on s1e06, if you just like the idea of meeting a jolly version of Drunk Stede (vs that "unhand me or bleed" guy, who is hot in his own way or course but can't beat messy earnest bossy Stede in my opinion). It's set immediately after the fight with Izzy. Ed is patching him up and trying not to vibrate out of his own skin, while Stede is affectionate and chatty and besotted whether he knows it or not, and steadily working his way through a bottle of rum for the pain. So not really related to season 2, but it will still scratch that same itch and make you smile real big.

Well, I Ain't Tactful is actually set during season 2, inspired by the moment in the BTS video where Ed sees Stede getting drunk with his new leather buddies. If you asked yourself what might happen if Ed felt compelled to keep an eye on Sloppy Stede and tuck him in with a glass of water, then this one will be fun. Ed is caring and lovely about it all even while still being a bit mad at him for everything, and Stede is a mess but so sweet and still so, so in love.

Maybe we'll get to see young Ed on Hornigold's ship?

There's no evidence of that so far beyond the whole ghost of Hornigold thing, but it certainly would be a treat. But even if it doesn't, if the idea of more young Ed appeals I cannot possibly recommend the pre-canon Never Shall We Die enough.

Now there's no getting around two crucial things that may be dealbreakers for some people: first, it's long. It's very, very long. Second: it's a WIP. Only one of two I've allowed myself to follow in this fandom so I don't get overwhelmed or bogged down. But!

The writing is so impeccable that it stands head and shoulders above almost everything I've ever read on ao3 and honestly above a lot of commercially published original fiction I've encountered in the same span of time since I've started it. The settings are deliciously (and sometimes, due to the realities of life on a pirate ship, disgustingly) immersive, the action scenes are perfectly paced, and the emotional beats, when they hit, hit hard and ring true and stay with you.

Starting at at age 13, young Ed's growth and development over time is equal parts rewarding and harrowing. Threads are pulled together from canon and from earlier parts of the story to coalesce into a portrait of a living, breathing version of our favorite guy trying to find his place in the world, stumbling along the way, and eventually realizing that if he wants a place he'll have to make it himself. The secondary characters leap off the proverbial page too, and the connections he does or doesn't form with them have interesting, believable fallout for everyone involved.

I mentioned action scenes earlier, but I want to circle back around to them again because NSWD takes Izzy's season 1 comment about Blackbeard being the greatest sailor he's ever known and says the same with its whole chest. I know I'm not alone in hoping to see Incredible Sailor Ed in season 2, but in the mean time this is more than scratching that itch for me. We see Ed set foot on his first ship with no skills beyond attracting (mostly) unwelcome attention and observational skills that become the foundation of his later abilities with the sea and with the art of fuckery. From the outside he looks like a savant but on the inside he builds his skills slowly over time, delighting in learning new things and seeing a plan come together. But best of all, he delights in the skills of others, eagerly learns from them when he can, happily teaches what he can to the few people he trusts, and takes pleasure and pride in their own success.

I could literally keep talking about this fic until the next chapter gets posted, but the good news is that happens regularly! I know it can be tough to trust a WIP but I for one am so thankful for the moment of poor impulse control that led to me starting this one. New chapters come roughly every two weeks, and looking at @tresdem's output elsewhere helps me feel secure that we'll actually get to the end.

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naranjapetrificada · 9 months ago

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If this idea appeals to you (especially the part about Ed healing through taking care of sheep) you should really, really go read fallow land & bigger sky like, yesterday. It's pastoral as fuck, beautifully written, healing to read, and Ed spends a lot of it walking around with a little lamb tucked in his shirt!

❌ innkeepers

✅ shepherds

AU post-season 2 where Ed and stede become sheep dads. More thoughts about the idea under the cut from the group chat 💕

#fic recs #edward teach #ofmd #our flag means death #art #comic #fanart

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frostbittenstar · 5 years ago

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Dreams 6/5/10

This Is My Garden

I couldn't remember dying, and all in knew was that I must have. I woke up in a large red cloud that expanded high up into the sky; nothing but red everywhere. all the angels were wearing black uniforms: no wings at all. I tried asking them where I was but they were to good for me and kept talking amongst themselves. I started to fallow the path i could barely see though the clouds. There was a few trees which appeared reddish in the fog. The path started going up a hill and I saw an other path going up in a zigzag. I didn't want to go up the hill until I leaned about this place. I went into a room with a window on the edge of a cliff There was a large woman who looked human. She asked me why she always got the feeling of regret when she tried to walk the short way up the mountain. I was starting to think i really was dead. I was thinking maybe god was up there and didn't want people to see him, or he didn't want people to be lazy on the climb. I told her I'm new here and don't know what's going on.

One of the angels came in the room and I asked him to send me back so i could watch my child grow up. He told me that was what the sun was there for. I looked out the window into the sun and i saw her reflection on the sun. I focused in and got a clear view but it wasn't clear enough. I reached into the sun and pulled out a picture of her, but i noticed it was thicker then it should be. I opened up the frame and many pictures spilled out. In each picture she was bigger and bigger and the last one she was 7 with long curly hair, sitting on Red Bird's shoulder. He had lost a lot of weight and I cried so hard. The few moments I had been in heaven had been years on earth. I turned the picture over and started to write a note to my daughter on the back to let her know i still loved her. The angel said "I wouldn't do that if I were you." I shrugged him of and put the picture back in the sun, and started to look in it for my mom.

I got pushed out the window into the cliff, which was still full of red fog but with jagged red rocks. I saw a giant wolf skeleton coming towards me. It looked angry as if I was in his territory, but I reached out and started to pet his head and behind where the ear would be and he calmed down quickly, but not for long. I started growling at him and my hackles were raised. In my mind i could hear my growls meaning "My land! This is my garden!" Apparently I was threatening to him and he backed away then ran off.

Lucidity: None

Interpretation: I feared that I would not see my daughter grow up.

Mythology: This is how I claimed the canyon of the river styx and became the alfa-beast of hell.

Prediction: I lost my daughter in a case with DCS.

Click here to view this dream on DreamJournal.net

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tokensfortalkers · 5 years ago

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d100 ONLY IN THE WOOD

From pulsing spiral shells

of perfect, woven red scales

our tribe extracts rich music

to sweat the land in dance

til vice weft seed in set.

The flowers of lava trees open like shattered glass spilling liquids of molten pollen

A single bud rests in a fallow field, shimmering a sign planted next to it reads "Needs blood"

For each fallen limb stepped upon, a tree breaks into splinters; limbs crack at the slightest touch.

Swamps travel swiftly and quickly. The same swamp can be seen many days from many mountains

Rock splits in a cacophonous crack, oozing red and blue liquid, when hardened go back in time.

A craft falls from the sky, blazing with heat and, eventually, berths opportunity

As it's marked, tree hisses -- a faint whistle (Return in 2d10 days to a deflated tree -- and a sapling).

Winds braid walkable paths of leaves in the air. Only as the wind dies, do the leaves fall away

Moles' noses are carved into stones, creating a fern gully of sniffing sculptures

Floating woven metal drip beeswax around a wick of living hemp positioned below an exposed bladder.

Pits in the skin caused by biting insects deepen into darkening and widening maws until the next day.

Boats along the lake shore are all shells for crab-like crustaceans

Footsteps are Taken away -- stored in vials to be poured out for later use.

Illusion barrier of ancients' lost city is on the fritz; such sensually polluting defenses nauseate.

Writing in the fog lights up where fireflies flutter from one location to the next

Oars cause lake water to be shoveled rather than pushed. Water sticks to implements, weighing them

Spiders in the forest have been cursed with human customs. Like to picnic and play volleyball.

Water shrine of exotic wood caused a lake to explode and freeze at the same time, resulting in ice caves.

Single bed and breakfast hosted by a ghost. Good meals, fascinating guest log, excellent books.

Drunk frogs defend an artisan well of wine fed by a massive pitcher plant suffering from allergies

Lamppost mill, owners tend to the lampposts, growing them from single crystals in careful vats.

Servile-yet-serpentile signs read what actions PCs took last, in an attempt to annoy them away

Flash flood is an illusion (unfortunate actions of panicking characters are not.)

Gruesome sculptures with pivots stand before picketed signs reading Tip Me.

Piles of leaves dart about wildly, clamboring in a cacophonous emsemble, deafening all other sound

Wellsprings of gasses hiss in notes. Covering them plays a flute-like melody, enchanting victims

Chasm blows anything blown into it back out and 10x smaller; thrown in again, reverts to normal.

Snails with numbers on shells litter the forest floor and trees. Snails are purple with black spots

Wisps travel from tree to tree like high traffic. Sign posted says Experimental Area: Keep Out

All equipment hums and wilts when held by an owner who isn't at least humming if not singing

Cairns of stacked pumice float from one spot to the next, rearrange their stacks, and continue

Odorous flowers create paths. Follow the fresh bread odor? Or the smoked meat one? Or some other?

Seeds in the shape of fetuses wriggle in warm areas, like in sunlight or the palms of ungloved hands

Pool of glass hatches and walls of plasmatic liquids make a maze of this deathly-still lake

Boxes of quartz contain tiny plants growing tinier morsels. Opening a box usually kills the plant.

Sky flickers between day and night as though it can't remember what time it's supposed to be

Cat rests atop a floating, bloated carcass, pounces upon a mouse, and returns to the carcass to dine.

Fruit dries quickly when plucked, its wrinkles taking on the face of the one who plucked it

Every tree has a name carved into it. A fallen tree's root ball harbors an unearthed prisoner

Boulders crack, revealing stone chicks. it would seem this particular part of the forest is a nest.

Silent beast work tirelessly at weaving spider webs into cocoons for sick caterpillars

Driftwood in the lake each have a hand in their centers bobbing in and out of view

Field of view shifts in parallax, at 5 frames per second. Woodland beasts appear and disappear wildly.

Whispers from holes dug in the ground reveal the names and notable deeds of those buried here

Fire blooms from grasses bent too quickly, their blades passing one another produce the spark.

A thick, sweet pollen clouds vision and clog up uncovered airways, causing light asphyxia

Baubles or trinkets are grown into tree bark, assumedly pulled up by the capillaries by mistake

Breezes fill in pockets of thick air, erupting when touched, causing a furious blowback

Expansive circles or carefully cut and laid stone course a map to old civilizations

Animal path cuts through a canopy of ever-shrinking oaks. Leaves of the oaks drip a shrinking tonic.

At night, animal sounds are mistaken for mad ramblings, philosophical musings, and arguments

Tapestry of quilted hemp died with shells and treated with aromatic oils blanket the area

Cylinders of colossal, rusting, fallen chimes chamber the only accessible paths through the forest

Pustules on the hillside reveal the mad workings of a unindustrialized colony deep below

Flute sounds emanate from cracks in the stone cliff and stop when the cliff is touched.

Sticks crossing one another reveal the true forest floor -- a barren desert.

Howls and screeches leave the players mouths, their hollow words swallowed up by something high above

Animals will only eat from the hand. Beg players to feed them. Starvation abounds.

Blossoms of a tree paint pictures in the sky as they fall. If shaken, produces a vision of the future

Salt deposits litter the forest floor from red trees puking fresh water over themselves.

Tree roots reach out of the riverbed. Stepping into the river inverts the forest's orientation.

Eels swim through the air, casting crude shadows in the shape of animals once presiding here

Croaking of ghostly frogs echo through the forest. Bumping into one causes it to spew fiery vomit.

Red dust litters the forest floor. When exposed to rain, turns into rivulets of blood.

Tress drink so much light, they are too black to see. Useful light is only produce pointing downward

Bushes restructure the limbs sporadically, limbs fighting over sunlight

Herd beasts chew vegetation growing on their backs, reluctantly move only when aggressively persuaded

Ghosts of a pilgrimage performed time and time again fill the ancient steps of this mountainside

Owls with heads turned in the direction of safety become parts of trees when viewed up close

Distending mosses sprinkle spores onto coats and cloaks, turning fabric slowly to more moss.

Dollops of cream leak from fleshy termite mounds. Animals congregate around, lapping the cream

In a stony nook rests a single hut. In the hut rests a single book, in the book, a single word: Run.

Snot eventually pours from trees periodically sniffling and obviously allergic to visitors

Groups of birds vanish from the sky. Reappear again and vanish again in the same spots.

Magenta plants leave the forest floor a royal, mossy color. Sleeping here feels deep. Forever, even.

Every strike makes a weapon sharper, a bow tighter and a blade swifter until, of course, they shatter.

Trees all appear as doors and are, in fact, door trees. Should probably knock before harvesting.

Animals incessantly beg to be ridden and then race at top speeds until players fail Ride checks.

Wood is lopsided. Limbs slowly move between trees to grasp at the light, feverishly and frightened.

Fetid bog's algae moves like lips, spewing low hums, sharing secrets of the wood's history

Jewelry in scattered piles brighten vision when worn and turn to bloody briars once leaving the area

Short afternoon showers morph brambles into herds, twigs into serpents, and rocks into turtles.

Furs nailed upside down to trees speak quickly hushed warnings of what lies ahead

Single silken bamboo drips milky sap from a cut, trapping all who enter until the cut is mended

Animals stop what they are doing to stare at visitors, moving closer and drop dead when touched

Single-occupancy thatched shelters litter the wood where a single well-dressed skeleton lies face up.

Leaf-vested and well-spoken asks to join visitors. Becomes a dagger in an inventory outside the area

Abandoned wine cave leads down, into a burial tomb filled with statues in the likeness of players

Thrown rocks never hit the ground, loop back around behind players in d10 hours.

All wine taken into the wood is greedily hunted by ever-agitated vines eventually hissing, barking.

Well-kept signs argue in text about which way to go and must be separated before being of any use

Shanty ranch house bigger on the inside is home to giant talking bats drinking blood from pet rats.

Fruit launches from trees instead of falling, is picked off by swift birds with sword-like beaks.

Village performs odd festive rituals to entice visitors to move in; keeps a log of failed rituals.

Meticulously decorated massive nut shells are filled with villager bodies (filled with exotic seeds)

Farmers moving a waterwheel state their river's reversed direction just as the river reverts again.

Baby birds fall from nests left and right, crying for help, they beg, plead. Where are their mothers?

Sign reads Wondrous Shop Right At the Boulder. There is no boulder. There is no shop.

Elk sheds, disembodied, crack and strike one another. Best not get between them.

Rivers of trailers filled with kids teaching kids how to manipulate space without time.

d100 Only in the Wood by shwac

#d100 #list #forest #weird

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alittlestarling · 6 years ago

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Welcome Home, Good Hunter

It’s the Avvar AU no one asked for and the thing I’ve been yelling at @rhetoricalrogue about for months now, honestly. Currently I have a few parts planned and more to come. Featuring Vincent Trevelyan and Rosalind in a “what if Vincent were Avvar and Roz were inquisitor?” AU.

Part 1: Fallow Mire

“Herald, watch your step,” Cassandra held a hand out as Roz’s foot slipped into the muck for what felt like the millionth time. It was hard to see the pathway through the swamp; not for the first time, Rosalind Marlowe wondered exactly who would settle down in the Fallow Mire. Rain had assaulted them with an annoying consistency since they had made camp along the borders, there was more water than land anywhere she stepped and, of course, the residue from a plague as well as the dead rising gave this place little charm.

“Thank you,” Roz shot a quick, grateful smile as she shook the peat and mud from her boots. Armor felt strange to her despite having been decked and dressed in it since waking in the dungeon in Haven. The last few months had rushed past in a blur of faces, battles and all eyes upon her as she made choices that she never wanted to be part of.

True, she had participated in rebellion (Leliana and Josephine had gently asked her not to disclose that piece of information to anyone looking to join their ranks), but even with the unsteady legs the rebel mages had stood upon, they at least were fighting for freedom. Yes, saving the world was important too, but Roz only felt shackled again, caught in a web that she knew she might never escape so long as the mark remained on her hand.

It crackled and sparked to life in the dim mist, the sickening green tingle running up her fingertips. Strange magic and an even stranger lapse in her own memory left her searching, seeking answers that always seemed just out of reach. Not to mention the looks people gave her. Some were caught in reverence, bowing and scraping and called her Chosen by the Bride of the Maker; others watched with wariness, tense and uncertain, as if she might spring forth a demon in disguise.

Perhaps it was better they remembered she was a mage and that she should be feared. In the end, though, it left her feeling more lonely than satisfied.

Cassandra had never swayed after their first attempt against the Breach, steadfast and faithful beyond words. Not many others had looked upon her the same way. Varric had this way of watching from the corner of his eye, as if mentally taking notes, sometimes narrating under his breath, but never getting too close to her. Blackwall was polite and uncertain, strong on the field but the wandering Warden hadn’t opened up much since joining their party.

“You really do take us to the nicest swamps, Rosebud,” Varric quipped from behind, “though I don’t think I care so much for the undead.”

“Perhaps you’ll have to write a strongly worded letter to the bog,” Roz snorted, shooting the dwarf a small smile. “Find some good words to use to describe this place. Damp, squelching, muddy-”

“An ever-constant fear of stepping in water and summoning the dead?” Varric added. Roz brushed back a small piece of damp hair off her face with a shake of her head, pausing only a moment to keep an eye on the shore nearby.

“Whatever magic’s afoot here, it’s not good.” Was it the rifts? Or perhaps someone else had harnessed something deeper and darker to bend and twist to their own will? The beacons in the bog didn’t give her a good feeling either way, not when she sensed it wasn’t the only one.

The world was filled with more magic, wonder and dread than Roz could have ever possibly imagined. Had she been told only a year ago that this would be her life, she would have laughed. But now stepping through dangerous territory, fighting off bandits and undead alike had become normal, along with the magic that swirled and surrounded her.

“Another broken home,” Blackwall tilted his head towards yet another run-down building in the distance. “Poor sods. I’ve seen plague, it’s not pretty.” Roz could believe it, wrinkling her nose against the putrid scent of death and decay that permeated the air around them.

Her own mind wandered to charred bodies, those broken by the fires set in the Circle and the people she had lost when they ran for freedom. How many bodies made anything she did worth it? How many deaths could be justified for the cause of seeking a life free from the Chantry and the Templars?

Shaking herself from a familiar spiral, Roz wiped rain from her face and kept them moving forward.

Magic was calling to her, a shift in the air drawing her closer to it. The mark offered an unfamiliar tang in her mouth, a strangeness that felt so unlike her own power that she’d nurtured and lived with almost her entire life. That was a force she knew well, a vast warmth that glowed and smoked like embers in her chest. The magic she could taste felt like the mark and she knew before they’d reached the strange green glow that there was another rift.

“Well,” Varric frowned at the stitch that glimmered green against the sky, cursing under his breath a moment. “Looks like the one in the valley, doesn’t it?”

“Not fully closed,” Roz sighed from the ruins of the house they’d paused in, eying the improperly sealed rift with irritation. Her hand sizzled at the thought of opening it, the magic already tugging to the stitch, the mark given a mind of its own when they got close to these when they were in the field. “Come on, let’s see what we can do.”

“Wait-” Cassandra had an arm flung out before Roz could move further ahead, running straight into Cassandra’s armored arm before slowing down. A gesture and Roz turned her attention to the shadows. Solid, strong and far bigger than she was, the stranger made no move forward to attack when Roz became visible.

“Is he friendly?” Varric intoned under his breath, the question they were all asking. It was hard to tell friend from foe in the wilderness sometimes, especially when they had yet to run into the Avvar who had apparently caused all this trouble and fuss.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? We need to close this. Properly.” Magic surged in her fingertips, wild and free as she stepped forward, lifting her hand to rip apart the veil. It struggled against her attempts, harder to control and contain, but she grit her teeth and let out a snarl as the world exploded in a green haze and demons burst into the world.

Roz held her staff, magic channeled within it, focusing the raw energy that raged within her. She was a wildfire, a clean burn that surged forth with spells and stabs of burning, bright energy. Fighting had never come easily to her; she had focused her own skills into herbalism and learning how to hone healing as an art. It helped in hiding evidence of her darker dealings, developing poultices to keep scars closed and healing. She wasn’t graceful in a fight nor did she have the brute strength that came with a warrior’s body.

Cassandra and Blackwall could dive into a fight, clashing metal and steel against their enemies, drawing forces to them to slash and hack away with brutal precision. Varric picked off stragglers, keeping them from getting too close, his line of sight always seemingly clear, despite his height. Despite only being grouped together for a few months, they worked rather well as a team. Roz alternated between savage bursts of flame and cool, shimmering barriers to protect as the dead rose from the peat bog around them.

All it took was a moment when her attention turned away, focused on setting a mine below the feet of a corpse near Varric, that she nearly missed another one ambling towards her; first slow, then fast, tripping over it’s feet momentarily in anticipation of slicing into her. There was a brief should from Cassandra, but before Roz could turn to face the creature, an axe sailed just past her, landing with a dull thud against the head of the creature.

There was no time for her to do more than react, instinct shooting flames into the mist at the sudden arrival of, what? Friend? Foe? Neither?

“Hold, I come in peace!” The fire bounced off a barrier, the figure light up a moment as all the breath left Roz’s lungs. Dark hair clung to his face, a smattering of scars along his face and one hand up, the other clutching the twin axe close to him. Another flash of green light and she noted, without looking too closely, that he was undoubtedly Avvar.

Roz swore internally. Of course, two would appear when they were in the middle of battling a rift.

“More demons!” Cassandra bellowed and Roz shifted her attention quickly from and then back to the stranger.

“If you intend to stay, then help fight them with us.” Roz called out, muttering a prayer under her breath. A glance to her side and she couldn’t help her eyes widening as lightning and blue energy surged along the axes in his hands.

“Hakkon guide your blade, Herald.” And the fight was on.

“Be careful, Rosalind,” Cassandra was eyeing their new friend with caution and wariness. Roz couldn’t blame her, not when he had arrived at just the right moment and found himself among those his people were trying to fight.

“Not my people,” Vincent clarified when the rift was closed and all eyes fell upon him. “I’m not of that clan, lowlander.” He was a little gruff, despite his earnestness to help, watching them all with a relaxed gait that still held coiled concern in each step. He may have helped, but he didn’t trust the companions he’d found himself amongst.

That is, everyone but Roz.

There was...something there. A tug not unlike what Roz felt when she grew close to rifts. It didn’t feel quite so severe or strange. As though there was a force calling to her, drawing her in when she got close. Intoxicating and strange and filling her with a sense of calm that she hadn’t felt since she left the Circle.

“I don’t bite, Lass.” Vincent hadn’t even looked up from the fire he was tending to, blowing across embers before the steady flow of magic turned them into bright, glowing flames. The warmth felt good; she had used magic on her clothes and the others earlier, drying the dampness from her armor

Rain continued to fall outside, puddles forming at the cave entrance and mist rolling inside. Roz couldn’t help herself – she was desperately curious, a million questions already forming in her head. “Yes,” she huffed softly, shifting from foot to foot, as though uncertain. Sit? Stand? But a glance from him followed and his gaze was warm, open and she could see the same curiosity echoed back at her.

“So,” Roz began, sitting down on a nearby log, rubbing her hands together before the fire. “If you’re not with the Avvar here, where are you from?”

“My clan is from Stone-Bear Hold,” Vincent answered, lifting his gaze from the fire to meet hers across from him. “My home is in the basin, along the mountains to the northwest.”

“You’re a ways from home,” Roz noted, “why are you here?” She paused, adding quickly, “I mean, I know why you’re here-here, but why are you in the swamp?” No one, certainly not anyone in her group, would have come here willingly. Not with the rain, the undead and the threat of strange beacons in the dark.

Vincent tilted his head to the side and for a moment it felt like his gaze was boring straight through her. As though he could truly see her, Rosalind, not the Herald of Andraste. Her cheeks flushed and her heart thumped in her chest but she didn’t drop her gaze, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Here, among the undead and the peat, this man sat before her and it felt like nothing else seemed to matter in that moment.

Maker, what a lovely man he is.

“I was looking for you.” Her heart hammered with an odd uncertainty at the intimacy in his words. Cassandra’s warning to be careful echoed though as Roz swallowed hard.

“Me?!” But her alarm was short-lived, realizing a half-second after she’d spoken that he obviously hadn’t been looking for her; rather, he had been seeking the mark and the woman behind it. Her silly fantasies that had cropped up effortlessly were wiped from her brain, flushed now more out of embarrassment than pleasure.

Silly, foolish, of course he seeks the mark, not you, you dolt.

Shifting along the log, gaining her composure again, she stared at the fire to collect herself, adding her own magic into the mix.

“Herald of Andraste, you have made quite the commotion in the world.” If he had noticed her strange shift, he said nothing of it. “I almost wouldn’t believe it unless I’d seen it with my own eyes,” and his tone dipped, low and soft, “but you can heal the sky. How does that work?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Roz murmured with a small sigh. That was the mystery of it all: more than just how she had gotten the mark, but the why continued to plague her.

As if it knew they were speaking about it, the mark sizzled in a sharp contrast of green against the warm firelight. Roz gave a soft hiss, a frown creasing her brow as she fought off the sudden wince that followed. Instead, she clenched her hand into a fist, all but willing to light to stop. It does with an abruptness as Roz adjusts her gaze back to the lowlight around them.

Vincent watched her, curious and almost concerned by the looks of it. “Does it hurt?” He asked gently. Roz shrugged in an attempt to look nonchalant.

“Sometimes. It’s more of a sting these days, annoying but not terribly painful.”

Roz rarely talked about how the mark was affecting her and very few people asked. Josephine had often shown concern and sympathy when they were together in Haven but everyone else seemed to comment in passing and were far more intrigued in how it worked and how useful it would be to them and the world around her, not for her, the person. The shift in tone and the soft gaze across the fire felt odd to her as she busied herself with the folds of her shirt, gently warming the fabric to continue to keep herself dry.

As if sensing the discomfort, Vincent didn’t seek to fill the silence or push the subject. Roz was grateful for that as she glanced back up to him, watching him shift before the fire. It was only through subtly watching a moment that she caught the half-wince, the little grimace when he moved.

“Are you hurt?”

Vincent, for all intents and purposes, tried to wave it off without fussing. “Just a few scratches, nothing serious. I’ve lived through worse.”

Roz scooted over towards him, a frown on her face as she reached out. Gently, gravely, she asked, “May I? I can help.” There was a moment, a longer pause before Vincent gave a sharp nod.

Despite her training, healing had never come quite as easily. Yes, she could find ways to use blood and make it work in her favor, but the healing arts were stiff even after practicing for the last few weeks on the road. The magic within her stuttered awkwardly a moment as her hands reached out, resting along his clothed chest. He took in a sharp breath, eyes wide and apologies fell from her lips.

“Sorry, sorry, I know, healing isn’t my strength but I’m getting better at it.” Letting the cool, blue magic wash over Vincent, Roz tried not to linger in silence long. “Give me an herb garden and I can create a poultice for almost anything. Or tea, I can do tea, too,” She gave a nervous little laugh, pulling her hands away when she was finished. “This is just a necessity of traveling, I suppose. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Vincent murmured, looking oddly winded, eyes fixed still so intently on her. The crackle of the fire was the only noise between them for a long moment as Roz shifted away again, aware how close she had gotten to him.

“So,” She tucked a leg beneath her, adjusting to sit as comfortably with a little distance between them, “you’re a mage? I saw what you did, with the lightning and your axes.” He nodded and Roz continued, asking the questions that burned from within. “But you use martial weapons as a focus? How did you learn to control it?”

Her teaching had always told her a mage outside the circle as dangerous, an apostate without any clear control or careful watch on their powers that could leave them open to hurting themselves or others. And the fear of possession and abominations had often been spread as a tale of caution for all who lived within the circle walls. Yet she had watched him during the fight, impressed with the strange mix of physical combat strength that blended with magic that crackled and fizzed in the air around them. There had been control and power without either outweighing the other and that had surprised her more than anything.

“A spirit of Patience taught me to use this gift.”

Her shocked silence followed this statement and he glanced at her with genuine confusion. “What? Is that not how you lowlanders do it?”

“Hardly,” Roz gave an incredulous laugh, half-curious, half-hysterical at the notion that anyone would willingly taken on possession when they were taught from an early age just what a demon might do. “You’re talking about being possessed. That’s a dangerous thing to us.”

Yet you have offered the same. Hypocrite.

The voice at the back of her mind was bitter and judging and she ran her hands along her arms where she knew scars remained from the rebellion. It was the only way to stay safe, she reminded herself, the only way she could ensure they made it to the conclave alive. Regardless of what had happened, she had done what she needed to survive. No one knew this, but Roz wasn’t going to divulge anything to her companions, not even this strange and handsome Avvar.

“Mages are a conduit to the gods, Lass,” Vincent interrupted her thoughts, leaning forward, “it’s a sacred duty we perform when we use our gifts. Spirits help us learn to channel that.”

“Don’t let anyone from the Chantry hear you saying that. Or a Circle mage, for that matter.” Roz shook her head, her magic flittering to stoke the fire once again. “I didn’t learn how to use my magic from spirits, that’s for certain.”

“How old were you when you began to learn with your gift?” Vincent asked and Roz realized he meant that genuinely. Magic to him was a gift, something that hadn’t been tucked away in a tower for years at a time and feared. It was simple and extraordinary and a lump rose in her throat fast. She swallowed against the sudden emotion, dropping her gaze away, afraid she might cry if she thought about living that life too hard.

“I was six when I came into my abilities. I accidentally lit my older brother’s eyebrows on fire.” That had been a sight - Matthew with no eyebrows, smoke floating in the air and the pair of them caught between amazement and, after a moment, horror at what had happened. “He was fine but my mother and father were swift to do what we necessary.”

“Necessary?”

Roz nodded. “Within a week, I was packed and off to Ostwick Circle with Templars to accompany me.” Her memories from home often felt fuzzy, a piece of a life she couldn’t quite grasp. Now and then she missed it, the sensation of home but that had faded with time when her family had ceased communications with the Circle. “I miss Matthew the most. I hope his eyebrows grew back in properly.” The comment was light but her heart did have a certain ache when she tried to picture her big brother, uncertain these days if they shared the same eye color or whether their laugh sounded the same.

“You didn’t stay with your family? Why?” Vincent looked horrified when she glanced up again, his own brow creased deeply with a glower of someone who hadn’t grown up in her world. “You were a child, you shouldn’t have been taken from them.”

“Magic exists to serve man,” Roz recited by heart, “never to rule over him.” When he looked even more bewildered, she went on. “Mages are inherently dangerous with magic and must be watched. Whether you believe it or not doesn’t really matter; we have been taught we need to stay locked away for the safety of ourselves and others.”

“That’s backwards thinking,” Vincent voiced and Roz couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. Bitterness prevailed in her tone though as she stared at the fire again.

“Perhaps, but like I said, it doesn’t matter.” The fire had begun in Kirkwall and now it spread across Thedas with a force that almost gave Roz hope for true, real change for all of them. Alderis had given her hope for such a thing; he paid for it, but that flame still burned brightly within her chest.

“Change had to come with a battering ram and we’re still picking up the pieces.” Uncertainty still remained and Roz could feel it whenever they’ve visited with folks across the map. “I hope to build something better than before with those pieces. Not everything was broken, but enough of it needs to be destroyed completely.”

“A lofty goal,” Vincent murmured with a little nod of his head. Roz shook her head, closing her eyes with a small yawn.

“Yes, and one I doubt will come easily.”

“Then I pray the Lady will guide you to your goal.” Genuine was a hard thing to find these days, especially among those who tried to wriggle their way closer to Roz. But that’s exactly what she saw when she gazed over at Vincent. Her heart thumped again in her chest when he smiled at her and she prayed to Andraste Herself that he didn’t notice the flush that reappeared along her neck.

“Well, first I need to rescue my soldiers.” It was better to change topics, she thought, careful not to lean in too closely as she added, “What can you tell me about the castle in the swamp?” It wouldn’t hurt, she told herself, to enjoy being around him for a moment. Even if he were to leave them in the morning, his help had been a necessity. It didn’t hurt either that his smile gave Roz butterflies.

It’s a harmless daydream. I doubt I’ll see him again after this.

#dragon age: inquisition #dragon age fanfic #fanfiction #da fanfic #my writing #rosalind trevelyan #vincent trevelyan #verse: welcome home good hunter #oh god this is the first thing i've written in ages #dragon age au #there will be more parts eventually

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naranjapetrificada · 1 year ago

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I gotta say part of the Gentlebeard love story working for me in further canon is that Ed’s healing NOT be exclusively centered on his relationship with Stede. I’m just more invested in stories where Ed steps outside of himself with self-determination and the support of a community rather than the doting attention of a romantic partner.

This part right here is part of the reason I loved Fallow Land & Bigger Sky so much, and why I found it so healing to read! Incredible character building and poetic writing aside, Ed gets to do so much work on himself, for himself, and by himself. You can see as things unfold how crucial that is for him and the future sustainability of his relationships and how much better off both he and Stede will be once they've both reckoned with themselves.

I also love how well it shows that healing isn't a straight line. Coping mechanisms are developed because we have to cope to survive, and sometimes even the maladaptive ones are useful for keeping us alive long enough to be ready to heal someday. So yeah in the fic he has some maladaptive ones but he also has some that are inarguably healthy, and not only do the two coexist here but they have to coexist as they pass each other by on your healing journey. That's so powerful to see portrayed so well, and adds a kind of verisimilitude to the story that puts it head and shoulders above so many other reunion fics. I promise I will shut up about it someday but that day is not today.

I don't believe the issue people have with the idea of Izzy being Ed's abuser is because fans are unwilling to view Ed as a victim of abuse or Izzy as capable of being an abuser. I feel like it's a more simple answer of "people don't agree with that interpretation because there isn't enough to substantiate it."

With Izzy and Ed, it's important to understand the difference between conflict and abuse. (I'd highly recommend "Conflict is Not Abuse" by Sarah Schulman!) A lot of the time in highly volatile relationships, we're quick to assign abuse to them and to figure out which person is the perpetrator and who's the victim, but often times they're just conflicted. This is why you'll often hear Izzy stans describing their relationship as mutually toxic, not mutually abusive (which isn't real)

The simplest definition is determining whether the relationship is based in Power Struggle or Power Over. Abuse isn't based off of individual actions, but an exertion of power. Both Izzy and Ed commit acts as part of a power struggle towards each other, with Izzy's antagonism of Stede and utilization of the navy, and Ed's manipulation and physical violence of punching, choking, and mutilating. (Yes, physical violence is an expression of power!) There's a back and forth here with both having moments of forcing the other to stay, and neither of them being the picture of a healthy relationship. With them, there's also the added element of Izzy's privilege as a white man versus Ed's position as Izzy's boss which are both significant power imbalances that factor into each other's toxicity.

The important part is that Ed's feeling negatively towards Izzy doesn't equate to being an abuser. Izzy vaguely threatens Ed ("Edward better watch his fucking step") but this is also within a context where Ed just choked him. Izzy had called the navy before, yeah, but that option isn't available for him anymore, and Ed still has an advantage of being the only thing keeping the crew from throwing Izzy overboard with an anchor anklet. Arguably, Ed holds more power over Izzy in this specific instance. Rationally, there isn't an immediate threat here, but Ed still responds as if there is.

Ignoring all that, the main part of this is that Ed's Kraken response is indicative of the other person being an abuser. "If someone reminds Ed of his past abuse that much then it must mean that they're in the wrong!" But that's not how that works. Take this passage from Conflict is Not Abuse as an example:

This is also not how Trauma™️ responses functions. Ed, incontestably I hope, has some form of PTSD/c-PTSD. The very defining aspect of PTSD is that a person experiences a traumatic event that they continue to not recover from impacting their day to day life. Often people going through traumatic events will struggle for a bit before getting better, but not everyone does that. When the symptoms continue or even grow worse, that's when we identify PTSD.

PTSD reactions aren't rational. Especially when it comes to c-PTSD, the ability to gauge and respond to threats is damaged. You become easily triggered by things, often seemingly unrelated to an outsider, that reminds you of those traumatic experiences and throws you into survival mode. People with PTSD and who have suffered from abuse are not able to rely on gut instinct alone. That meter has been damaged where the threat alarm is going off at a hair trigger, leaving the survivor of trauma the options of avoiding those triggers completely (nearly impossible) or learning to suppress that. This can also leave survivors of abuse especially prone to revictimization. When every action someone takes looks like a red flag, you learn to tune out that alarm bell, including the times when it's not an overreaction.

If we assume that Ed reacting with the Kraken is indicative of the other person being an abuser, then that'd mean we'd have to assume that Stede's crew was a threat. Ed killed his dad and Ed killed Lucius, so naturally, Lucius must have been abusing Ed. You can extend it as far as Stede as well, since David Jenkins described Stede's rejection as "deranging" Ed, and Ed while acting as the Kraken is tossing out Stede's shit and marooning his playthings. But we know that Lucius only had the best of intentions for Ed, and we know that the crew is too incompetent to hurt Ed.

So what the fuck is going on with Ed?

Simple answer is that Ed feels threatened. Ed's scared. He doesn't feel safe. When chronically traumatized people feel unsafe, they react in defense, including in ways that are maladaptive to themselves, and harmful to others. One way to conceptualize it is through the Internal Family Systems (I wrote an analysis through this lens once!) Within IFS, you have two basic categories of Protectors and Exiles. Exiles are the part of us who hold the pain and shame of our trauma, usually from childhood. Protectors are the parts of us who develop strategies, usually maladaptive, to protect us from that pain. I'm severely simplifying, but I've found this site to be helpful with breaking down the core concepts.

We can think of the Kraken as taking on the role of a Firefighter. The "break glass in case of emergency" protector who comes out when we're in "danger."

Firefighters will do whatever they need to when it comes to stopping the danger, even pushing us into far more fraught situations. This can include things such as binge drinking, self-harm, serial cheating, and other actions we wouldn't rationally view as safe, but things like drinking can numb the pain, self-harm creates feelings of control, and cheating brings reassurance that you are wanted. They're quick fixes with a disregard for consequences in the moment, but they're actions done to "protect" you from danger.

But like I said, trauma can really skew your sense of danger.

Just because someone triggers your PTSD and brings out your greatest threat response, doesn't mean the threat is validated. In the same way flinching when your partner casually reaches out to touch you doesn't mean they're at risk of beating you.

Ed's response to Izzy could be an overreaction to Izzy's vague verbal threat, or it could be a solution to quelling Ed's fear of abandonment, or something else entirely. It could be reminding Ed of his father, but it doesn't mean that Izzy is an abuser. Especially within a context where we've never seen Izzy pose a physical threat to Ed, where the closest we got is him summoning the navy on his white boyfriend, and ensuring that Ed was not harmed in the interaction. Ed's use of physical violence against Izzy isn't proof of Izzy's abuse, no more than it would be for Ed throwing Lucius overboard.

Something Sarah Schulman goes into detail about with the necessity of drawing a difference between conflict and abuse is misidentification of abuse stemming from supremacy vs from trauma. With supremacy, you can't just trust your gut feelings because that ends up with things like white women having moc murdered. Traumatized responses are ones where past victimization interferes with our ability to differentiate between abuse and conflict. These can often overlap with clear borders, but there are differences, of course.

The reason people don't view this dynamic as abusive isn't from an unwillingness to see Ed as a victim, but from knowing that he has been victimized in the past. The level of trauma he sustained as a child severely fucks with someone's head. Not metaphorically either, it literally causes brain damage and has been linked to an increase in likelihood of developing autoimmune diseases. Like, trauma can be so bad that your body just starts eating itself it's fucking wild the amount of damage it can do to a person.

Recognizing that Ed’s actions can be wrong, but still extending empathy towards his place as a survivor of abuse, is an act of compassion towards him.

#still a goodie #ofmd meta #edward teach #addiction #trauma recovery #trauma responses #go ahead and grieve yourself #let's heal together yeah yeah yeah #healing through literature #the therapeutic power of fanfic #our flag means death meta #my therapist would be proud #grief

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teccams-socks · 6 years ago

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In Wise Man’s Fear, Bast sings the same rhyme twice:

Maple. Maypole. Catch and carry. Ash and Ember. Elderberry.

Woolen. Woman. Moon at night. Willow. Window. Candlelight.

Barrel. Barley. Stone and stave. Wind and water—

- Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 1: Apple and Elderberry, pg 4

Maple. Maypole. Catch and carry. Ash and Ember. Elderberry.

Fallow farrow Ash and oak. Bide and borrow. Chimney smoke.

Barrel. Barley. Stone and stave. Wind and water. Misbehave.

- Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 152: Elderberry, pg 1105

Both times, Bast uses this chant to make a choice, like “eeny-meeny-miney-mo.”

As Kvothe says in The Name of the Wind, “You’d be surprised at the sorts of things hidden away in children’s songs.” (NotW, Chapter 4: Halfway to Newarre, pg 39). So I want to take a closer look at these lyrics.

First, the two stanzas that are the same both times (I’ve copied the punctuation exactly as it is in my copy of the book, and will be considering full-stops as an indication to look at things separately).

My theory is that this song is meant to teach about different kinds of Fae. We don’t know much about the Fae, so some things I can’t explain. If you have your own theories, please share!

- Maple. Maypole. According to Wikipedia: “A maypole is a tall wooden pole erected as a part of various European folk festivals, around which a maypole dance often takes place.” Paganism as it exists in our world is most likely very different from “pagans” in the Kingkiller books. But paganism is mentioned, specifically in regard to greystones, which are linked to doors into the Fae realm. Kvothe and Sim have a whole debate about it (WMF 321-322). It’s also rumored that Bredon was involved in pagan rituals, and many people suspect he is not who he pretends to be.

I don’t know what to make of “maple,” other than that trees have so much symbolism in these books. Maybe a greystone only leads to Fae when there is a maple tree growing near it.

- Catch and carry. Skipping over the obvious (a ball), what do we catch and carry? A disease. “Anyone influenced by the Cthaeh is like a plague ship sailing for harbor.” (WMF, Chapter 105: Interlude - A Certain Sweetness, pg 764)

- Ash and ember. ‘Ash’ makes me think of Master Ash, but it also reminds me of “ash and elm and rowan, too,” from the song that tells you how to dispose of a Scrael so you don’t attract more.

- Elderberry. A type of wine that Bast seems to especially like. I’d bet they have this in the Fae. While I was doing research for this post, I came across this analysis by @leukeataraxia. They have an interesting theory about the symbolism of elderberry.

- Barrel. Barley. Barley references “solid-hearted farmer’s wives who know the rules of games we play and give us bread to keep away.” (WMF, Chapter 102: The Ever-Moving Moon, pg 747). “Barrel” could just be another mention of alcohol. There’s an interesting moment when Graham brings Kote the brass-bound barrels he made: “Nice and tight so they’ll keep through the winter.” Graham walked over and rapped a knuckle proudly against the side of the barrel. “Nothing like a winter apple to stave off hunger....Get it? Stave?” Kote groaned a bit, rubbing at his face. (WMF, Chapter 1: Apple and Elderberry, pg 7).

- Stone and stave. Interestingly, “stave” means both to break inward, and it is a vertical wooden post. Coupled with “stone,” this comes back around to the greystones. A standing stone.

- Wind and water. Wind and water both have currents and flow. They are ever-changing, like the moon. Namers have sought after them since the days before the Creation War. Kvothe also says, “The Lethani is like water. It is itself unchanging, but it shapes itself to fit all places. It is both the river and the rain.” (WMF, Chapter 117: Barbarian Cunning, pg 869).

- Misbehave. Fae do not act according to mortal morals. Bast makes a joked of this himself: “I leave it to Pater Leoden to distribute the remainder of my worldly goods among the parish, as, being an immoral soul, I will have no further need of them” (NotW, Chapter 88: Interlude - Looking, pg 680). Bast also helps the children in The Lightning Tree in acts that are certainly considered misbehaving.

Now for the two verses that are different:

- Woolen. Woman. “See a woman pale as snow? Silent come and silent go. What’s their plan? What’s their plan? Chandrian. Chandrian.” - NotW, Chapter 72: Borrorill, pg 568 “Pale Alenta brings the blight” - WMF, Chapter 128: Names, pg 940

- Moon at night. The moon is tied between mortal and Fae, and indicates whether the “doors” between them are open.

- Willow. Window. “It was no type of tree I had ever seen before, and I approached it slowly. It resembled a vast spreading willow, with broader leaves of a darker green. The tree had deep, hanging foliage scattered with pale, powder-blue blossoms” (WMF, Chapter 104: The Cthaeh, pg 753). “Reshi, the Cthaeh can see the future. Not in some vague, oracular way. It sees all the future. Clearly. Perfectly. Everything that can possibly come to pass, branching out endlessly from the current moment” (WMF, Chapter 105: Interlude - A Certain Sweetness, pg 763-764). The Cthaeh sees the future as easily as one might look through a window.

Then there’s Jax’s folding house: “Everything about the place was slightly skewed. In one room you could look out the window at the springtime flowers, while across the hall the windows were filmed with winter’s frost. It could be time for breakfast in the ballroom, while twilight filled a nearby bedroom” (WMF, Chapter 88: Listening, pg 658.

- Candlelight. One of the images on Nina’s pot is Haliax surrounded by candles and the moon. You use candles at night when moonlight isn’t enough. So this line references not only Seven, but also the times when there is no moon, when mortals can accidentally wander into Fae.

- Fallow farrow Apparently, farrow means “ a litter of, or to give birth to” pigs. And though fallow usually refers to unplanted land, it also has a meaning related to pigs: “(of a sow) not pregnant.” So, a pig who is both pregnant and not pregnant. Schrödinger’s sow.

Schiem the swineherd says, “Pegs is vicious bastards.... Pegs is clever, but tae hain’t a touch sentimental.” And if that doesn’t sound like Bast’s description of his desire in The Lightning Tree: “Want and have. See and take. Run and chase. Thirst and slake. And if he were thwarted in pursuit of his desire … what of it? That was simply the way of things. The desire itself was still his, it was still pure."

- Ash and oak. “Regardless of why, the towering oak was reduced to a charred stump about the height of a greystone. Huge pieces of it lay scattered about. Smaller trees and shrubs had caught fire and been doused by the rain. Most of the planks the bandits had used for their fortifications had exploded into pieces no bigger than the tip of your finger or burned to charcoal” (WMF, Chapter 93: Mercenaries All, pg 689).

Whether you believe the pillar of lightning that struck the tree in the bandit’s camp was Kvothe’s doing or an angel coming from the sky to kill Cinder, this line invokes the Chandrian. “Ash” and “cinder” have similar meanings.

- Bide and borrow. To bide means to stay or wait. This line makes me think of skin-dancers.

- Chimney smoke. This line actually gave me the idea that this song is about the Fae. Felurian says: “most fae are sly and subtle folk who step as soft as chimney smoke” (WMF, Chapter 101: Close Enough to Touch, pg 747).

Well, there are my ideas for interpretations of this song. Anyone want to add to it?

#kkc #kingkiller chronicle #name of the wind #wise man's fear #patrick rothfuss #fan theory #kingkiller fan theory #fan analysis

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